Page 22 of Word to the Wise

On days when Sage comes by to see me, I pull myself together so he won’t worry more. I shower and cover my face in makeup. I wear the mask I don’t feel forced to paint on around Mason.

Mason’s around me too much to believe it. Besides, he won’t say anything.

He doesn’t hound me about my appearance, and he doesn’t force me to hang out with him when it’s clear I’drather keep to myself. And best of all, he doesn’t force me to talk. We coexist in silence and shared meals.

It’s why I still haven’t taken Sage up on his offer to move to the Twisted Kings compound. At the apartment, I don’t have to pretend.

Every day that passes, I hope I’ll start to feel better. I hope the sayings are right and that time is capable of healing wounds as deep as the ones festering within. But the weight of knowing I’m going to have to face this eventually sits heavy, and I don’t know how many days, weeks, or months are enough to cure me of this.

Carter has continued reaching out to Sage in an effort to get to me. And no matter what my brother does to try to protect me, eventually he will, given he wields the perfect combination of power and money to grant him anything he wants.

His connections don’t end in San Francisco. Which means, that even if I’ve yet to see Carter, he’s just biding his time.

My entire body tenses at the thought.

Grabbing the laptop Sage brought by this morning, I step outside for the first time in two weeks and slowly head up the stairs that wind up the side of the building and end at the roof.

Additional locks have been added to the gate at the bottom of the staircase, and security cameras now cover every blind corner. If anyone opens the bottom gate, Mason and Sage will be notified, and it makes me feel the slightest bit better.

I find my way to the roof to get some space before I’m consumed by my thoughts. I’ve always appreciated it up here. It’s a wide-open terrace that looks out at the nearby buildings. And right now, it’s a way to spend time outside without the risk of seeing Carter or being surrounded by people on the street.

It’s the middle of winter, but in LA, it reminds me more of late spring in Boston from my days in college. I’m wearing a sweater and sweatpants, and even if the sun has set, the temperature is comfortable.

I sink into one of the chairs on the roof and open my laptop, waiting for it to come to life.

When I first got to town, I called my boss and let her know I needed to take a couple of weeks off for a family emergency, and since I haven’t taken a day off in years, she didn’t mind. But at some point, I’m going to have to start working again, even if my muse feels like she left me.

Being a journalist is a great way to balance my need to dig into the tiny details, while also allowing me a creative outlet. But ever since leaving San Francisco, I’ve had this roadblock in my mind every time I think about writing.

I’m the voice of authority for the blog. Someone who champions change and doesn’t back down when cornered. But I don’t feel like her right now.

I’ve been a coward, and I’m in hiding.

When my computer finally hums to life, I open my email to sift through the messages. Even if I’m not ready to get back to work, I can at least check off a few littlethings so I have less to deal with when I finally come out of this fog.

A breeze tickles the back of my neck as I wait for my email to load on the screen. Loose pieces of hair whip around my face with the wind, and I get a chill up my spine. The city is dark this late at night, but it’s never truly asleep in this part of town. People are always buzzing around, and streetlamps blanket the block in a warm glow.

But you can’t see the sky.

I remember lying in the grass at the Twisted Kings compound and counting the stars when I was a kid. Wishing for things that seemed important at the time. Glancing up, there’s nothing but smog and light pollution. But still, I feel them up there. Wishes that somehow got twisted.

Maybe it’s a sign I should return to the compound.

Lyla called earlier to say she has a room ready at her and Sage’s house in the neighborhood. I could lie in the grass and look up at the stars. Ask the universe for a different fate.

If only the girl I am felt like she still belonged there, this would be easier. But I’m weak—not ready to face the place that raised me.

If my father’s looking down on me now, he’s probably disappointed. He didn’t raise a fragile daughter. And even if he sheltered me in comparison to my brother, he raised me to be strong. To be a fighter.

He taught me how to stick up for myself in the most impossible situations. And I didfor so long.

That’s the trouble with love—it’s dangerous in ways no amount of training can prepare you for. It sneaks up and hits hard. It consumes.

My email finally loads, and I skim my messages. Most of them are sources sending in tips and my boss forwarding research projects for when I get back to work. I sort them by sender, and my stomach drops as I skim through the list.

Carter Connors—thirty-six unread messages.

My fingers freeze as I stare at his name, sitting on the screen in front of me. Since I left my phone at the apartment we shared, he hasn’t been able to reach out to me directly. Sage fields his phone calls and refuses to let him through.

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