Bloody Princess by Helen Scott

10

Lyric

It's been a couple weeks of going to class and trying to buddy up to Atlas and Keats. Neither of them are being particularly friendly since that first day of class, so I break down and decide to visit Melody.

Before we started this whole thing, she got a job as a barista at a local coffee shop on the other side of the bay. It's about an hour drive, but I don't mind since it'll let me see my sister. The autumn sun shines coolly down on me as I cross from the rich bitch side of town into the lower middle class area where the coffee shop is. I'm hoping Melody will have some insight on how to get closer to the guys. After all, she was the one with friends growing up, not me.

The sun reflects off the big picture windows that cover the front of the coffee shop, and I can barely see inside. I watch myself as I walk up to the door and pull. My hair is pulled back, and I have a ball cap on, just to try and help mitigate someone thinking we’re related.

I know she's working today because I double checked, but when I first walk in, I don't see her. As I walk up to the counter, a barista with ash blonde hair steps out of the back, and I do a double take. The stormy blue eyes are the same as my own, along with the overly full lips. Melody has dyed her hair.

We hadn't talked about that, and we talked about pretty much every step of the plan, so it makes me nervous.

Her shoulders tense slightly, and I know she sees me. I could pick her voice out of a crowd, so I don't miss it when she says, "Can I take my break now, Angi?"

The woman who seems to be the manager, judging by the fact that my sister is asking for her permission to go on break, and the fact that she has a big star on the corner of her name tag, glances at her watch and raises her eyebrows. "It's a little early, don't you think?"

"Please? My friend is here early." In a stage whisper, she adds, "I don't think she understands how to tell time." I know it's a dig at me coming here at all since I told her I'd wait to hear from her.

I step up to the counter and place my order. Grande Americano with room for cream. As I step to the side to wait, I take a look around. The tables are all made to look like butcher block, with black metal legs and matching chairs. Along one of the windows is a bar that looks the same as the tables, but it has matching stools instead of chairs. The walls are such a deep brown they are almost black, and they definitely make me think of coffee, while the golden lattice that runs along the ceiling, matching the path of the service counter, gives the space a warm feeling. The walls aren't plain though—they have murals painted on them in thin gold lines. No other colors are present, except for a few touches of creamy shades here and there. Once I notice the gold, though, I can't not notice it. The light shades, the lattice, the mural, the edge of the counter top...it's everywhere.

A younger woman's voice calls out my name, and I pick up my drink, pleasantly surprised at the lack of wait time for it. As I grab a stool and sit looking out of the window, I watch Melody and her manager chat in the reflection. After a few more moments, Melody sits down next to me.

"What are you doing here?" she says before sipping on her own coffee. The main difference between us is her sweet tooth. I guess that's what happens when you spend most of your time in Switzerland. The frappuccino is so sweet I can smell the sugar from where I'm sitting. When I glance at it, I see the caramel drizzle on the inside of the cup, along with what has to be more than a single serving of whipped cream on top.

"I wanted to check in on you. I like your hair." I sip on my own coffee without turning to look at her. It's not that I want to act like we don't know each other at all, but we don't want people to think we're close. When I do turn and look at her, I realize that her makeup has contoured her face differently from mine, and she's wearing colored contacts that make her eyes a darker blue than they naturally are. The winged eyeliner is new and not something I've ever seen her wear before. It makes her look sassy.

Part of me envies her talent with makeup.

"I told you I'd message you when I was ready," she grumbles.

"I'm not making any progress past the initial phase, though, and I wanted to see if you have any ideas. Plus, I wanted to double check and make sure all my professors are on board."

"Yes to the professors. If you need me to remind them of the agreement, I can, just let me know. I've got pretty damning shit on all of them. I don't know what I can tell you about them, though." Her voice is laced with venom when she refers to the guys.

I don't blame her. I feel the same way. It's just hard to maintain when Atlas is being so damn charming and Keats is making me feel like I'm not...me. We haven't talked since that first day in class, but each time we have had an encounter, the darkness in him calls to my own and makes me feel a tiny bit more normal. If I'm not careful, my mask might slip around him, specifically. And if we're being honest, he's the most logical of the four to have hurt Alyssa.

My mind feels like it's spinning with everything I'm experiencing and feeling, which is why I wanted to talk to Mel in the first place.

I sigh and ask, "What kind of damning shit?"

She holds up a finger for each teacher as she says, "Your pilates professor has an Only Fans account, which is against school policy. Your economics professor has a mistress, as does your Human Physiology professor. Your Russian professor employs undocumented workers, some of whom live at his house. Your criminology professor enjoys the company of female students a little too much, and your International Relations professor is a high functioning alcoholic. That water bottle isn't full of water."

I wish I could say I am surprised by any of this, but I'm not. The truth is, every single person that has ever entered my life is fucked up in some way. If they weren't, I probably wouldn't have any reason to interact with them. The only person who might be an exception is Evie. Though, she could be hiding some fuckery deep down, and I just don't know about it yet.

