Page 29 of Ramsay

Clicking on the link, I suck in a breath and sit back, fighting the memories that threaten to assail me.It’s cold and dark. Where am I? Who is he?

Shit. Covering my face, I scream into my hands but all I get for my efforts is a pounding headache.

I guess I do know Frank McCafferty, after all. Fuck. This just got a thousand times more complicated.

I’ve already vowed to take what happened that night, the one which changed everything, in more ways than I could ever have imagined, to the grave with me. But now, it’s just become that much more important to keep my mouth shut and lay low.

The petty bullshit at school pales in comparison and I’m already outrunning the devil nipping at my heels. Fuck. Fine.

The notion of setting my rage aside burns my sternum and to distract from the painful helplessness riding my goddamn soul, I search for Oliver next. Knowledge is power, after all, or so I convince myself.

I receive one result for my efforts. It’s a human-interest story about a science project that wowed the judges in sixth grade. I skim over the details, but nothing stands out except he’s a fucking genius, which is no surprise. His younger face makes me pause though, and I stare at the boy with a slight smile behind nerdy glasses.

What happened to him? What happened to all of them?

Ramsay comes up under several articles about his parents, who are high society rich assholes. Articles describing their jet setting lifestyle and travels around the world cover the page. Frankly, it inspires a kernel of pity for the soulless boy, whose parents are surely never around but I push it aside. Ramsay hardly needs my sympathy.

Mr. Yates dabbles in enough business ventures to make my eyes burn, but none of them strike me as anything worth noting, except he’s richer than god, and Ramsay is his sole heir.

I suspect if I want to see behind Ramsay's mask, it’s not with his father’s businesses but his mother’s frigid eyes, which means this was useless.

On a whim, I search for Sabrina and am surprised when a single article returns. Right around the time Oliver was winning his science award, Sabrina was featured as the little engine that could.

Sabrina Dawson, 12, is a bright child. She earns straight A’s and participates in her favorite sport, dance, but she didn’t get here without struggle. For this precocious child with a sunny smile has a learning disability.

The faculty at Brighton Learning have worked with Sabrina since she was five years old, helping her to overcome her barrier.

Per her assigned counselor, Maggie Fitzhugh, “Sabrina is a smart child with a different set of skills. Where others see words and numbers, Sabrina sees a mishmash of letters that don’t make sense. With Brighton’s exceptional programs, she’s learning how to see past the jumble and make the language work.”

After re-reading it twice, I close out the browser and contemplate the article. Under any other circumstances, I’d be loath to use something like this against Sabrina, but she’s proven there are no boundaries. I’m just meeting her in the dirty swamp she already lives in.

Just because I can’t take down the Sinners, doesn’t mean I plan to roll over where Sabrina is concerned. Let the games begin.

Chapter Seven

Willow

The following day, I bypass the entirety of the student population. I’m cranky and tired, because images of Carmen’s face intermixed with Sabrina’s snarl danced through my dreams. This followed by my diabolical mind conjuring images of getting down and dirty with Ramsay to which I woke up aroused and annoyed.

Mr. Goodlow is chatting with a student when I pass by, and with an uncomfortable wave, I keep going, speeding up in the hopes of escaping any further weird ass conversation.

“Willow?”

Or not.

With a silent sigh, I spin on my heel and smile, but it takes a supreme amount of effort because I neither need nor want his attention, even if it is well-meaning.

Mr. Goodlow’s eyes sparkle as he approaches and once again, I’m struck by the dichotomy between Oliver’s void and his father’s kindness. Where did it all go wrong? And why the fuck do I care?

“How are you?” he asks.

“I’m fine. Um, thanks.”

“Good, I’m sorry about yesterday. Oliver gets overly passionate sometimes,” he says with a sheepish smile.

“Why?” I ask. Maybe this is my chance to get some dirt on the freak.

“Why?” he asks, raising his brows. “Well, I guess partially because he’s so smart. Sometimes it’s hard for him to understand feelings because he’s so removed from them.”

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