Page 18 of Raise Hell

The emotion swelling in my chest was too much to deal with. Instead, I focused on practicalities because it was something in my control. “Why isn’t she at the hospital?”

“Your sister will recover better here,” he snapped. “If those doctors were worth anything, she never would have slipped into a coma in the first place. And that ridiculous hospital had her sharing a room with another patient. I’ve never seen anything so substandard in my life.”

Because the most important consideration is how plush the accommodations are in a damn hospital.

“What happened?”

“That school happened. Attending St. Bart’s were among the best years of my life — I thought my daughter should follow in my footsteps. I know the types of things that go on there, but I thought Olivia would be safe.” He almost seemed choked up for a minute. His face quickly changed to the familiar look of disapproval as he glared at me.“This only happened because she was alone.”

We’re Catholics. Guilt is ingrained into us from the cradle. But my father always manages to dig the knife in with the finesse of a seasoned professional. It’s funny that a tragedy can be my fault when I wasn’t even in the same state when it happened.

“You can’t blame me for this, Daddy.”

He hates it when I call him that. Probably because it’s the same term of endearment his mistress uses.

“I don’t have time for this. I have a flight to Berlin that leaves in an hour.” He cast one more glance over Olivia’s prone form, his frown deepening, before he turned away.

“Where’s Mom?”

If his eyes rolled any harder, they’d fly out of his skull.

Asshole.

“Where she always is.”

My mother rarely gets out of bed on the best of days. After something like this, I knew she was probably so knocked out on Valium and painkillers that talking to her would be pointless. She likely wouldn’t even realize I was there.

I stood over Olivia for at least another hour after my father left, just staring at her. It felt like I should be doing something, but I couldn’t figure out what.

Prayer seemed like a too little, too late thing at that point. I decided a long time ago that I’m apparently not the kind of person God tunes in for. If the universe had any miracles left for me, I’d have to find them myself.

Boxes of my sister’s belongings were stacked in the corner. I opened one that was haphazardly stuffed with clothing and books. Her wallet was in the second box, still full of credit cards and cash. My father probably had her belongings packed up as quickly as possible.

Let’s be honest, he had her moved back home as much to keep this quiet as anything else. He could have put her in a nicer hospital near home, but didn’t. Olivia was attacked at St. Bart’s, the alma mater that my father hasn’t stopped shoehorning into conversations since the day he graduated.

Olivia might be his daughter, but at this point she was also an embarrassment.

He was more worried about appearances than justice.

The idea didn’t come to me until I found the journals. I never knew she wrote in them so religiously, but there was an entry every couple of days going back years.

My anger flared hotter as I read, page after page of desperation to be accepted and loved. Olivia had been like a fragile flower growing out of the dirt.

One of the boys in Havoc House crushed her to death under their boot-heel.

So I made a plan to return the favor.

Drugstore hair bleach was enough to strip the dyed black out of my hair, but it took a couple of professional attempts to get back to the golden blonde hue that Olivia and I share. I still didn’t manage to get it quite right, but close enough.

The heavy-duty makeup they use in stage productions needs to be slathered on my arm and shoulders every day to cover up the tattoos that make my father grit his teeth whenever he sees them. A few of them were done by an enterprising friend in juvie. The rest I got from a tattoo artist in Detroit who was willing to trade a stolen Cartier watch for ink, while also not asking for ID.

I would go to that stuffy school and pretend to be poor, sweet Olivia Pratt. My father had worked so hard to keep her condition a secret that I wouldn’t have a problem convincing the school of her miraculous recovery.

Olivia was always the sensitive type. And St. Bart’s College is the kind of place that is full of budding predators. She would always stay quiet when it was time to speak up and look away when things need to be faced head-on. Her innocence was destroyed by the Havoc Boys, but I don’t have much of that left.

She was a puppy in sheep’s clothing.

I am all wolf.

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