Apparently, I'm some kind of magnet for it or something. Eventually, I mutter, "Good to know."

"My break is almost over," Mel says as she glances at her phone to check the time.

It doesn't feel like we've been sitting there a long time, but I don't know how her break schedule works, so I can't exactly argue with her about it. "I don't know how to take things past the introductory phase. How to get through their armor. Where to look even," I complain. Usually, when I'm doing work for my father and Sampson, I know what I'm looking for, and I have free rein to do whatever I need to so I can get the answers we want. It can't work like that with the guys. We need to tread lightly, or the ice that we're skating on may break beneath the weight of our impatience.

"You've got a group project in at least one of your classes, I know that. Use it. Buddy up. Play dumb and ask for a study partner. You know what to do, but you're holding back, and I don't know why." I can tell she is studying me, the weight of her gaze shifting over my skin like a mudslide. For some reason, I'm nervous that she'll see something there she doesn't like. Something that will break apart this sisterhood the two of us have, which is the last thing I want. After she stares at me for a moment, she says, "Is it because you don't have Daddy and Sampson to tell you what to do or take the blame if this all goes tits up?"

"No. It's not that." I sound defensive to my own ears. Fuck. Is it that? Am I scared to be out on my own? The work I've done for them isn't public knowledge. Hell, I don't think Mel even knows about it, not really. So it's not like anyone would suspect me of anything. The idea that I'll finally be getting revenge for the death of my eldest sister is fire blazing through my veins. Something about being around Atlas and Keats makes that fire flag and die down. That isn't something I can afford, not if I want answers.

"I can't read your mind Lyric, either tell me or get going." Mel is done with me, apparently.

Irritation flares through me, and I clench my jaw a moment before I open my mouth, intending to tell her what I think of her attitude and what I think is holding me back, but no words come out.

"Look," she begins with a dramatic sigh. "Go back to your dorm. Read through Lyssa's journal. Look through her old Instagram photos. I don't care. Whatever it is you need to do, do it and get your head back in the game. I gave up my life for this. You think I want to be here serving people coffee? People who act like they're the most important person in Ascendance Bay, like they run the place, when I should have enough money in my trust fund to wipe my ass with hundred dollar bills?

“I have nothing, and I gave it all up to help find Alyssa's killer. I've done everything I can until you bring me more information. You know what? Even though I am still figuring my shit out in terms of rent and bills, I'll mail you some listening devices using my own hard-earned money. You can plant them in their rooms, then we can both listen to their conversations and go from there. Does that make it a little easier on you?" Her speech is a roller coaster of emotional outbursts. First she is tired, then she’s angry, and she ends by being patronizing. It's the last part that pisses me off, though.

"You think you're the only one who's had to give shit up for this? I want to remind you that this," I say as I gesture frantically to the cafe and her outfit, "was all your idea. If you remember, I was against it. I went along with it because you were so convinced it was the best way to do things. You think I want to be at that school, pretending to be someone I'm not twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? I have to do math! Math! You know how much I hate that."

"Well it's a good thing I used your trust fund to pay off all your professors then, isn't it? You can fail every test and paper and you'll still pass, thanks to me. We both have things we're good at. Give me something I can hack into or research and I'm happy to help, but all this soft shit, the manipulation? That's on you." She shakes her head as she finishes speaking before upending her coffee cup and draining whatever remains inside.

"Can you at least try to hack into that Instagram account? Or their TikTok one? I need the stalkers off my ass if I'm going to do this."

"I'll see what I can do," she mutters before pushing up off her stool angrily and slamming her empty cup into the trash can. I watch her walk into the back and know that whatever sisterly bond I'm hoping is forming between us, isn't. We're twins, but we were separated as soon as Sampson started training me. I was supposed to keep the training a secret between him and me, but I’d told Melody. Of course, Sampson had found out somehow and talked to my father about it, which resulted in Melody being sent to a Swiss boarding school. They’d claimed she was acting out, but we all knew it was my fault.

As I rise from my own seat and walk out of the cafe, I decide to do exactly what Melody suggested. I need to go through everything I have of Lyssa's again and stoke the fire barely burning in me until it’s an inferno, one that can’t be put out by smiles and fuck me looks. Tomorrow, we are getting our group assignments in my criminology class and, thanks to Melody, I already know I'll be partnered with Keats. If the professor does anything else, I'll happily remind him of the arrangement he has with the Sterling family. What I need to plan is what I'm going to wear that will make Keats want me the most. If I can get him to volunteer his room at the frat house, I can plant those listening devices that Melody was talking about.

The list in my head is growing longer by the minute as I drive back to campus through the city streets. I know my twin is right: I need to get my head back in the game. Fuck homework. Fuck papers. Fuck everything except finding out which of those assholes killed my sister. And once I know which one it was? They'll regret the day they ever crossed the Sterling family.

A small part of my brain, one I am doing my best to ignore, pipes up, and I can't help but hope that it wasn't Atlas or Keats who did it.