An image of my mom from this past summer flashes in my mind. It was the week before school began, and she hadn’t left her room in days. I went in to check on her and discovered gashes all over her forearms. Some were scabbed over, but others were fresh. I recoiled in horror—self-harm was a new one for her. Dried blood caked her fingernails, and she twisted her fingers in the air as she looked up at me. Stared at me. Like this was my fault.
Guilt washes over me. Because I left. Left the room. Left the house. Left the state. I couldn’t deal. But maybe I could go back to her if I knew what happened to my dad—and then maybe, just maybe, my mom could get closure and seek out the treatment she so desperately needs.
I hold up my hands in submission, and my teammates behind me slowly walk away.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know how much of that apology is true, but it’s a start. If it’s going to get me to the truth about my dad, it’s the only start I have.
Alpha sits back down, and the man to his right—Zeta, I think—slowly nods his head, as if he knows something I don’t.
“Violet!” Alpha announces. I hear someone stand up behind me. “Show Iris to her room. I think we’re done for the night.”
Violet is suddenly by my side. “Come on,” she whispers.
I stand, but no one else in the room moves. I follow behind Violet, glancing down the row of chairs as I pass. I’m staring right at Tyler—Blue—but he won’t make eye contact with me. I have to talk to him. Tomorrow, I guess.
We’re back in the too-bright hallway, and I squint and raise my hand to shield my eyes.
“You get used to it,” Violet says as she makes her way to a door all the way down at the opposite end of the corridor.
She punches in a code and opens the door, which leads to a concrete stairwell like you’d find in any hotel or office building. Gray walls, metal railings. We walk up one flight of stairs, where there’s another door ahead. Violet places her hand on a metal scanner outside the room, then enters another code, and the door clicks unlocked.
She opens it to reveal the most gorgeous room I’ve ever seen in my life. There’s plush sage-green carpeting with ivory swirls and a round marble table directly in the middle of the room. The table must be five feet wide, and nearly every inch of it is covered with flowers. All white flowers in a bunch of clear vases. There are roses and lilies and hydrangeas and a number of flowers I’ve never seen before and have probably never even heard of.
My eyes are drawn up to a massive crystal chandelier hanging over the table, then to a wooden staircase that curves up to the right. This place can only be described as a mansion, and I’m pretty sure my jaw has dropped open at this point.
“What is this place?” I ask.
Violet’s beside me now. “Annum Hall. This is where we live. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.”
CHAPTER 6
Violet starts up the stairs, but my feet are cemented to the floor. There’s a pair of French doors off to the right leading into a dining room. Inside is the longest table I’ve ever seen, and chairs are lined up uniformly around it. The table is set with china and crystal, and even though I’m too far to really see the place settings, I’d bet you anything that’s real sterling silver.
Holy crap.
This place is out of control. I grew up in a two-bedroom Cape with unreliable plumbing and a measly nine hundred square feet. When I first went away to school, I was impressed with the fact that it had a heating system that actually worked, rooms with polished wood floors, and tables that weren’t duct taped together. I thought that was the big-time.
I see now that’s like bragging about your used Chevy to someone who just rolled up in a Bugatti.
We get to the second floor and keep going up the staircase to the third. There’s one massive window and seven closed doors making a U around it on this floor. Four doors to the left of the window, three to the right. I memorize this detail.
Violet stops in front of the first door on the left. She pulls a key out of her pocket and hands it to me.
“Welcome home,” she says. There’s an air of sarcasm in her voice.
The key is plain silver, like the ones you can get copies of in any big-box hardware store. I’m a little disappointed that it’s not another old-fashioned skeleton key.
I stick the key in the lock and open the door. The room is small, but it has the same plush carpeting as downstairs. I immediately notice there’s no window—no sunlight, no means of escape—and a momentary sense of panic washes over me. I breathe it out. Fear isn’t going to change the situation, only make it worse.
There’s a single four-poster bed centered on the wall straight ahead, a dresser on the left wall, and a desk and hutch on the wall with the door. There’s a closet and another closed door on the right wall. A white duvet clothes the bed, which looks soft and fluffy and more luxurious than anything I’ve ever owned. It sure beats the cheap, poly-blend comforter in my room back home in Vermont or the Peel-issued thick, navy blanket that itches when you lie on top of it.
“This is all mine?” I ask, which—dammit, I totally sound impressed. I don’t want to sound impressed.
Violet clears her throat. “All yours.” She steps in and opens the door on the right. “This is all yours, too.”
It’s a bathroom. It’s painted a very pale lilac and has black-and-white tile, a pedestal sink, and a claw-foot tub. The entire place is sparkling. It’s like the “after” bathroom on a home makeover show.
“I kept it really clean,” Violet says behind me. Her voice is clipped, angry even. “Use it well.”
I turn to look at her. “This room was yours?”
She nods. “Everything here works on a hierarchy. This room belongs to the most junior Guardian. I moved into Indigo’s room, and so on. Red moved downstairs. I know Indigo probably tried to keep his room clean, but he’s still a boy. There’s a boy smell in my new bathroom.” She says it like it’s my fault.
I step back into the room and open the top door to the dresser. It’s full of socks and underwear; and, holy crap, unless they’d managed to go out and find the same hot-pink underwear with tiny black skulls I’d bought like two years ago, I’m going to guess this is all my stuff, which means someone was rifling through my underwear. I slam the drawer shut.
“So this is your room,” Violet says in a tone that makes it clear that she just wants to get out of here already. She has one foot outside.
“Violet?”
Her neck cranes back around. I know I shouldn’t ask. It’s showing them my number one weakness, giving them something with which to manipulate me. I should keep my head down, follow orders, and climb the ranks. It’s what my dad deserves. But another part of my heart won’t listen.
“I had—have—a boyfriend.”
“Abraham,” she interrupts. “Yeah, I know. I read your file. What about it?”
Her tone rubs me the wrong way. It’s combative and off-putting, and it doesn’t look as if I’m going to be making friends with any of the girls here. Strike that. Considering my only other option is Yellow, I think it’s safe to say I’m definitely not going to be making any female friends here.