Page 66 of Twisted Lies

Chapter 32

Astrid

I learn nothing from Getz as he decides to play dumb after I ask him point-blank about the Pit. I don’t mention his name in the book, but we both know he’s lying when he claims not to understand my question. No reason to stay, so I take off, and the boys are gone. The hallways are empty of people, but I sort of expect to see them waiting outside of Oberlin Hall. Standing on the pathway, I scan the surroundings for their faces, but no one is around.

The relief of seeing no one feels as good as the chilly breeze on my warm cheeks. Dealing with people has become an unappealing pain in my ass. No one dared to ask about my date with Bryce except Roni. My vague answer ended her excitement, and she instantly backs away now from a toxic topic I don’t want to discuss. In fact, Bryce Shelton isn’t mentioned again.

It’s almost six, and I decide to skip the dining hall. I walk toward the dorm, but I head to the basement instead of going to my room. I slip the key to the old bathroom out of my backpack and into the lock.

Privacy is the only luxury I want. I open the door to the forgotten bathroom and find myself alone again. Thank God. I lock the door behind me, and even though that couch now looks gross to my eyes, I lie down on it, throwing a hand across my eyes. I moan as loud as I want and then giggle, wondering if anyone can hear me and if they now think the place is haunted.

Being alone is an excuse for my thoughts to start chattering in my head, and I can’t rest. There’s too much to do. I take my phone out and tap the screen, waiting for him to pick up.

“Dr. Howland, please.”

At first, I don’t understand why the nurse in the office is being difficult until the woman says she’s the answering service, not the office. The woman insists on taking my info before I hang up, and I don’t have to wait long for my phone to start vibrating. It’s a different number than the one I have, but I know it’s my father. The conversation competes with awkwardly loaded pauses. Obviously, phoning isn’t the best way of communicating with each other.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” he asks.

“No, I didn’t eat yet,” I reply, “I’m tired, so I’m hiding out in the dorm.”

Another pause, and then he asks, “What do you mean by hiding out?”

I sit up straight as if he can see me lounging. “It’s an exaggeration.” My turn to pause. “I’d like to talk to you about that name thing.”

“Good,” he responds immediately, “I’ll send a car to pick you up.”

I picture another limo at the school gate, and for some reason, I panic because people might think it’s another date. “I can ride my bike or take an Uber,” I tell him hastily, “I really want to get out of here now.”

“Do you know where to go?” he asks, “Have you ever been to the house?”

“No.” It didn’t make sense to mention Charlotte’s old photo of the two of us standing on the front lawn when we were kids.

“Can you get to my office then?” He continues before I answer, “I’ll wait here for you.”

The days are short, and I have to use my phone to navigate my way out of the dark basement without falling over a pile of boxes. What is in those heavy cardboard boxes I keep banging into? Old crap former students didn’t want? Leaving out of the basement is simple, and soon I’m racing on my bike through downtown Rockingham. Even though I’m making good time, it’s not as quick as if I were in a car. When I try the door of the medical building, it’s locked, but there’s a doorbell. I wait, and when the door opens, it’s Dr. Howland on the other side. He looks me over as I watch him with big eyes.

He smiles slightly and takes my bike away from me, wheeling it down the hallway as I follow him to his office. The dimly lit space is empty as I wait for him to shut off the lights. The pauses that were odd over the phone are comfortable in person. We don’t need to speak because there’s no need to pretend this is social.

“We’ll eat at home,” he says as we take a back door out of the building.

He doesn’t notice my startled look as I realize he means his home. He walks over to a black town car, and I wait for him to unlock it, but he doesn’t. I almost swallow my tongue when a man jumps out of the driver’s side and opens the back door for us. I hold onto my chest for a second while I catch my breath, and Howland watches me. The corners of his eyes crease as his lips curve. It wasn’t that funny.

I hop into the car and slide across the seat as Howland gets in. No one talks, and no one seems to mind as the car drives along the residential streets. We’re going back toward Stonehaven, but the car turns into a gated community located in Rockingham called Alva Park. You must live here to enter, and from the gatehouse, a guard waves as the town car passes under a lifted beam into the park. I’ve lived in the area all my life, but I’ve never been inside Alva Park. The car passes an enormous brick mansion with turrets set back from the road surrounded by acres of grass.

“What’s that house?” I ask, craning my neck to get a better look.

“That’s a historical landmark,” he replies. “Marston Rockingham, our ancestor, built that house the same year he built the general hospital. He used the same red brick for both buildings.”

“You own that house?” I gawk at Howland with wide eyes.

He smiles. “The state currently owns the house, and it’s open to the public for tours. We’ll go one day. I want you to learn more about your history.”

The town car pulls up to a white mansion with columns identical to the ones at Stonehaven, but the house itself isn’t made of red brick. It has a smooth white texture but not shingles or brick. It’s also closer to neighboring homes, meaning we could see the neighbors on their front lawns, but we’d have to holler if we want to talk to them. I can’t imagine Howland yelling at anyone or waving hello.

I wait for the car door to open and follow Howland up the path to the mansion. He walks perfectly straight, as if the air surrounding his body possesses weight as he glides through it. His frame is thin and lanky, an older version of Justin. And it’s obvious where I get my long legs from.

“Did you run track?” I ask him.

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