class?â
I do not answer.
âClara? Where was your dance class?â
âIn the studio.â
âWhich studio?â
âThe one where we met.â
Connorâs lips have thinned. I can only imagine Meredithâs reaction if she were here. I am glad she isnât. Connor has always been more patient. But clearly his patience is running out as well.
âNo, Clara,
which studio
?â
I tilt my head. âI donât understand.â
âWhat was the name of it? Who was the teacher? What city was it in?â
Scratching at the surface of the table, I hesitate. Iâm treading on dangerous ground. I should have made up some completely random answer as to how I met Glen, but now Iâm stuck. I canât say which studio, or who taught it, because as far as Connor knows, I have never met Mama or Papa. My mind blanks, and I go with the easiest answer I can think of. âI donât remember.â
âLike hell.â
My eyes widen. Connor is angry. How did I anger him so quickly?
Connor stands and begins pacing. âI canât help you, Clara, unless you help me. This doesnât look good, you know.â
I remain silent as I follow him with my eyes. Back and forth, back and forth.
âThey want you to rot, Clara. They want to throw you in prison for the rest of your life. They think you are a part of all this, that Glen is only protecting you.â
I shake my head, my mouth opening in silent protest. I donât even know what âthisâ is, but I know I havenât done anything wrong.
âDo you want to spend the rest of your life in a cell, Clara? BecauseI promise you, it wonât be as nice as the space youâve got now. These are plush accommodations, but you canât stay in the psychiatric ward forever. Eventually youâll have to make a choice that will determine where you go next.â
My hands begin to tremble.
âMeredith was all for throwing you in with the other inmates for a few nights, giving you a taste of what it would be like.â Connor runs his fingers through his hair, scrunching his hands in the strands so they stand out when he removes them. It would be funny if the look in his eyes werenât so terrifying. He comes and leans his hands on the table, moving until his face is inches from mine.
âYou wouldnât last a night in that prison, Clara,â he whispers. âI donât want to do that to you. Please, donât make me do that to you.â
I can feel the blood drain from my face, and the room begins to spin. âClara!â Connorâs voice sounds far off. I try to catch myself as I topple from my chair, but my arms donât respond. Fireworks explode behind my eyelids before everything goes dark.
My ears ring as I float back to the surface of consciousness.
âClara.â Gentle hands pat my cheeks. âWake up.â
I open my eyes and see Connorâs face, his blurry forehead creased in concern. As my vision focuses, I realize I am lying on the floor, my head in Connorâs lap, and my brain feels as if it is trying to escape from my skull.
âIâm sorry, Clara, I wasnât quick enough to catch you. You hit your head pretty hard.â
I shake my head, trying to clear it, and spots dance in front of Connorâs face. I feel sick.
âThe guards are coming to bring you to the medical wing.â Connor releases a long breath. âPlease think about what I said. I donât want to send you away, but if you wonât help me, I canât help you.â
There is no threat in his voice, only quiet desperation. I believehe truly does want to help me, and through the nausea I am experiencing, I feel a pang of guilt. I cannot give him what he wants. Because what he wants is to send Glen away. He hasnât said it, but I have put the pieces together. They hope to use me for information to put Glen in prison. They want to put him away for things he did
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