Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye
Chapter 23
At the endof the school day, Dimitri is leaning against his car, talking to a couple of girls I don’t recognize. They’re laughing with him, at first, but then they exchange a surreptitious look with each other as if they think he’s a creep. I wonder if it has something to do with what happened today. He seems oblivious.
“Andie, sorry, I already promised a ride home to—”
I center myself, remembering everything I learned about punching from the self-defense lessons I took, and I swing my fist right at his face.
His head is knocked back with a satisfying sound, and he takes a second to blink, pressing his hands to his face. When he removes them, looking for blood that isn’t there, there’s already a red mark blooming on his cheekbone.
“You made me show my tits to the school,” I tell him, remaining as calm as I can while the girls scatter.
He snorts, rubbing his cheek. “I didn’t make you. That was all you.”
He’s not wrong. But the more I think about it, the more I see that that may have been the first time I truly took control of my own body in this school. Took control of what people thought, what people said about it.
I should be mortified, but I’m not. I feel … good. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I have some semblance of ownership over myself.
“Well, you ruined my plans tonight. Get in, Killer,” Dimitri says, opening his car door. He turns and squints at me, one of his eyes watering. “I might never like you, but fuck. I’m starting to respect you.”
* * *
I intendto spend the entire weekend in bed.
I tell my mom I’m sick, maybe I ate something or caught a cold, but I need to be alone to rest so I don’t have to miss school on Monday. She supports my decision, with only a little bit of a knowing, pitying look — she can tell I’m shutting her out, but she doesn’t want to push. I appreciate that.
Pietro, even though we have pretty much not interacted even once since I moved into his house, is growing on me. He has a nice smile, and he gives my mom little backrubs whenever she passes her, and just generally tries hard to make sure she’s happy and comfortable. At the same time, he never misses an opportunity to give Dimitri a hard time, which I also take a little pleasure in.
But my favorite thing about him is his taste in furniture, and his seeming penchant for luxury. I know he has a booming business. I kind of zone out whenever Mom talks about it, but I think he modifies cars for rich people to make them cool and unique. It’s half creative, half technical, and I think it sounds cool.
Whatever it is, it pays for the jacuzzi tub, the pool outside, and my completely heavenly bed.
I prop myself up with soft, squishy pillows, have a mug filled with cocoa, and watch movie after movie on the big-screen TV Pietro mounted on the wall for me. I’ve never had a bed this nice. Never had a TV in my room, either.
Back when we lived here before, we had a more modest two-story house next door to Gunnar, his younger brother, and their parents. Somewhere around sophomore year, his dad hit it big enough that he stopped pretending he wasn’t several-yachts rich, and they moved into a literal mansion. Gunnar said he hated it.
Now that I think about it, I wonder if that was around the time that Preston Rayne figured out how to betray Cole’s father. If that was what happened that changed from any other rich man in a rich town to a mega-rich man who all but runs Torrent Bay. Since then, he’s acquired the local paper, two local restaurants, and invested in a couple more businesses that he used to say he just ‘dabbles in’.
If it was at the expense of the Wallers, I feel like a lot of people in this town are going to have a very real problem with that.
I have to find out if there’s any truth in this.
Luckily, I was best friends with one of the residents of Preston Rayne’s house for long enough to know a few things.
Like how to get in and out without being seen…
* * *
So much forthe weekend in bed. It’s Saturday night, the stroke of midnight, and I got so pumped up by the half-formed plan in my mind — and maybe what I view as a fractional victory at school today — that somehow now I’m standing here. Wearing all black, even a hat. Outside the Raynes’ gated mansion.
Clara Rayne, Gunnar’s mother and Ransom’s adoptive mother, died four or five years ago. I don’t know the details, but it was some kind of accident at home, and the family doesn’t speak about it. The brothers also have a sister, too, but she has lived in another state with grandparents for the last ten years. As I’m standing here, in a bush, thinking about this, it occurs to me that I actually don’t know a lot about the Raynes. But what I do know is dark, shady, and twisted.
I think Preston has remarried, or at least has a girlfriend, but I can’t remember her name, if I ever knew it. They have a couple of members of staff, and it’s possible Preston’s brother, Smith, and Gunnar’s cousin Spencer live here too — the latter of course happens to be my English teacher. It’s a pretty honorable profession, actually, for somebody who never needs to work a day in his life. From what I vaguely remember of meeting Spencer Rayne in the past, he’s a very kind, intelligent man.
Other than those names, I have no idea who or what I could run into in there. I doubt any of them would call the cops on me if they caught me, but I don’t want to test that theory.
I know this house so well, and have snuck into it so many times, that I am almost presented with too many options here. I know where the spare keys are hidden for the front and back doors, but that feels far too risky. Several of the lights are on in the windows, on each floor. There are four cars I can count in the driveway. Preston Rayne’s Mercedes is not among them. Neither is Gunnar’s car. It’s Saturday night and he probably has no end of events to choose from.
In the end, heart racing, I settle on the open window on the second floor. I am pretty sure it’s a bathroom from the shape of the window. None of the lights on either side are on, including the windows of Preston’s home office.
