Page 14 of Gold Mine (The Diamond Trilogy 2)
“Guilt is a normal response to the situation.” I knew London was slower than me. I knew she was less sturdy on a bike, but I’d gone faster instead of slower.
“Keep going,” Elijah says, fixated on what London’s saying.
“So I fell off the bike. Broke my wrist and my leg. Our parents freaked out. Everything was tense in the house. And that would have been bad enough, but then—”
“You don’t need to do this,” I say, but I’m the one who needs her to stop. It’s her confession, but it hurts me to hear. It hurts me to hear how she’s still suffering.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Elijah
Holly is shrinking. That’s the only word for what’s happening to her. She’s still sitting there in front of a plate of food that she hasn’t touched, but she takes up less and less space with every word out of London’s mouth. Part of me wants to shout for London to stop, but I think I need to hear what’s going to happen next.
“But then,” London continues around a mouthful of olives and bread. “I started taking these pain meds. It hurt really bad, so they gave me the good stuff, which was probably a mistake. Because I took everything that they prescribed, and then I started raiding our parents’ medicine cabinet. I didn’t even care if it was for pain anymore. Xanax or citalopram. Anything that could change the way I felt, I took it.”
“Stop,” Holly says, but her sister doesn’t stop.
“I started using my allowance to buy shit from our friends’ parents’ medicine cabinets. And then I used Holly’s allowance. I think that’s probably how she found out.”
“This is old news. So old,” Holly says. “I don’t know why it matters anymore.”
“You know why it matters. That’s when you started covering for me. Eventually my parents found out and they got me therapy, and I got off the drugs. But it never really went away, that yearning. It comes back again and again, like a shadow that I can’t shake.”
A tear runs down Holly’s cheek. “Yes. Okay. Yes. It’s my fault.”
London glares at her. “And that’s the problem. It was never your fault. Not that I fell down, not that I got addicted. And definitely not that I developed a cocaine habit.”
Holly’s face crumples. “Yes, it is.”
It looks like London wants to argue, so I murmur, “Enough.”
London gives me a significant glance, as if she expects me to fix this. I have no idea how, but I’m grateful that she shared it with me, so I give her a firm nod. It’s helpful to understand why Holly is so bent on protecting her sister at any cost. She blames herself.
London stomps her way upstairs.
The housekeeper Emina hums from the garden outside.
We’re alone in the small kitchen, and I apply myself to an omelet to give Holly some time to compose herself. After a few minutes she starts to tear a small croissant into a hundred pieces. She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “This house,” she says.
“This house.”
“I saw the locks. The security system.”
“We’re safe if that’s what you’re asking.” It’s not what she’s asking.
She glances toward where Emina walked out, without having to enter any secret codes. “I can leave anytime I want?”
“You can.” The thought of her walking out makes my chest hurt. “I would come after you, but I won’t stop you from leaving. I’m not making the same mistake again.”
Her breath catches. “I hope you don’t think—”
“You hope I don’t think what?”
The words come in a rush. “I hope you don’t think that’s why I’m doing this. What London said about the bicycle accident and the problems she had after.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s not because I feel guilty about London. I know she’s an adult. I know the addiction is an illness, not something I caused by riding my bike too fast when I was a kid.”
“I’m glad you know that. Because it’s the truth.”
“Like, yes. It messed me up as a kid, but I’m grown up now.”
I study her downcast eyes, the way the lashes brush her cheeks. I could study her for months, for years and not unpack every inch of her. The stories that London shares are my breadcrumbs, but there are no easy answers for a woman as complicated as this.
“That’s who your book was about.”
She looks alarmed. “What?”
“The book about the tooth fairy. It was about your sister. She’s the one in the human world while you didn’t belong. She’s the one who died.”
For a moment she looks stricken. Then she picks up a hard-boiled egg and flings it at me. It bounces off my shirt and rolls to the ground, harmless. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me.”
“Fine,” I say, but I know I’m right. That’s how she was able to tap into the feelings of grief and guilt so well. That’s how she mourned the pain she caused her sister.
