Page 120 of My Favorite Secret
The word doesn’t land right. It spins in my head, at odds with everything I know about him. I scratch the back of my neck, confused and uneasy.
Felix and Tyler encouraged me to report Paul’s attack. I told myself I would. But now that he’s dead, what will it even accomplish? There are no consequences left for him. No one else is in danger. All it will do is hurt the people who are mourning him.
Still… Part of me wonders if they deserve to know the truth.
“The funeral is in a few days,” Dad says.
“I can’t attend. I didn’t know Paul well and Mom’s funeral is still too fresh in my mind.”
“I understand.” Dad kisses my forehead and rises from the bed. “Rest up, honey. But don’t rest for too long. You’ve just found your way back to ballet. Don’t let Felix’s absence destroy the fire in your heart for dance.”
“I’ve called in sick to the academy every day for the past week. I’m surprised I haven’t been cut fromSwan Lake. My mood and attendance these last few months have been so inconsistent.”
“The academy understands your circumstances. You’ve been through a lot. You have the lead because you work so incredibly hard and are mesmerizing on stage.”
I watch as my father returns through the door, wondering if he’s right about ballet and putting Felix from my mind. Felix has left without any indication of when he’ll return. What could possibly be so dire, causing him to not contact me?
Frustration fills me again. Am I supposedto put my life on hold, waiting indefinitely for Felix to come back to me? This performance ofSwan Lakeis perhaps the most important performance of my life, determining the trajectory of my career. I don’t want to accept what my father says, but he makes a good point.
Maybe I need to let Felix deal with whatever he’s going through and focus on me.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
TYLER
I’m pacing the Winslow library at midnight, covered in a cold sweat, my thumb stabbing the screen of my phone over and over as I redial Dad’s number.
The library is dark except for a desk lamp I switched on earlier. I keep glancing at the door, paranoid Harper or Thomas could be listening in.
Dad finally answers, groggy from sleep. “Tyler? Is everything all right?”
“No,” I hiss, keeping my voice low to avoid being overheard. “Harper just found out about Paul’s death. She told me he died in a hit and run. Why would she think that?”
He’s silent for a moment, then swears under his breath, instantly sounding wide awake.
“Has the cover story changed?” I ask. “You said the Fergusons were told Paul died in a group brawl.”
“Theyweretold that.”
“Then what the fuck is this? Harper said he died trying to save someone. That he’s being praised.” My fingers tighten around the phone. I lean against a bookshelf, trying to take a deep breath. But I’m too panicked. My voicespikes. “The Fergusons know. They know Paul attacked Harper. They know Felix killed him. They know we’re covering it up. We’re fucked.”
“Tyler, youneedto calm down. You’re jumping to conclusions. They don’t know anything.”
“Why else would they rewrite the story like this? They’ve turned Paul into a saint because they’re ashamed of people knowing what he really did.”
But what if they only know part of the truth? What if they justsuspectsomething is off? We don’t know how much they’re aware of andthat’swhat terrifies me. Suspicion is all it would take for them to start digging. What if they get a private investigator involved? If they dig deep enough, they’ll find what we’ve hidden. We’ll go to prison.
“Tyler, listen to me. The Fergusons are a well-respected family. The father is high up on Wall Street. The mother is heavily involved in various charities. They have a reputation to uphold. Their son dying in a violent, drunken brawl is a shameful scandal and is enough of a reason for them to fabricate some saintly spin on the story of his death. Theydon’tknow the truth.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I’ve covered our tracks. Trust me on this. Keep yourself together. No one will learn the truth unlessyoucrack.”
It all fucking comes down to me and I hate it.
I hang up and toss my phone onto the desk. It skids across the surface and falls to the ground. I don’t try to catch it. I just stare at it, wanting to believe my father when he says we’re safe, but I can’t stop fretting. My skin feels too tight and my breath is short.
I don’t know what the Fergusons believe, what they suspect, or what they’ve already started piecing together.
