Suspicion (3 page)

We curl up in sleeping bags on our respective couches in front of the TV, and I’m just drifting off to sleep at the end of the movie when I hear her speak softly.

“You’re not upset about me and Sebastian … are you?”

My eyes snap open.
Me and Sebastian.
The phrase alone knots my stomach, but I force myself to lie.

“No.” Still, I can’t help asking, “Is he your boyfriend?”

I see her head bob up and down.

“I think so.”

I turn to lie on my side, hugging my knees to my chest. I don’t want to hear, but I’m desperate to know more.

“Have you … kissed him?”

“A peck. It was nicer than I expected,” she giggles. “I’m so glad you don’t mind, Imogen. I know you fancy Sebastian, but he and I are the right age for this sort of thing, you know? Maybe you and Theo will get together when you’re older, and the four of us can double-date! Wouldn’t that be brilliant?”

I open my mouth to speak, to tell her that I’ve always felt older than my years, that I belong with Sebastian just as much as she does. But I can’t. So Lucia continues chattering on, oblivious to the tear trailing down my cheek. And I’m grateful for the darkness that hides my face.

I wake in the middle of the night to the earsplitting sound of sirens. The thick smell of smoke wafts its way into the boathouse, and I sit up frantically, turning to Lucia—but her sleeping bag is empty.
Where is she?

I jump off the couch, heart in my throat. My shaking fingers make it impossible to switch on a lamp, so I use my hands to feel my way forward, stumbling over an ottoman in my path.

The door bursts open, revealing my cousin in a flash of light. Her pajama bottoms are caked in dirt, her face wet with tears or perspiration—I can’t tell which.

“Imogen. Thank God you’re okay,” Lucia pants. “Something’s happened.”

“What’s going on?” I whisper. “Where were you?”

But Lucia doesn’t answer. She grabs my hand, silently pulling me toward the door. Once we’re outside, I see a crowd of people—all watching the flames as they rise from the Shadow Garden and lick their way toward the Maze.

“There’s something hidden in the Maze.”

Remembering my father’s words with a jolt, I drop Lucia’s hand and race toward the smoke, ignoring her shouts.

“Imogen, stop!”

I cry out as Lord Stanhope blocks my path and sweeps me up into his arms, looking ridiculous in his velvet robe and bedroom slippers. I glance around wildly, struggling to register my surreal surroundings, which are so far removed from the idyllic picnic of just yesterday.

Fire trucks skid onto the lawn while Oscar and Mrs. Mulgrave race forward, shouting out instructions. Lady Stanhope wails hysterically on the back terrace, clutching Sebastian and Theo, surrounded by the rest of the disoriented staff in their pajamas. Maisie Mulgrave holds on to Grandfather’s wheelchair, swaying in shock. The only people I can’t seem to find are my aunt and uncle—and my parents.

The firemen leap out of the truck, blasting their way into the garden. Lord Stanhope covers my eyes with his hand.

“Don’t look, Imogen.”

But I have to. I pry his fingers away from my face, watching in silent horror as the firemen haul four stretchers out of the Shadow Garden—bodies covered with sheets. A limp hand dangles out from under one of them, and I shake my head violently when I see the silver chain adorning the pale wrist. It is the bracelet I picked out for my mother on her last birthday.

Screams ring through my ears, anguished howls that I at first don’t recognize as my own. My limbs kick and punch at Lord Stanhope until finally I break from his hold. I run blindly, tears blurring my vision, until somehow Lucia catches me. My cousin wraps her arms around me, holding on tight as my body convulses with sobs. I can hear her wailing for her mother, and the sound pierces my already shattered heart.

“We only have each other now,” she whispers into my ear, tears trailing down her own cheeks.