I can do this.
What’s the worst that could happen? I could terrify a maid, but if any Raynes ask, I’m here to talk to Gunnar. Nobody will question that. I used to be here all the time. I spent what feels like half of the first year after they moved in the basement with my friends.
Renewed confidence, I grab ahold of the wood trellis and haul myself up. It’s a lot easier than it seems, to climb up this wooden checkerboard that scales the house. I take some care not to break the ivy that climbs it, and soon I’m at the open window, looking around. I’ve seen the security feeds; I know I’m in a blind spot.
I slide in, legs first, quiet as I can. It’s a longer drop than it looks, and I catch myself with my forearms, biting back the whimper on impact with the tiles. I’m going to be bruised tomorrow. It’s fine.
The door is open a crack, and the hall light is off outside the room. I am trying hard not to get turned around, but I’m certain that Gunnar’s father’s office is one room to the right.
Gunnar might be here. I try to force the thought out of my head. He could have parked elsewhere, lent out his car — he used to let me drive it all the time — or I could just have missed it in the dark. That realization sends my heart slamming against my ribs. Subconsciously I gaze in the direction of his bedroom. It’s in this wing of the house. If he is home, he’s probably not in there. He spends most of his time in the basement. He prefers the soft pull-out couch, the big TV, the gym equipment close by.
I actually don’t really know why he hates sleeping in a bed, but he always opts for falling asleep on couches or floors, in front of the TV or with a book in his hand. I’ve never known him to actually go to sleep; he prefers to fall asleep.
I shake my head to stop myself thinking about him. It’s made harder by the fact that I can faintly smell his soap, his fresh laundry, in the air. This is his home. I was crazy to think I could come in here and not struggle to get my mind off of him.
But I’m not here for him. This has nothing to do with him. Today I’m focusing all my energy on my other best friend. The other piece of my heart I have lost.
I reach the door, and it’s closed. Not only that, but I twist the handle as slow as I can, and it’s locked, too. Of course it’s locked. He’s a rich, powerful man. He has secrets in here.
That only reinforces my need to get in there.
A vague memory pulls at me. The time I got stuck in a spare bedroom in this house during a game of truth or dare. Gunnar talked to me the entire time so I wouldn’t panic — because he knew I hated being trapped — and finally got me out. With a credit card.
There’s no reason to believe the doors in this wing, the locks, are all different. I pull out my debit card from my back pocket and, hands shaking, I slot it between the lock and the door jamb. I probe around, not entirely sure I know what I’m looking for, but I feel a little hint of give, and I push the card in further through the slot, overenthusiastic.
It catches, and before my mind can catch up with what’s happening, my card slips from my fingers and through the gap. I hear it clatter onto the floor on the other side. My eyes widen. I feel the blood drain from my face.
The card has my name written on it.
I’m so stupid. I must have had other cards in my possession that didn’t have my name embossed across the front? I can’t think of any right now, but I’m stunned. I’m frozen to the spot. My heart roars in my ears.
After a moment, the desperate need to get out of the open hallway overtakes the panic that roots me here, and I get up on my tiptoes and skim my fingers across the top of the doorway, hoping for a key.
“Either you’re looking for my bedroom and you got lost,” a smooth voice that twists my gut begins, “or you are doing something somehow much, much stupider.”
I’m still on my tiptoes, leaning forward, arms outstretched and clinging to the top of the doorframe. Very slowly, as if that will make this any less real, I turn around and look over my shoulder.
Gunnar is wearing basketball shorts and a black tank top, looking ruffled, like he just got out of bed. He runs his fingers through his dark hair, smoothing it into place, but his eyes don’t leave me. My gaze darts around the hallway. There’s no one else here, and all the lights are still off. What are the chances he’s just wandering the halls over here like a ghost?
“I knew you’d come. Didn’t think it would be so quickly,” he says. His voice is so casual, it’s like we’re still friends. I lower myself onto my feet and turn around, my back to the door. I still don’t think I have the ability to speak. “Saw you talking to Emile, and I figured he’d tell you about what my father allegedly did.” He has the audacity to smirk, showing teeth.
“You knew?” I breathe.
He rolls one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I’m just surprised you actually broke into my house. I’m almost impressed. You really don’t want to believe you’re the reason he offed himself, huh?” Like an ice bucket over my head, it washes over me what he thinks I’m doing here.
That I’m trying to blame his family for Cole’s suicide, rather than myself. But it’s not true. What I’m here for is much darker than that. I’m trying to prove he was murdered.
“I guess I don’t blame you. Every day being you right now must be torture.” He takes a couple of steps forward. Slow, calm. It still picks my heartrate up. “That’s not sympathy, by the way. Just understanding.”
“Glad you clarified,” I say through gritted teeth.
He’s at my side, nodding to the impenetrable door. “Let’s do it, then.”
I blink up at him. His warm scent invades my nose. Freshly-washed clothes; a hint of sleep. “Do what?” I whisper.
He is frowning down at me like I’m the one not making sense. “Let’s see if we can find what you came here to find.”