Page 30 of Seal My Fate

I feel a tremor of fear. Whoever is trying to silence Wren has already proven they’ll stop at nothing to eliminate anyone who stands in their way.

So what will they do, when they realize that we’re closing in on the truth?

Chapter8

Tessa

Iwake with a hangover, despite barely drinking half of what Annabelle and the others downed last night.

“Oh God, what happened to me…?” I groan, shuffling into the kitchen, where Saint is already dressed and sitting, reading the newspaper with his coffee. “I used to be able to party all night, and then leap out of bed in the morning like nothing was wrong.”

“Time happened,” he replies, looking amused. “You’re not twenty-two anymore.”

“And I would never usually wish I was, but…Owww.” I sink into a chair, and he gives me a kiss on the forehead.

“Bacon and eggs, that’s what you need. A proper English fry-up,” he announces cheerfully, opening the oven to whip out the loaded plate he has warming for me. He puts it on the table, and fills my coffee cup, too. I groan. “Trust me, it soaks up the booze,” he insists.

I pick up a piece of dry toast and take a tentative bite.

“Did you have fun, at least?” Saint asks, watching me with a smirk. “The photos were a treat.”

“There were photos?” I gulp.

“All over Annabelle’s social media. Nothing incriminating,” Saint adds, reassuring. “In fact, they look like a professional shoot.” He shows me on his cellphone, and I skim through them, relieved to find I’m barely a blur in the back of the beaming group frames.

Memories of Annabelle’s drunken confession come back to me. She has no idea that Wren’s attack wasn’t an isolated frat-boy incident, that the conspiracy we’re searching for stretches way beyond entitled secret society parting.

It’s more dangerous by far.

I check my phone. There’s already a breezy message from Annabelle:

‘OMG, wild night. I don’t remember A THING! Hydrate, ladies!’

There’s also a ‘Good morning’ from Wren. I decide to FaceTime her, and place the call.

“Reporting for duty, with my morning check-in,” Wren teases. Then she squints at her screen. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Champagne,” I mutter. “Lots of it.”

She laughs. “Try those electrolyte powders. Take it from a scientist, they’ll help you bounce back.”

Saint looks up. “I think I have some of those.”

He goes to investigate, while I chat to Wren, and give her an edited version of last night’s events. She laughs when I describe the designer party favors, complete with gold nameplate necklaces and an engraved keepsake box with a framed photo of Max and Annabelle. “He has balls, I’ll tell you that,” Wren rolls her eyes. “Came on strong with me, and I almost fell for it, too—until I heard he already had a girlfriend.”

“What are you up to?” I ask, sipping my coffee. “Everything’s still quiet down there, right?”

“As a mouse,” Wren reassures me. “I’m actually loving the chance to exhale. I’ve moved on from baking bread to a nice apple and oat cake.”

She displays the cake, cooling on a rack in the charming kitchen. I applaud. “Look at you, Martha Stewart.”

“Call me Nigella, please,” Wren cracks, and I smile.

I can already see that she’s looking better. The dark shadows under her eyes are fading with a few good nights’ sleep, and there’s a familiar sparkle back in her eyes. I know it won’t be so simple for her to move on from the trauma of what’s happened to her, but I can’t help hoping; taking these small improvements as a sign that it might be possible in time. After we finish this. And with a hell of a lot of therapy.

“Anyway, I better get back to my busy schedule,” Wren teases. “There’s a radio play on the BBC at noon, and if the rain lets up, I might even go for a walk.”

“Not too far, though,” I remind her, concerned.

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