“We … pluck them.”
“That’s right.” He opens the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out what I realize—to my horror—is a very sharp knife, about five inches long and gleaming. “And that’s your final trial. I need you to pluck the weeds.”
“What?”I almost laugh. Because it has to be a joke. I’m exhausted and not thinking clearly and Ineedit to be a joke.
But Sol doesn’t laugh. The way he looks at me, devoid of the warmth and cheer from a few moments ago, makes it very clear this isn’t a joke at all.
He holds the knife out to me.
I don’t take it.
“Iris?”
“No.” I shake my head. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Both,” I say.
“I see. So I was right. You will choose her over this family, over the people who have cared for you, who’ve given you food and shelter and clothing, who’ve listened to you, comforted you for well over a year now. You pick her.”
“It’s not like that, Sol!”
“It’s exactly like that.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t sound angry at all. Just disappointed. “I had such high hopes for you, Iris. You’ve done so well. Grown so much. But maybe I should have known better. Maybe you don’t belong here, either.”
I stare at the knife. This doesn’t feel real.
He lowers the blade to his side. “Just … tell me this,” he says,and his voice cracks like he might cry. “Do you care about us at all?”
“I love you.” My voice, too, is ragged with emotion. “I love the girls. Please, Sol, believe me.” I can feel tears coming to my eyes now. The desperation and terror and guilt all piling on top of each other. I’m being buried alive.
“I want to,” he says. “I don’t benefit from this, you know. I work hard to keep you all alive and to help you find some kind of peace. So when one of you is ungrateful—”
I shake my head and reach for my nonexistent hair. “No, I’m not ungrateful. I’m very grateful. For everything.”
“Then prove it!” Sol snaps. It’s the first time he’s actually yelled. The first time he’s sounded truly angry. I flinch. “You do this for me, Iris—you take care of Rose—and you save all of us. She’s a weed. If she stays, she will tear this family apart. She’s already pulling you away from us.”
I lower my head, tears falling down my cheeks in streams now. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I … I can ask her to leave.”
“That’s not going to work.”
“Why not?”
“Because if she leaves, the stories she’ll tell will draw attention. The police will come again.”
“You’reasking me to do this because you’re afraid they’ll arrest you?” I ask, unable to hide the outrage in my voice. “Because of your financial crimes?”
Sol looks shocked. “Did Rose tell you that?”
I bite my lip and don’t respond.
“And you believe her.” It’s a statement, not a question. Sol looks pained, and guilt twists in my gut. I know what he’s asking me to do is wrong, but I still hate hurting him. “No, Iris,” he says after a long moment. “I’m not worried for me. I’m worried for all of you younger girls. Just like I’ve always been. I hate the thought of you and Poppy and Zinnia suffering in foster care or a group home because of her selfishness.” He levels that pale blue gaze at me. “And because of you, if you won’t fight for us.”
“Sol, please …”
He lifts his hand, holding out the knife one more time. “Prove me wrong, Iris. Pluck the weed. You have three days. If you do this for me, forus,your trials will be done. And if you don’t …”
The way he trails off causes the dread claws to dig in deeper. “Sol,” I say, voice barely above a whisper, “what happened to Marigold?”
