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I scan my eyes back over the laptop screen in front of me, pursing my lips at what I found this morning, just three hours before our first scheduled counseling session.
Yes, I did switch caseloads with my colleague who originally had Poppy on her books, but Bennett asked me to look into her, and what better way to really scrape out the inside of someone's skull than tocounselthem? Plus, hacking the school system to make the switch was nothing, my colleague, Julia, won't have even looked at the poor kids she's got on her register until they're sitting in the chair opposite her with shitty tales of their rich kid upbringings and how it's just so unfair that their mommy didn't love them more.
I'll be a qualified psychiatrist in less than a year, but I'm not sure that's really what I wanna be doing with my life. Plus, I work for Bennett’s security business, and do some of his other, less shiny jobs.
I refocus on the screen, glaringly bright in the dim light of my dark office, all rich woods and deep green carpet, walls lined with shelves of volumes of books I've never read. A free standing lamp emits a warm orange glow at my back in the corner. Blinds shuttered over the large window, heavy, velvet curtains drawn across them too.
Carrington.
The name is seared into my memory as though it were my very own. Something I can't forget,won't,not after what Michael Carrington did to my best friends' family, my brothers in everything but blood. It's the entire reason we’re all so close. We always wanted to build a better life for their mom, look after her since their dad was locked up.
And Michael fucking Carrington was the offshore accountant behind it all.
And what did he fucking lose?
Nothing.
But now, halfway across the planet, inourfucking lap, is the daughter he presumably tried to hide. Different last name, a blank history, addresses of boarding schools and live-in academies instead of a home, a life built with no mention of a parent anywhere. There was just nannies, ones that seemed to change as quickly as the fucking weather.
A grin pulls at my lips, twisting the corners with savagery.
Poppy Foster is Poppy Carrington and there's no greater vengeance than the hurt that comes with ruining a man's precious daughter.
Flynn
How do you want to work this?
I ask, sending off the text to Bennett. We grew up together, lived in the same house since we were kids. My mom, stepdad and younger half-brother, Bennett's mom and his younger brother. We formed a bond, along with the kid next door, my brother's age, and the five of us became inseparable.
Bennett
Play with her.
Tongue licking over my teeth, I try not to smile, I try so fucking hard not to grin, but I can't stop it. My lips kick up, teeth on display and a huff of laughter escapes me in the silence of the room. I spin in my chair, leaning back into it, I let my head drop back on my shoulders, stare up at the ceiling. This is what I'm good at. And I'mneverallowed to play.
Minds are fragile things.
Knocking on the door has me clearing my throat, straightening up in my chair. I shuffle the papers together, turning them face down, and exit out of the folder on my desktop, closing the laptop.
“Come in,” I call, hands clasping atop my desk, back straight.
The wide door creaks open, bright light spilling in as a dark haired girl pushes into the room, blinking in the darkness with a divot between her brows.
“Ah, you must be Poppy. Please, come in,” I smile.
She straightens, entering the room, slowly pushing the door closed at her back, her light eyes flicking across the space. I let her look, waiting until, eventually, her gaze lands on me, just briefly, like she's unable to hold my eye. She shifts herweight from one leg to the other, knotting her fingers together anxiously.
“Take a seat.” I gesture to the armchair opposite me, dark brown leather with wide square arms.
She shuffles forward, thick bangs in her eyes, waist-length hair draped forward over one shoulder. She wears a black hoodie beneath a light-coloured, distressed, denim jacket, holes and fraying at the cuffs and hem. She crosses her long legs as she sits cautiously in the chair, and then finally,finally,she looks at me, and it feels a little like my heart stops. Wide lilac eyes, a thin nose, rounded at the tip, thick lips and high cheekbones.
Fuck she's pretty.
Blinking, I clear my throat, just to give me a moment to collect my scattering thoughts.
“I'm Mr. Marshall, but you can call me Flynn,” I smile again, and her shoulders start to drop from their hunch. “As you know this is just a mandatory session to check on your wellbeing, to see how school is going and if there's anything you want to talk to me about, or request help with. Anything to help your integration into the school, that's what I'm here for.”
She nods, squeezing her tattooed hands in her lap. But she says nothing, and I'm silent too, for a beat too long, waiting for her to speak, to hear her voice.
