way. I never saw that, and I even used our research firm. Heads are gonna roll.”
“She said she set it to stop the lobotomies, but really, I think she wanted to kill her rival.” I heard what I was saying. “According to what I’ve read.”
“That’s pretty hot stuff. I have to see that.”
I’d gone too far. None of that was written down in the news clipping. I knew it because I had experienced it, in terrifying dreams and visions . . . and by confronting Belle herself. Nearly killing the girl she possessed, which was what Celia wanted.
Revenge.
And as for the girl I’d nearly killed . . .
“You’re still holding out,” he accused me. “Your body language is screaming at me. Lying skills, remember?”
I had been trying to tell him just about Mandy. I didn’t know what Celia would do if I told about her. But I had to take that chance.
“The one who started the fire was a girl named Celia Reaves.” I lowered my voice and braced for Celia to react. She was quiet.
And so was he. He was chewing his lower lip. I heard him sigh slowly. Saw him swallow, hard.
“Mandy mentioned . . . that name. In a southern accent.”
And there it was. There it was, finally. My confirmation. From someone who was not me, and not MIA—missing in action—like Shayna. Someone who was here, now, and relatively sane. He had heard what I had heard, and I hadn’t told him about it first. He’d come to me with the information on his own.
The southern accent would be the voice of Belle, coming through Mandy.
“Go on,” I rasped, but I was thinking, Thank you, Miles, thank you, thank you .
“When we dropped her off after winter break, I found some stuff she’d forgotten in the limo, and I took it over to Jessel. I went in the front door, and I heard her laughing.
“I called out, but no one heard me. There was just more laughter. It was Mandy, Lara, and Alis DeChancey. I thought they were on something.” He chewed his lip again.
“I didn’t want their housemother to hear them, so I went on up the stairs. They were in one of those turret rooms. The one on the right, farther back. It looks out on the lake.”
Despite my relief, my blood ran cold. I knew that room. Oh, did I know it.
“I stood in the hall and they were all talking in different voices, with different accents. About ‘number seven,’ and making sure she got what was coming to her. Then Mandy came out into the hall and saw me. She stared straight at me and her eyes were black. She started flirting with me and she called me ‘sweet bee.’”
I nodded, flooding with intense relief, and he frowned. I gestured, indicating for him to keep going. “She kind of . . . jerked.” He imitated it, as if he were stepping on a live wire. Or getting electroshock therapy. “Then she lowered her head for a moment and looked back up at me. She looked surprised to see me.”
“And her eyes weren’t black anymore,” I filled in.
He looked at me through half-closed eyes. “They weren’t black. But I still thought . . . maybe not such a big deal.”
“Yeah, well,” I replied.
“Mandy and I . . . we’ve pushed the envelope. Maybe you’ve heard a few things.”
“Yes, I have.” Stories about them sleeping together in the Lincoln Bedroom, in the White House. Together , together. And I’d seen pictures of them, far too cuddly, in a box of pictures Mandy hid under her bed.
“When you’re as rich as we are, you don’t have a lot of boundaries.”
He wasn’t bragging. It was true.
“Ergo, designer drugs are easy to score,” he concluded. “So Mandy’s gotten hold of something?” He wasn’t telling me. He was asking.
“I thought that for a while too. That it was drugs,” I said. I took another deep breath. “But it’s not drugs.”
Pushing himself up, he got out of the chair. I pulled back a little, and he held out his hands to his sides, almost as if he were showing me that he carried no concealed weapons. But he did: his mind. He was
“She said she set it to stop the lobotomies, but really, I think she wanted to kill her rival.” I heard what I was saying. “According to what I’ve read.”
“That’s pretty hot stuff. I have to see that.”
I’d gone too far. None of that was written down in the news clipping. I knew it because I had experienced it, in terrifying dreams and visions . . . and by confronting Belle herself. Nearly killing the girl she possessed, which was what Celia wanted.
Revenge.
And as for the girl I’d nearly killed . . .
“You’re still holding out,” he accused me. “Your body language is screaming at me. Lying skills, remember?”
I had been trying to tell him just about Mandy. I didn’t know what Celia would do if I told about her. But I had to take that chance.
“The one who started the fire was a girl named Celia Reaves.” I lowered my voice and braced for Celia to react. She was quiet.
And so was he. He was chewing his lower lip. I heard him sigh slowly. Saw him swallow, hard.
“Mandy mentioned . . . that name. In a southern accent.”
And there it was. There it was, finally. My confirmation. From someone who was not me, and not MIA—missing in action—like Shayna. Someone who was here, now, and relatively sane. He had heard what I had heard, and I hadn’t told him about it first. He’d come to me with the information on his own.
The southern accent would be the voice of Belle, coming through Mandy.
“Go on,” I rasped, but I was thinking, Thank you, Miles, thank you, thank you .
“When we dropped her off after winter break, I found some stuff she’d forgotten in the limo, and I took it over to Jessel. I went in the front door, and I heard her laughing.
“I called out, but no one heard me. There was just more laughter. It was Mandy, Lara, and Alis DeChancey. I thought they were on something.” He chewed his lip again.
“I didn’t want their housemother to hear them, so I went on up the stairs. They were in one of those turret rooms. The one on the right, farther back. It looks out on the lake.”
Despite my relief, my blood ran cold. I knew that room. Oh, did I know it.
“I stood in the hall and they were all talking in different voices, with different accents. About ‘number seven,’ and making sure she got what was coming to her. Then Mandy came out into the hall and saw me. She stared straight at me and her eyes were black. She started flirting with me and she called me ‘sweet bee.’”
I nodded, flooding with intense relief, and he frowned. I gestured, indicating for him to keep going. “She kind of . . . jerked.” He imitated it, as if he were stepping on a live wire. Or getting electroshock therapy. “Then she lowered her head for a moment and looked back up at me. She looked surprised to see me.”
“And her eyes weren’t black anymore,” I filled in.
He looked at me through half-closed eyes. “They weren’t black. But I still thought . . . maybe not such a big deal.”
“Yeah, well,” I replied.
“Mandy and I . . . we’ve pushed the envelope. Maybe you’ve heard a few things.”
“Yes, I have.” Stories about them sleeping together in the Lincoln Bedroom, in the White House. Together , together. And I’d seen pictures of them, far too cuddly, in a box of pictures Mandy hid under her bed.
“When you’re as rich as we are, you don’t have a lot of boundaries.”
He wasn’t bragging. It was true.
“Ergo, designer drugs are easy to score,” he concluded. “So Mandy’s gotten hold of something?” He wasn’t telling me. He was asking.
“I thought that for a while too. That it was drugs,” I said. I took another deep breath. “But it’s not drugs.”
Pushing himself up, he got out of the chair. I pulled back a little, and he held out his hands to his sides, almost as if he were showing me that he carried no concealed weapons. But he did: his mind. He was
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