Page 90 of Lavender and Lightning

thirty-eight

Alexandra

I’vestaredatthisreport for so long that the text on the screen no longer looks like real words. I toss it onto the table with a frustrated sigh, running my hand through my hair. It feels dirty, even though I washed it this morning. Every inch of me feels that way these days.

I look up and out of the window to my left, the branches of the lilac bush swaying in the wind. The leaves haven’t started to turn yet, but it’s coming. Soon all the greenery at Bright Hills will wither to brown husks, and we’ll have to start bringing the potted plants out of the greenhouse. But it’s all an illusion, meant to fool clients into believing the fantasy of southern pastoral timelessness. Nothing ever lasts, not even the things we need the most.

My cell phone pings next to my low-ball glass of neat whiskey I’d poured upon my arrival. I glance at the screen for just a moment, unable to stop the flare of futile hope in my chest that it might be her. But it’s just my accountant, confirming the details of our meeting next week. I have half a mind to cancel. That project means nothing now that she’s gone. But it’ll be good for the Foundation, good for the…

The pack. Do I dare even call us that anymore? Once, before my ego ruined it all, we were. We moved together, always in sync as we rose like a rocket to power and status and wealth. There were no secrets, no days spent in stony silence, no resentments left too long to fester.

I reach out and take a large swallow of my drink, sitting with the burn for as long as I can before the inevitable numbness creeps in. I deserve the pain, deserve so much worse for what I’ve done to the people I love.

A soft knock on the open door frame on the other side of the room breaks the silence, but I don’t look up.

“I’m fine for tonight, Jeanie,” I drone, trying my best to keep the slur out of my words.

“You don’t seem fine.”

My head snaps up at the sound of her voice, and when I turn to look, I almost don’t dare to believe what I’m seeing. Lydia is here, standing with her hands in the pockets of her sweatpants, leaning against the doorjamb like she hasn’t just waltzed in and thrown my entire world out of balance again. Her hair is damp, like she showered not too long ago, face free of makeup. But she’s so… perfect like this. Free from any pretense or barrier between her and the world. I’m suddenly aware of the messy bun I’d thrown my hair into, of the oversized and threadbare college sweatshirt, with a neck so stretched out, it falls off my shoulder. I wipe my hands on the thighs of my leggings, and I flush hot as I remember this is the second day in a row I’ve worn this outfit.

“H-how did you find me?” I ask, clearing my throat as I set my glass down. Anything to avoid looking into her eyes.

“Luc came to see me at Wickland House. Between the two of us, we put together a short list of your possible bolt holes,” she explains, her inflection light, casual.

Nodding, I clear my throat again, shuffling papers around. My face feels hot, but it must just be the whiskey. Why else would my brain be so scrambled, so unsettled?

“Can I sit?” Lydia asks, closer than before.

I glance at the wingback chair on the opposite side of the small, round table from me and nod. It’s not a perfect match to the chair I’m sitting in, the upholstery just the slightest bit pinker. Will Lydia notice? She perches cautiously on the antique, curling up like a cat in the block of sun still visible through the tall window. The beams are broken up by the lilac branches, and I get lost watching the light dance across the bridge of her perfectly upturned nose, cheekbones starting to show freckles from her time working out in the sun on State Street. I’m so absorbed that I don’t notice her attention shifting from the table to my face until it’s too late. Our eyes lock, and my heart breaks all over again.

“Lex, I—”

With a sharp inhale, I look away. Even hearing her say my name is too much. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be looking at me with anything less than pure disgust in her eyes. But she’s not. There’s softness, and understanding, and I don’t deserve that. Not from her.

“You should go, Lydia. Go find the boys and just…” I trail off, the catch in my throat making it hard to breathe.

“Not without some answers,” she retorts without missing a beat.

I shake my head and look out of the window. I know that tone, because it’s one I’ve used myself so many times. She’s made up her mind, and there’s nothing I can do to change it. Best just get this over with so she can move on.

“The tracker. What is that about?” she starts, full of determination.

Right for the jugular, then. I can appreciate that. “When the insurance adjuster looked at your car, they found a GPS device in one of the wheel wells. We couldn’t prove anything, but I’d bet every penny in my trust fund Seth put it there, and that’s how Davis knew where to find you.”

She’s quiet for a moment as she takes in my answer, and I catch her expression of wide-eyed shock out of the corner of my eye. She probably expected me to dance around, to play games and leave her in the dark. But if she’s leaving, she at least deserves to know the whole truth. She’ll be able to protect herself better this way.

“We learned recently that there may have been a connection between the man who hit you, and a private chat room Seth uses to communicate with his fans. They’re still looking into the details, but my working theory is Seth found out you were going to join the pack from the public court records, and then groomed some desperate, naïve sycophant into doing his dirty work,” I continue, not bothering to sugarcoat anything.

Lydia’s soft gasp stabs me through the chest. It took her leaving for me to see how much I kept from her, from all of them. My secrets destroyed this family. I have to purge them in order for all of us to be able to move on, like drawing poison from a wound.

“Davis wasn’t the only one following you, though he was the most dangerous. Seth’s fans submitted dozens and dozens of candid photos of you to The Everton Review, most of you at work, but a few people got lucky and caught you running errands or on dates with the boys. Caleb’s good with faces and has been keeping a running list of frequent flyers,” I drone, still not looking away.

“He’s known… all this time—”

“No one ever got close enough to be a true threat, at least not after that incident at the corporate mixer. Caleb wanted you to be at least aware of the situation, but I made the call not to tell you,” I say, cutting her off.

Lydia’s quiet for a long moment, and I settle more fully into my chair. The floodgates have blown wide, and I don’t know if I could stop even if I wanted to.

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