I clutch her hand, my insides tightening and twisting with a grief too painful to bear. And suddenly, I feel a frighteningly familiar searing sensation in my hands. I pull away from Lucia, and a scream rises in my throat at the sight of the lines in my palms—sparking and blazing a fiery orange. Panicking, I close my hands into fists, but the sparks leap from my hands up into the air, forming a single large flame suspended between our two bodies. The flame casts an eerie glow over Lucia, from the wild look in her eyes to the spade-shaped birthmark on her wrist.

“What’s happening?” Lucia cries, following my gaze. “How—how are you doing that?”

I back away from her, trembling. Without warning, my hands return to normal. The space between us is once again dark and empty.

I spin around, feeling everyone’s eyes on me, watching me unravel—and all I can do is break into a run. I know they’ll catch me, I know I’ll have to face it all soon enough, but for now I sprint forward, directionless. As I’m running, I imagine that I’m shedding my old skin, the carefree little girl I used to be disintegrating into dust beneath my feet, until all that’s left of me is an unrecognizable orphan—alone with terrifying new abilities.

Tribeca, New York City

May 2014

I
kneel before the fireplace, reaching my hand precariously close to the flame. I swipe a finger underneath the burning orange, and—nothing happens. I wince at the flash of heat and quickly withdraw, but it’s still a victory: the flame failed to take on a life of its own at my touch. But then, I shouldn’t be surprised. I haven’t been able to grow anything out of thin air since I left Rockford Manor seven years ago. I guess that’s one thing I can be grateful for. My frightening skill that day must have been a fluke.

“Imogen? Why in the world are you lighting a fire in the middle of May?”

The voice of my friend-turned-sister, Zoey Marino, echoes behind me. I turn around, my face flushed.

“Sorry, I was just …” I force a smile. “I got cold.”

“O-kay, weirdo. You do know you can just turn on the heater, right? Anyway, do you plan on getting dressed or are we going to be late again today?”

I roll my eyes at her.

“Chill out, Zoey. I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

She flounces out of the living room, but I don’t follow. The sound of the rain has me under a spell, and instead of going to my bedroom to change, I move toward the windows. The droplets form funny little patterns on the glass, and I trace them with my fingers.

The rain always reminds me of them, sending my thoughts spinning down the rabbit hole of what might have happened if there had been rain that night. Would my parents still be here, in this very apartment building, if rain had been there to thwart the fire?

“Sweetie, don’t you think you’d better get a move on?”

I turn around to find Carole Marino—also known as my second mom—in the doorway. It’s a good thing she wasn’t the one to find me in front of the fireplace. She’s always on the alert for signs that I might be succumbing to some kind of Orphan Madness.

“I know. I was just about to get ready.”

Before she has a chance to question me any further, I hurry past her and turn the corner into my room. I quickly change into the Carnegie High uniform of a plain plaid skirt and white polo shirt, then twist my blond hair up into a messy bun and swipe on black mascara and my favorite cherry lip gloss. When I return to the living room, Carole hands me a wrapped bagel and a fruit smoothie.

“Here, take your breakfast to go,” she says with a smile. “Zoey’s waiting for you downstairs. Oh, and don’t forget you have Ms. Forman at three o’clock.”

“Can’t wait,” I say with a roll of my eyes, before giving her a quick hug. “See you after school.”

In the lobby of our apartment building, I find Zoey standing with her arms crossed, tapping her foot dramatically as she waits for me. Yeah, Zoey can definitely be annoying, but I have a soft spot for her. Our friendship is one of the few uncomplicated relationships in my life. I’ve known her since I was five years old and she was three, when my father became a partner in her dad’s law firm, and there’s an ease between us, a feeling of never having to explain myself or pretend around her.

“Don’t worry, you’re not going to miss your pre-homeroom gossip-fest,” I say as I catch up to her.

“Ha, ha.” She sticks out her tongue at me before leading the way out the door. As we weave through commuters on our walk to school, it occurs to me for the millionth time how different Zoey and I look. A stranger would never think we’re sisters, or that I’m Keith and Carole’s daughter. Zoey inherited Carole’s dark hair and perpetually tanned olive skin, while her hazel eyes are the exact shade of Keith’s. I’m the fair-skinned, blue-eyed oddity. But of course, Zoey and I aren’t real sisters.

