Page 5 of Ruthless Chaos
“This is about your safety, Alize.” His hand forms a fist on the conference table between us. “This is the only place in the world where you’ll be safe.”
I scoff.Safety.Our house had so many layers of security and it was still blown up.
Uncle Laurent pushes the admission packet closer to me. It’s a brochure forSaint Frederic University, and just looking at it stings. It’s a reminder of what could have been, of what I almost had. Of what the attack took from me.
My dreams died alongside Dolores that day.
My lower lip trembles, and I shut my eyes tightly. A deep breath helps me keep down the emotions welling up in my chest. I pinch my thighs discreetly, willing the little jolts of pain to distract me. But it’s not enough—I’ve been clean since the explosion.
When I open my eyes again, I’ve found a few words for him.
“I want to make my own choices for once.”
He leans back in the leather seat, adjusting the horn-rimmed glasses on his nose.
“You can’t make your own choices when you know nothing of the situation at hand.”
His words are scathing, almost contemptuous. He’s trying to act like he’s perfectly composed, but I can tell he’s annoyed. He pulls a phone out of the breast-pocket of his coat and starts tapping away at it.
After a few moments he hands it to me.
It’s open to a page displaying an article in French.
13 Killed in Attack on Hospital.
My breath hitches, and I scroll through the article with trembling fingers. As the article comes together in my mind, I’m caught between hoping it’s not true and wishing I didn’t know at all.
When I get to the end, my eyes are wet. I can feel my heartbeat all over my body.
“Is this—” I can’t even bring myself to finish the sentence.
“Yes,” he nods solemnly. “I had you discharged just in time.”
When I look at the picture of the fiery blaze again, I recognize it. It’s the same wing of the hospital where I was admitted. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I walked those grounds with my physical therapist.
My head is light just thinking about it.
If I was still there, I would be dead.
Another realization hits me right after that, but I’m too scared to say it out loud. There’s a glimmer in Uncle Laurent’s eyes, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and he’s been waiting for me to figure it out.
“You’re being targeted. Your father believes that we must take drastic measures to keep you safe.” My stomach falls. “Believe me, Saint Frederic is the better of the two options on the table.”
My father never showed up that day, even though he was supposed to.
I haven’t heard from him these last three months. No calls, not even a letter. It’s hard to believe he thinks I need to be kept safe when I was nearly killed—twice, it seems—and the most he can do is send Uncle Laurent to cart me away to “safety.”
“I’m guessing the other option was my father’s idea,” I say. “Knowing him, he probably wants to keep me in a bunker somewhere.” There’s no humor in my voice because he’s done it before.
“You’re being targeted because of him, Alize. He just wants what is best for you.”
I start pinching myself again.
My eyes burn, and I look out the window in hopes of composing myself. I wipe the tears with my thumb before Uncle Laurent can see them fall. I don’t have much memory of the blast—all I ever see when I try to think of it is Dolores’ bloody corpse—but his words unlock a fear that I’ve tried to keep hidden for a while.
The signs were always there.
My childhood was a hodgepodge of new homes and new faces in new places. Through it all, he was rarely ever home. When he was around, it was always tense. Everyone who worked for him feared him, and for good reason since we all knew that he was prone to violence when he got angry.
