Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 568(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
All I can do is shake my head, my thoughts spiraling.
The Salem I met wouldn’t get anywhere near a pool that five other people were swimming in or touch a chicken leg without a latex glove protecting her hand.
What the hell happened to you, Pantry Girl?
I crack my knuckles and lean forward. It’s time to fucking find out. When I hit the firewall of Willow Grove Psychiatric Institution, I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Shit. Am I willing to go this far for answers?
I scuff my index finger over the peeling sticker on the edge of my laptop, then sigh. I already know the answer. I’m more surprised by the fact I’m hesitating. Maybe it’s guilt? The idea that I’m violating her privacy and trust? It’s never mattered any other time I’ve dug deep into someone’s background for one of my friends.
This is different; she is different.
This is why I need this information—whatever information I can find.
I push the guilt away and press on. It doesn’t take long to bypass the firewall. When I find the sealed files, I stop again. I could always ask her—or like a normal person, wait for her to tell me herself—but I don’t have the patience for that. Who knows how long that might take or if she would ever really tell me.
Obviously, there were rumors; there were always rumors, and I glossed over an article or two that was printed in the paper about what happened to her friend Chelsea. A tiny part of my brain tells me to stop. To leave it. But I can’t.
I’ve already come this far …
It takes seconds to open the files but much longer for my heart to drop back into the protective cage of my ribs after I finish reading. Shit. Poor Salem. Anger stirs in my chest, the desire to protect her, to make all those who hurt her suffer the same way they made her suffer.
My phone buzzes again, and I let out a sigh of frustration. Better check that or else. Rolling my eyes, I toss my laptop aside into the skewed bedding and get up to grab my phone. I stare at the screen, at the numerous texts cascading down, and read the most recent one from my mother.
Mother: I sincerely hope you are on the way.
I bite back a curse. Attending this bullshit family gathering is the last thing I want to do, but if I don’t show up, they’ll come find me, and that’s so much worse. Begrudgingly, I grab my car keys and head downstairs.
Fifty-five minutes after the first text, the familiar gates of Sterling Grove loom ahead, all wrought iron and old money pretension. The family crest, a lion rampant holding a crown, makes me roll my eyes every time. Nothing says “we’ve had money since the Civil War” quite like a custom-made family crest.
Five hundred feet of perfectly manicured driveway stretches before me. I could still turn around. Go back to bed. Move to Mexico. Start a new family line of Sterlings who actually know how to have fun.
My brain helpfully supplies images of sun-soaked beaches and tequila before skittering to the last time my mother got fed up with me. Six months at Promised Land Prayer Camp when I was sixteen. All because I kissed Tommy Rodriguez behind the gymnasium and some helpful soul informed the Sterling family patriarch that his grandson was “straying from God’s path.”
“Pray away the gay,” I mutter, hitting the gas a little harder than necessary. Gravel crunches under my tires, probably leaving marks on their precious driveway. “Because that worked out so well for everyone.”
Sterling House grows larger with each passing second, a looming Georgian monstrosity that’s been featured in more architectural magazines than I’ve had sexual partners—and that’s saying something. Every window feels like an accusation. Every perfectly trimmed hedge is another reminder of the Sterling family motto: Excellence Without Exception.
I check my phone. I’m three minutes late. Mother will have noticed. She notices everything except what matters. Like how many times I’ve traced the words carved above the library fireplace, “Sterling Men Lead, Sterling Women Breed,” and wanted to vomit.
The memory of Promised Land hits again—scratchy sheets, scripture readings, and group therapy where they made us list our sins. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the memory, but my mind’s already racing.
Wonder if Tommy ever came out?
Wonder if he’s happy?
Wonder if that girl from the pantry likes cherry-flavored anything else or if it was just whatever she drank that night?
Focus.
I park crookedly, taking up two spaces just because I can. Anything to piss them off a little more. The front door opens before I kill the engine, and there she stands. Katherine Sterling in all her perfectly coiffed glory, mouth already pinched in disapproval. As always, her gray hair is pulled back in a tight chignon, her makeup minimal, her cream sweater set ironed to within an inch of its life.