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Chapter 24
Astrid
I wait all day Monday to be summoned to Foxworth House, but Rawlins doesn’t send for me. “She who sees all” must know what happened over the weekend. Maybe she’s given up taming me. Or maybe Howland chewed her out for failing and told her that he would handle it himself. It being me. At any rate, I don’t have that hanging over me, except there’s one more thing I have to do. I have to go talk to Justin.
On the ride home yesterday, Wyatt filled in more details of what happened at the Pit. I demanded to know everything he knew from Pierce. And one detail chilled me until my teeth chattered.
“Ted Leister knew who you were,” he said. “He recognized your tattoo. He knows you’re Howland’s daughter. He went after you on purpose, so stay away from him.”
I have to talk to Justin, or things between us will go weird again. I thought he was as fucked in the head as his father but made a mistake about the limo. I know he had nothing to do with what happened to me, but somehow his father knew about my tattoo. My hand passes over my hipbone as if the spot burns, and I want to scratch the skin off. I block out that gross man touching me, and I will never think about him when I look at Justin. No, we’ll talk openly about it, and then we have to move on.
Move on? No, we have to get even.
Gradually, I get the feeling that no one else knows about what happened at the Pit. There are no stares in my direction or whispers as I walk by on campus. That disgusting night remains within our little circle. The boys protect me more than I realize. After class, I change into jeans and a long sweater and head over to Vogel Hall. The leaves are gone from the trees, and the perfect green lawn is fading to brown. And I’m still here at Stonehaven as I hurry down the path toward Justin’s studio. I realize then that I’m smart enough to stay in this school.
Vogel Hall is eerily quiet, which makes no sense. I don’t hear music or quiet conversations in the background. Justin and I aren’t the only ones who have secretive sex hidden away in a studio surrounded by sketches and canvases. But I hear nothing, and my back tenses as I get the creeps. Why is no one around?
I pull back the heavy curtain across the doorway into his studio and stop in my tracks. Gasping, I look around at the destruction covering the floor. The portrait of me is snapped in two, the wood frame splintered, and the canvas doubled over on the floor. The sketches have been torn off the walls, and some are ripped into pieces. Gingerly, I walk further into the space, over scattered pencils and brushes littering the floor. Fresh tubes of paint are exploded across the wooden floor, and loose paper is flung in all directions.
Justin sits in the farthest corner with his head resting on his bent knees. His shoulders are shaking while he mutters under his breath. His hands work as he clutches and unclutches his fists. Christ, I’m scared; no wonder everyone left. But I force my legs to keep moving toward him. I need to know who did this to him.
“Justin,” I whisper, not daring to touch him. “Justin?”
His head whips up, and his malicious expression makes me jump back. Anger has distorted his serene features, twisting his lips into an ugly scowl as he glares at me like I’m the one who wrecked his studio.
I fumble backward and slip on something that catches under my heel. Falling onto the hardwood floor, I let out a yelp of surprise. It’s more shock than pain. I pull myself up, and maybe leaving would be the sanest thing to do. But before I can stand, Justin is on top of me.
I scream, covering my face. “I didn’t do this,” I tell him quickly, “I didn’t ruin your stuff.”
Panting, he holds me down, and his hot breath hits my ears. I stay still as he rests his head on my side and holds me tighter. I look through my lashes, and his head is bowed over me as his shoulders shake again. Slowly, I lift my hand as high as I can. I watch it tremble the closer it moves toward his body. Gently, I touch his back, and when he doesn’t lash out, I caress him softly.
“I didn’t do this,” I repeat my words much more calmly, “I didn’t ruin your stuff. I know you had nothing to do with what happened at the Pit.”
Justin takes in a deep breath, and gradually, his body stops shaking as he calms down. “I know you didn’t do it,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Then who did?” I stop moving my hand and hold onto him. “Was it Ted?”
Justin lifts his head, and his face drains of color and emotion. He stares blankly around the studio as if he’s only just noticed the chaos within it. He drops his head back down, resting his forehead against my side.
“No, it wasn’t him,” he says, “I did it.”
“What?” I twist my body to sit up, and the quick motion knocks him off me, “You did this? But why?”
Justin crawls over to the nearest wall and leans his back against it. His shoulders hunch over, and his legs splay out in front of him as if he had been thrown there. His hooded eyes focus on nothing. He doesn’t look at me and points in the direction of his rolling cart.
“Get my bottle out of the bottom drawer,” he says.
I move over to the cart, which lies on its side, and I’m able to pull open the drawer. A bottle of grain alcohol falls out. Broken empty bottles of this stuff litter the ground in Weymouth, and I’m shocked to see the nasty stuff here. Only the hardcore alcoholics drink this stuff neat. It will burn the hair off your skin from the inside. I scrunch my nose and hand it to him, hoping he’ll only use it to clean a brush.
Justin twists the cap off and swallows down a gulp. His eyes flutter shut, and I can tell it burned his throat by the tight grimace on his face. He forces his expression to go blank, but his lips twitch slightly as he clears his throat.
I crawl over to him and snatch the bottle away. “Don’t drink this stuff. You’ll end up in a ditch somewhere, if you’re lucky.”
He laughs shortly. “That would be an improvement. I hate my life, and I will always hate Ted.”
I place the bottle out of reach and sit down beside him. “What happened?” I look around at the torn paper and the ruined canvas again. “Why did you do this?”
His voice stays calm, as if he’s telling a story about someone else. “I’m a dumbass fool. I thought my father was coming around. I thought he wanted to support my career.” Justin shakes his head suddenly. “Not financially—I don’t need him anymore for that—but emotionally. He walked around the studio nodding his head and telling me I had talent. He patted me on the back, and we talked about my future. He kept staring at the canvas and admiring the work I had done. He apologized for missing my solo show.
