Seventeen

ARIANA 

The guest room was small and plain, tucked at the end of the second-floor corridor, far enough from the family wing that I couldn't hear anything through the walls.

Good.

I sat on the edge of the bed with my knees pulled up and my back against the headboard, wearing one of the plain dresses Angela had left in the closet. The wine-stained one was on the floor in a heap. I hadn't bothered to fold it. I hadn't bothered to do anything except sit there and try to stop shaking.

The phone rang.

I looked at it for a second before I picked up. St. Vincent's. I knew the number by heart.

"Hello?"

"Ariana?" It was Maria, the night nurse. "I'm sorry to call so late."

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine. She's awake. She wanted to hear your voice."

I closed my eyes. "Why is she awake at this hour? She should be sleeping. Her medication—"

Maria chuckled. Soft. Warm. The way she always did when I started spiraling.

"Relax, mija. Let me put her on."

"Maria, it's almost midnight—"

"Just hold on."

The line shifted. Rustled. I heard the sound of a phone being passed from one hand to another, and then a small, thin breath on the other end.

"Ari?"

My throat closed.

"Grandma."

"Hi, sweetheart."

Her voice was weak. Thin as paper. But it was hers — that same low, tired warmth I'd know anywhere, in any room, in any life.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better now," she said. "I was thinking about you."

I pressed my free hand over my mouth. I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't.

"You should be sleeping."

"I'll sleep when I'm tired."

"You're always tired."

"Then I'll sleep when I'm bored."

I laughed. It came out wrong — wet, broken, halfway to a sob.

"Ari." Her voice went soft. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

I swallowed. I looked at the ceiling. I tried to find something to say that wasn't the truth.

"I just miss you," I said.

"I miss you too."

The tears came anyway. I didn't want them to. I pressed the phone harder against my ear, like if I held it close enough she'd be in the room with me. Like if I listened hard enough, I could pretend I was a kid again, curled up on her couch, listening to her hum while she folded laundry.

"Are you eating?"

"Yes."

"Are you sleeping?"

"Sometimes."

"Are you safe?"

I hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough.

"Ari."

"I'm safe."

"Promise me."

"I promise."

She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her breathing — slow, shallow, the way it had been for months now. I could picture her exactly: propped up on pillows, the little lamp on the nightstand, her hands folded on the blanket the way they always were.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

"Come see me soon."

"I will. I'll come Sunday. I'll bring you those pastries you like. The ones from the corner place."

"The ones with the—"

"Yes. Those."

She laughed. It turned into a cough. My chest tightened.

"You should rest," I said.

"I will."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

I didn't want to hang up. I couldn't say it. So I just sat there, holding the phone to my ear, listening to her breathe.

Then the door slammed open.

I jumped. The phone slipped from my hand and hit the mattress. I looked up.

Skylark stood in the doorway.

Her hair was down. Her face was bare. She was wearing a silk robe and nothing else, and she looked at me the way you look at something you've been planning to throw out for a while.

"You," she said.

I didn't move.

"Get up," she said. "We need to talk.”

ARIANA 

I followed her.

I don't know why. Maybe because the phone call had already broken something open in me, and I didn't have the strength left to fight. Maybe because I wanted to see what she wanted. Maybe because a part of me — the part that had been surviving since I was ten — wanted to know exactly how dangerous she was before I decided how to handle her.

She led me up a narrow staircase at the end of the corridor. The tower room. I hadn't noticed it before. It was cold up there, darker than the rest of the house, with a single window that looked out over the back garden. Nobody had cleaned in a while. There was dust on the sill.

Skylark pulled a cigarette from the pocket of her robe and lit it.

She took a long drag, held it, then let the smoke out slow. She didn't look at me. She looked out the window.

"So," she said. "What do you really want with Jack?"

"I don't want anything."

She laughed. Soft. Bitter.

"Please."

"I work for him."

"You work for him." She took another drag. "Right. That's what he tells people."

"It's the truth."

"It's a lie." She blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. "It's not like he considers you an equal. You do understand that, don't you? He doesn't consider anyone an equal. Not me. Not his father. Not you."

I didn't answer.

She turned to look at me. Full face, for the first time since she'd walked into my room.

"He brought you here because you're useful. That's all. The moment you stop being useful, he'll put you back wherever he found you. And I don't mean gently."

"You don't know him."

"I know him better than you do." She smiled. "I've known him for ten years. I've been inside his house, at his table, in his bed—"

"You've never been in his bed."

Her smile didn't move. But something behind it did.

"You're dumb," she said quietly. "And you're ratchet. Prestige Clubhouse on a Tuesday night, blue lace, working for tips from married men." She looked me up and down — slow, deliberate, the way she'd been looking at me since the first night. "What does he see in you?"

I didn't answer.

I didn't need to.

I turned to leave.

She started to say something else — something sharp, something aimed — but the staircase creaked.

We both stopped.

A sound from the corridor below. Low. Muffled. Like something hitting the floor.

Then a voice.

Slurred. Broken. Almost a child's.

"Mom."

I froze.

"Where are you?"

Skylark's cigarette hung in the air between us. She wasn't looking at me anymore. She was looking at the stairs.

"Mom—"

I moved past her. Down the staircase. Into the corridor.

Jack was on the floor.

On his knees. One hand braced against the wall, the other pressed flat against the ground like he was trying to hold the whole house still. His tie was loose. His shirt was untucked. His hair was in his eyes.

"Mom," he said again. "Where are you?"

He didn't see me. He didn't see Skylark behind me. He didn't see anything.

He was looking at the wall. And he was crying.