Daybreak (Sorrowsong University, #2) — Chapter no 11

Chapter 11

ALEX

I’ve never been a violent person, despite my father’s best efforts.

He tried to make me as angry at the world as he was, tried to make me turn my own self-hatred into little bullets to fire at others, but it’s not really my style.

And yet, here I am, approximately two seconds away from putting my fist through my laptop screen.

I don’t understand how, in this day and age, in this era of technology, of CCTV and electronic banking and border controls, my father can have been completely untraceable for two months.

We were homing in, we thought, we had two possible sightings and a blurry CCTV of someone checking into a cheap bed and breakfast in Boston, not New York, with fake documentation. But no. Neither turned out to be enough to determine whether it was him or not, and investigators found the bed and breakfast room empty, the fees paid in cash.

And now it’s been six days since we’ve had anything at all, widening our search once more to the entire fucking globe.

I shouldn’t be surprised. My father may be a nasty piece of work, but he’s a clever one, a resourceful one, a wealthy one—frozen bank accounts or not. All he’d need to do is pawn off a couple of his rarest Breitlings and he’d be able to pay his way out of anything.

“This is such bullshit,” I say, leaning back in my office chair. “Such a load of shit.”

Mack rubs his stubble, shakily holding his phone in a car somewhere in Massachusetts. The FBI agent heading the case rubs her forehead. “We’re going to get him.”

She’s said that on every phone call since early January, as has Mack.

Each time they do, there’s a little less belief in the words.

“What about the lead you had with Gerry Suarez?” One of my father’s slimy buddies moved a private jet from New York to Boston two days ago, seemingly for no reason at all.

“The jet hasn’t moved. They might know we’re onto that trail. I’d guess they’re holding their breath somewhere at the moment, but they’ll have to surface.”

I watch the time hit 2 p.m. in the corner of my screen. I’m going to be late to a hospital visit with my mother. She was admitted a few days ago, after one hell of an episode. The psychosis and the delusions we’re getting better at managing, but it’s the lack of eating, the painkillers, the pills, the side effects that have her shrinking into an unrecognizable woman.

Years of being picked at, poked at, told to be thinner. Catwalks and drug addiction and a son that appeared in her life earlier than she’d ever planned.

A husband who let her down at every turn, six daughters in his desperate

hope for a second son, a better son.

Maybe if I wasn’t so— “Alex? You with us?”

I scrub a hand over my mouth, steadying my breath. “I have to go. The next time we speak, you better have something more useful to tell me.”

I cut off their yes, sirs by slamming my laptop lid shut, my mood sinking lower than I ever thought it could go.

Why am I in the office on a Saturday?

Depression may be a mental illness, but days like today it feels physical.

Like it’s tied heavy weights to my limbs, dulled the nerve endings in my brain, shrunk my rib cage so it’s just a little too restrictive for my lungs.

But I have my mother’s appointment today, and spaghetti night with the girls tomorrow, so I know I have to survive the next two days at least. Then I’ll reassess.

I’ve never been a particularly anxious person, but I’m a nervous wreck as I make my way through the streets of lower Manhattan, sidewalks glossy with rain. I’ve never been religious, either, but I still find myself begging someone, anyone who is listening, to let my mother’s days get easier.

I’m running late, but I’m also about to fall asleep standing up, so I swing into the café beside the hospital, hoping my sunglasses are enough to

not have someone’s phone pointed in my face and photos online by the time I pick up my order.

I bring up my emails and wait, staring at the long stream of unsent drafts

to Ophelia.

I’ve got it bad.

A disturbance distracts my attention: a hooded figure shoving his way out the door.

He’s tall. My height. Lean and athletic, and when his head turns to the side for just a second, I catch a glimpse of graying blond hair and holy, shit, it’s him.

Discretion long abandoned, I push past the line of people waiting to order, flying out the doors and onto the street outside. It’s Saturday afternoon in Manhattan; the streets are busy, faces obscured by umbrellas. I look left, right, left again, scanning over what feels like an endless sea of people.

I spot the figure hurrying across a crosswalk and make a run for it, barging through groups of tourists and shoppers, and it all comes to the surface, the anger, the disgust, the bitter hatred. I clamp a palm onto his shoulder, forcing him to face me, forcing him to look me in the eyes when I

—

Fuck.

It’s not my father.

He has blue eyes and an eastern European accent. His hair isn’t really graying at all. “What the fuck, man?”

Back to square one. I open my mouth to reply as horns sound from the waiting traffic, but I have nothing to say. He yanks himself away from me, disappearing into the busy street and leaving me and my thundering heart in the middle of the road.

I’M STILL SHAKEN when I reach the hospital, but I force my panic into a box for my mother’s sake. She’s sitting up in bed and looks brighter than she did a few days ago, and the relief must be visible on my face because she rolls her eyes at me. “You saw me last night, Alex.”

“I know, it’s just good to see you.”

