Page 175 of Because I Killed Him
Until now.
Because now I have to face Edmund. And there’s no court ruling, sealed report, or scripted excuse that can shield me from what he’ll see when he learns the truth; when he understands what I did, and worse, what I became while doing it.
I drop my head into my hands and press my fingers against my temples, drawing a deep, ragged breath. I know I have to tell Edmund. I know it can’t be avoided. But before I do, I need my sisters, now more than ever. I’ll tell them everything, if only to hear their voices.
The problem is that neither Vivian nor Hillaire will talk to me. They stopped taking my calls the moment they learned I’d told Dad I’d support his decision to run for Governor of the Rainbow District. I activate my Bond and stare at the last message Vivian sent me two days ago:
“Stop calling, Lore. Please. I need some time.”
I exit the text, my shoulders shaking beneath the weight of Charles’s ghost, and open Hillaire’s messages. The screen is empty except for seven calls Hillaire ignored, seven attempts I’ve made to reach her in the past week. I stare at the screen for a moment before dialing her number. One ring. No answer, so I call again. Then again. A fourth time. A fifth. I tell myself I’ll keep calling until she picks up. I don’t care how long it takes. I need to hear her voice, any sign that she’s still my sister.
Finally, on the seventh call, a notification blinks at the top of the screen:
“You’re the only one who could’ve talked Father out of it, Loredana,”Hillaire texts.“When the Blues kill him—and they WILL kill him—I’ll blame you.”
Then she blocks my number.
A man may witness the turning of the world and bear faithful record of its course, but he is not meant to feel what he sees. For, to feel it, would be to carry every hope and every ruin, every triumph and every tragedy, until he shoulders the weight of the world itself.
—BENJAMIN BOGART, THE CIVILIZED VOICE
CHAPTER 41
I keep my plan to tell Edmund the truth about Charles a secret from Dad. I already know what Dad would say, and I already know I’m going to disobey him again.
I’ve decided to tell Edmund next week, on Founders Day, during the private party he’s hosting aboard his yacht. He’ll ask me to stay in his entourage then. Before he does, I’ll tell him the truth.
I don’t know how Edmund will react. I can’t picture his face or imagine his words. But I do know what the damage will feel like, because I’m living it. It’s a slow, splintering grief that breaks apart piece by piece, carving deeply through my body until it feels like everything inside me is bleeding.
In the meantime, I do my best to distract myself. Between practicing with my fencing stick, training new floor gymnastic routines, attending lectures, and studying for exams, I scroll obsessively through media coverage of the Blue trial, telling myself it’s out of curiosity rather than desperation. The homepage of The Civilized Voice is always flooded with urgent, flashing headlines and breaking news alerts, though most of it is just noise.
Still, I check for updates every night, hoping something real might break through. And the night before Founders Day, it finally does.
I’m in the rose gardens of the Green Dormitory, playing croquet withDickie as he quizzes me for our Civilized World History exam. It’s something he’d never do under normal circumstances, but ever since I arranged that meeting for him with President Reeve, he’s been all grins and gratitude, throwing compliments like confetti and sprinting to my side whenever I so much as glance his way.
“Who led the Vanguard defense after the shield was breached near Brookstone City, and what did he claim in his memoirs?” Dickie asks as I swing my mallet. My ball sails cleanly through the wicket but stops an inch from his.
“General Whit Mercer,” I say grimly. “He called the Rangers sick, soulless animals. Every time one of their jets breached the shield, they targeted Offspring Institute labs where all the babies were.”
“Right.” A spark of something dark passes through Dickie’s eyes. Then, like a switch, his smirk slides back into place. “Thanks for the opening, broad.”
He lines up his shot with mock ceremony, gives a theatrical bow, and taps his ball into mine. The clack of the roquet rings through the garden. With a smug flick of his wrist, he swings again, sending my ball skipping into a rose bush.
“Enjoy the thorns,” he mutters, chuckling to himself.
Just then, a pretty student walks by, and Dickie straightens, puffing out his chest to better display the digital badge pinned to his suit jacket. It shows a looping clip of him and President Reeve shaking hands. Reeve wears a dignified smile, while Dickie beams, his thumbs up and his eyes wide with uncontainable joy. The height difference is absurd; Reeve may be tall, but next to Dickie he looks like a tree stooping to shake hands with a blade of grass.
The girl catches sight of the badge and pauses, clearly impressed, though she tries to mask it with a scoff.
I can’t help but smile at the photo and at how much that moment meant to Dickie. He dives back into his explanation of the Shield War, his words spilling out so fast I start counting his breaths to make sure he’s still taking them. I drift toward the rose bush, trying to keep up as I search for my ball, when my Bond pings with a breaking news alert.
I tap the alert, and a banner from the Civilized Voice floods my screen.
BREAKING: HIGH-CITIZEN TRIAL SENT TO JURY AFTER STUNNING DEVELOPMENTS.
“Hey, broad, don’t you know the date? The year, at least?” Dickie snaps his fingers like I’m a wayward pupil. Instead of answering the question I didn’t even hear, I send him a link to the article.
Dickie goes silent, croquet mallet still in hand, as he skims the words. Then his eyes bulge wide.
