Page 25 of Wicked Games

“Meet me in the courtyard before lunch.”

I shake her loose. “Isn’t that place kind of obvious?”

She flips her hair back. “Isn’t the library a little obvious ofyou? He knows you hide away there.”

Fair.

I follow her into the hallway. She goes toward Ian’s room, and I eye the stairs. Lenora’s and Robert’s voices are clearer now, but I can’t pick up the anger. Not yet. I force myself to go closer, perching on a step halfway down. The staircase is broken into two sections, with a landing in between, and I’m hidden in my position.

“She was scared.” Ian’s voice floats up.

My hackles rise. Of course his parents wouldn’t be the ones to answer the door—they’re not even here.

“We appreciate the explanation,” Robert says, “but we’d like to see her.”

Someone sighs.

“Margo!” Ian’s voice is shockingly loud. His head pops around the corner. He’s not surprised at my closeness, and he smirks. “Listening in?”

“Shut up,” I mumble.

I don’t have a choice, now. They know I’m here—Ian admitted as much. Wonder how they found out?

I hoist myself up and pass him. The descent is the worst, with their gaze right on me, but I can’t even look at them. I propel myself forward through sheer force of will and stop in front of my foster parents.

After a moment of silence, I glance up. They seem the worse for wear. But what plaguesmeis the guilt and shame.

“I’m sorry my mom killed your daughter.” My voice is barely audible, even to my own ears.

They stare at me for a second before Lenora moves. She drags me into a hug, crushing me to her chest, and bursts into tears.

My arms hang at my sides.

She holds me like I might evaporate.

“We were so worried,” she says in my ear. “Thank God you’re okay. And you’re here. And?—”

“Let her breathe, Len,” Robert interrupts.

She steps back but keeps her hands on my shoulders. She grips me with surety, not letting me retreat.

I didn’t get a chance to hug her back. My expression must be stupefied, because I was expecting them to tell me that I was leaving. Bags already packed.

Anger.

Hatred.

“Margo,” Robert says. “Your mother’s actions don’t define you. And they certainly don’t define us. We feel horrible that you overheard Caleb.”

I feel horrible, too. Like my gut has gone through a blender.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Lenora says. Her hands push and pull my shoulders, so light I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it.

—head snapping back?—

I cringe.

She releases me, eyes wide. “Honey?—”

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