When the news came out that Mum and Dad had named their American neighbors and best friends as my guardians in their will, it sent shock waves through Wickersham. Newspapers wrote breathless stories about the duke’s granddaughter “forced to live as an American commoner!” But somehow, Mum and Dad had known that the easiest thing for me in the face of an overwhelming tragedy would be to go home—to my street, my city, my school. They placed their faith in my love for “Aunt Carole and Uncle Keith” and my friendship with Zoey. But while their will dictated that the Marinos would be my legal guardians until I turned eighteen, it stipulated that I must retain my Rockford last name. The Marinos can never adopt me.

It shames me to admit it, but I wish my parents had cut that line from their will. Because of my different last name, I’m forced to explain the grim details of my past far more often than I’d like.

“You’re pretty quiet this morning.” Zoey’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “What’s wrong? Did Mom and Dad grill you about NYU again?”

Thanks for reminding me, Zoey.

“Not since the other night, but I’ll bet you anything they’re planning to have another big talk with me about it this weekend. Is it really so weird to take a gap year? Plenty of people do it. I don’t know why it’s such a foreign concept to Keith and Carole,” I complain.

“Well, none of their friends’ kids have taken a gap year, so that’s probably why it seems weird. Besides, what will you do all day if you don’t go to school?” Zoey asks.

“I don’t know. I just don’t understand how everyone else seems to magically know where they want to go to school and what they want to study and do with their lives. Since when did seventeen become the age when we’re supposed to have it all figured out?”

“We do go to school with a lot of overachieving city kids,” Zoey points out, rolling her eyes. “Maybe if we lived somewhere else, there wouldn’t be so much, I don’t know …”

“Expectation,” I say, finishing her sentence as we wait to cross the street. “Well, thank goodness Carole and Keith have you to fulfill theirs.”

“Stop it.” Zoey gives me an affectionate shove. “They wouldn’t want you any other way.”

I don’t fully believe that, but I smile at her anyway.

“Thanks, sis.”

We turn onto Chambers Street, and the tall, redbrick building of Carnegie High comes into view, looming above the Tribeca Bridge.

“Home, sweet home,” I deadpan.

As we climb the steps to the school’s front courtyard, Zoey nudges me in the ribs.

“Look. Mark Wyatt is staring at you.”

I feel an involuntary blush creep up my cheeks. Zoey and my best friend, Lauren Fox, are convinced that Mark has a thing for me, even though I keep telling them we’re simply lab partners and friends. But lately, I’ve noticed him looking at me a certain way, and … I wonder if they might be right. I gaze across the courtyard at his lanky, soccer-player’s build, his short brown hair and twinkling blue eyes. He’s cute, sweet, and fun—I would be lucky to go out with him. So why does the idea make me more nervous than excited?

“I’ll leave you two alone,” Zoey says conspiratorially. Sure enough, once she’s out of sight, Mark heads my way.

“Hey, Imogen,” he greets me, his lips turning up in a charming smile. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I’m just about to run to history before I miss the bell.”

“I’m going in that direction too.” Mark falls into step beside me, and I give him a sideways smile. He is
so
lying. I know he has math on the other side of the building.

I let myself move an inch closer to him as we walk together through the school doors. It feels good to be just a normal teenager. Not “Imogen, whose parents are dead” or “Imogen, with the uncertain future”—just a seventeen-year-old girl who is liked by a boy.

After our last class, Lauren walks me to Ms. Forman’s office, linking her arm with mine as she fills me in on what she caught her older brother doing over the weekend.

“I only went into his room to tell him to turn down the music, because it was literally blaring through the walls.
Well.
I walked in to find two empty bottles of wine on the floor, a girl with her shirt off, and—this is the most embarrassing part—my brother was actually rapping to her. Like, drunkenly serenading her to that new Drake song.”