I take the seat beside the bed, letting her hand rest in mine while both the doctors talk to me about how she’s doing, and about the new

antipsychotics they’re trialing. And though my mother and I promised ourselves we’d stop getting our hopes up a long time ago, it does all sound positive.

A dangerous little seed of hope plants itself in one of the holes in my heart.

I watch my mother complete some simple exercises, sorting blocks into color groups and some memory tests. She swallows her pills and rests back on the pillows, squeezing my hand. “How is Ophelia?”

The doctors leave us to it, happy that my mother can continue her recovery from home after dinnertime. “She’s … good, I think. I don’t know.

She’s gone silent on me. I guess I haven’t exactly given her the impression of a reliable boyfriend these past few months.”

I’m trying to convince Ophelia not to give up on love, to give us a chance. I FaceTime her in the evenings, read too far into every little word she says, get my hopes up every time she laughs.

My heart builds castles out of the little crumbs she leaves me, spins whole futures out of the smallest of smiles. I bend and shape the things she says into what I want to hear, because a future without her feels unmanageable.

Mom shakily picks up one of the raspberries I brought for her. “Oh no.

Silence means she’s overthinking.”

“Ophelia is always overthinking.”

“Better than underthinking. Your father is an underthinker.”

I grin down at her. “That man hasn’t had a solid thought in years.”

Then we’re both laughing at a situation we really shouldn’t be laughing at, exchanging increasingly creative insults for my father.

My phone lights up with a FaceTime call from Vincenzo.

“Pick up. I don’t mind.”

His face fills the screen, complete with a shit-eating grin. He’s up to something. He’s in his Sorrowsong rugby jersey, a heavy black sky hanging low over his head.

I miss rugby. I only started it because Vincenzo asked me to, but now I find myself wanting to get back to it. He peers in closer. “Where are you?”

I pan the camera around the room, and my mom gives Vincenzo a little wave.

“Woah,” he says, when I turn the camera back around so he can see us.

“Is that … surely it can’t be … is that the most beautiful woman in the world?”

“That’s my mother, you dick,” I say, but Maman is laughing. Her cheeks are pink, like Vincenzo might have just made her whole month.

His chest shakes with laughter, enjoying riling me up. “How’s it going, Elise?”

“Apparently, I’m doing good. You look suspicious.”

“It’s because I have some information Alex is really going to want.”

I tilt the phone back to me, mind racing. “What?”

“What’s in it for me?”

“What is it about?”

“A certain ginger girl.”

“Tell me.”

“Fine, but you have to put in a good word about me to Colette, okay?

She’s still not sold on us.”

Terrible idea, but I nod. I’d probably give him my left ball for a snippet of information on Ophelia if he wanted it. “Deal.”

“She’s in London on a girls’ weekend with Colette, and she’s doing that naked modeling thing at an art class tomorrow night,” he says, practically hopping from foot to foot with excitement.

The sounds of a busy ward outside slow to a dull ringing in my ears.

“She’s what?”

“Colette rang me, absolutely wasted, last night and told me all about it.

It’s called life drawing, apparently.”

“I know what fucking life drawing is,” I snap, knuckles white around the phone. “Where is the class? What time?”

Vincenzo howls with laughter. “I knew you’d lose your shit over this.

Just friends, my ass.”

“I’m not losing my shit over it,” I grit out. I am absolutely, categorically, most definitely losing my shit over this, for no good reason. Ophelia is an adult. She can try new things. I’ve sketched from a live model several times. I know better than anyone that there’s nothing sexual about it.

Yet, the idea of a room full of people looking at her, taking note of the small intricacies of her body, the soft smattering of stretch marks on her

outer thighs, the gentle dip of her hips … it’s turning me into a different man. A jealous man. An unreasonable man.

It’s so unlike her. In fact, I’d say it sounds like her worst nightmare.

“Tell me where it is, Vincenzo.”

He strokes his chin. “Elise, what do you reckon? Are they just friends?”

My traitorous mother hums beside me, tone so sarcastic that it’s very obvious where Fleur gets it from. “I’m not sure, Vincenzo, it’s just so hard to tell.”

I’m one second away from raising my voice—which I never do—when a link pings through from Vincenzo at the top of my screen, saving his life.

“Gotta go,” I say, hanging up.

“I knew it.”

“Don’t you start,” I say, to my very smug mother, opening up the link to the event. “I’m just … making sure she’s not made a mistake is all. Looking after her.”

“Is that what you kids call it nowadays?”

I grind my teeth, staring down at the event description. It’s tomorrow night in Camden. I’d barely get there in time.

I shut my eyes, trying to be rational.

There is absolutely zero reason for me to fly to London. Or intervene.

Or even be bothered about this.

A soft hand lands on mine. It’s a hand I know better than my own. It has rested on top of my fingers at every twist and turn of my life. When my vision has blurred from tears, when life has felt unlivable, when I’ve bled at the hands of my father, when nightmares rocked my sleep as a child. “You should go, Alex.”