I burst out laughing.

“If I didn’t know Anthony so well, I’d almost call that sweet. But I do feel kinda sorry for him getting caught.”

“See what happens when you live at home after high school?” Lauren wags a finger at me. “It’s a constant state of getting busted. I keep telling Anthony he should just go live on campus, but of course he prefers our cushy apartment and Mom doing all his laundry and cooking to roughing it at the NYU dorms.”

“I never said I’d live at home,” I correct her. “I just don’t know what I’m doing yet.”

“Well, time to figure it out,” Lauren says wryly as we stop in front of the school counselor’s office. “Good luck, girl.”

“Thanks. I’ll text you later.”

Lauren gives me a hug and continues down the hall, her black curls swinging behind her. With a sigh, I knock on Ms. Forman’s door.

“Come in!”

She stands, giving me a warm smile as I enter her office. “Imogen, how
are
you today?”

I’d probably like Ms. Forman a lot more if she weren’t so darn earnest. Being a school counselor rather than an actual therapist, she’s thankfully a more relaxed version of the series of shrinks Carole and Keith sent me to after the fire—but I still wish she’d stop treating me like a delicate flower.

“I’m fine.” I sink onto the brown suede couch while Ms. Forman pulls up a chair across from me. “I filled out those career assessment thingies you gave me.”

Ms. Forman claps her hands together eagerly. “And?”

“And apparently I’m destined to be an architect. Which would make sense if it weren’t for the fact that I nearly bombed geometry last year.”

“Well …” Ms. Forman purses her lips. “Geometry is only one facet of architecture. NYU has plenty of courses that can cater to this interest of yours—”

Before she has a chance to whip out any more of her leaflets, I cut in.

“I’m not so sure it’s an interest. I’ve never even thought about architecture before. Besides, isn’t the plan for you to help convince the Marinos to let me take a gap year?”

“Imogen, really. I promised no such thing. I only said
if
I’m convinced it’s the right move, I’ll help you. But so far, I’m not.” She leans forward. “It’s not so much college that I’m focused on. There are plenty of great achievers who lack higher education, but they had talent and drive and direction. It’s my job to help you find yours.”

“Maybe I’d have a better sense of direction if I weren’t in the wrong place.”

The words tumble out of my mouth before I have a chance to think them through, before I even know what they mean.

Ms. Forman raises an eyebrow. “Why do you say that?”

I glance down at the faded carpeting. There’s no way of getting out of this one.

“I don’t know. It’s like I told you before. Sometimes I feel like I’m not where I’m supposed to be, like I’ve … left something behind.”

Ms. Forman gives me a perceptive look.

“You’ve been thinking about them more than usual lately … am I right?”

After a moment’s pause, I nod.

“Maybe it’s because their anniversary is coming up?” she suggests gently.

I flinch at the word.
Anniversary
conjures up images of celebration, not death. Catching my expression, Ms. Forman hurriedly adds, “I’m sorry, I just meant—”

“Yeah, I know,” I interrupt. Nothing gets under my skin quite like watching people feel sorry for me, and I’m anxious to change the subject, but Ms. Forman won’t let me off that easy.

“Have you talked to Carole and Keith about this?” she presses.

“No. Why would I?”

“Because they love you. They want to be there for you, to help you when you’re going through these difficult times and feelings.”

Feelings.
Another one of Ms. Forman’s favorite, overly used words.

“I know because they told me so themselves,” she says softly. “They want so much for you to let them in.”

“Haven’t I let them in enough? What do you all expect, for me to start calling them Mom and Dad?” I snap, wishing I could take back the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. I jump to my feet, suddenly desperate to get away from Ms. Forman. “Can we just … call it a day? I’m not feeling so hot, and I don’t think this is going to be all that productive a session.”