I pull my hand away and let my head drop to the crook of my elbows, fingers interlacing behind my head. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Your brain deprives you of the best things in life.”

“I won’t be able to make her happy. She wants someone present, not someone like me.”

“Who wins the Super Bowl next year? I’ll put a bet on them.”

“What?”

“Tell me who’ll win the Super Bowl, since you seem so confident you

can predict the future?”

“Maman.”

“No, Alex. I’m sane enough to know she’s right for you. You’re depriving yourself of a chance at something beautiful because there’s a possibility it won’t work. And all the while, you’re always asking me to try new pills even though we both know the odds are stacked against me.”

Fuck. She’s right. I’m not setting a good example for her. “I’m scared,” I whisper, finally admitting it out loud. “Scared I’ll lose her all over again, scared I won’t recover from it.”

“Love is maddening, Alex. It’s sickening, frightening, embarrassing, depressing. It turns us into the people we swore we’d never be. When I first held you in my arms, I felt terrified. I felt like my heart was walking outside of my body, and I’d have to send that heart to school, to football practice, to Vincenzo’s house, and trust it would come home to me safely. If you’re not absolutely terrified, you’re not doing it right.”

“But we’d have to be long distance, and if she gets hurt and I’m not able to get to her, I’ll lose my mind.”

“You haven’t proved to her that you can manage long distance very well. She’s probably worried you’ll run if something bad comes up again.

You need to win her over. We want you to be happy. We want you to choose yourself, to go to her. You don’t have to drop everything and run to us all the time. We have staff to help.”

Her fingers tangle in my hair, and oh God, I can’t imagine how I’ll survive my mother’s death when it comes.

“Back in five,” I grumble, through the stinging behind my eyes, leaving my mother’s triumphant smile behind to step into the hallway.

“If I had any updates, I’d have called you,” Brendan grunts, picking up

on the first ring.

“I need a favor.”

“Is it legal?”

“No, probably not.”

“Color me intrigued. Is it a hacking job?”

“There’s an event in London that’s sold out. I want everyone’s tickets refunded, canceled, then I want all the tickets for myself.”

“How big are we talking? If this is a concert, you’ll never get away with it.”

“It’s small. It’s … Ophelia is … don’t worry about what it is, I’m sending you a link now.”

He’s silent on the other end of the line, but I can imagine him shoving his too-thick glasses up his nose, leaning in.

He hums cheerfully. “Man, this is a shit website. Yeah, easy enough.”

“Thanks. Bill me for it now.”

“On the house.”

“Not your usual style.”

“Yeah, but you need a girlfriend, and I’m a hopeless romantic.”

This is news to me. I don’t think he’s ever been on a date in his life.

“Are you?”

“Nah. Just sick of your shitty moods. I’ll text you when it’s done. Bye.”

The line drops before I can say goodbye. I text my team to tell them I’ll be in London for a couple of nights, then call the housekeeper, nannies, and security team, too.

My mother is asleep when I get back to the room, and she looks so peaceful that I don’t dare wake her. I text the sibling group chat.

Alex I’m heading to London overnight tonight. I’ll be back as soon as possible. Ingrid, Erin, and Emily will all be with you, and the security guys, obviously.

Evie What’s in London?

Mia Does it rhyme with schmophelia?

Élé WE KNEW IT!!!

Mia CEO of an airline and he’s completely in shambles over a girl

Evie loool so true

Fleur Are we talking about the girl who put so much shit about us into a news article? Don’t you guys care about that?

My stomach sinks. Fleur couldn’t be any less approving of Ophelia.

Mia

Hey, if Ophelia’s article is what it took to finally get Dad to fuck off, I’ll take it.

Evie Agreed

Alex Watch your language in group chats. M. Élé is twelve.

Élé I know WAY worse words than fuck

Fantastic.

Alex Bringing Mom home in a couple hours. She’d love to see you all.

I lean back in the uncomfortable chair, book myself a flight for late

tonight, and attempt to pull together some kind of speech to give to Ophelia.

My mom’s words have batted away the fog of doubt that’s kept me holding back. Ophelia is mine. She’s mine in a way that has made me start to believe in fate. In a way that makes me think that maybe, just maybe,

there’s a brighter future laid out for me that runs alongside the darker one.

I have a strong feeling I’m at the crossroads where I choose one.

I call Ophelia, but it goes to voicemail, so I fire off a shameless sixth

unanswered text.

Alex Call me

Finally, I get a reply.

Ophelia We should talk, but I’m not ready for it yet. I’m at a Colette with bar and Eike.

Ophelia Hahaha

Ophelia I meant I’m at a bar

Ophelia With Colette

Ophelia And Eike

No, no, no.

Alex Call me, sweetheart.

Ophelia Does this hurt your heart more than it feels good?

Alex Call me.

Ophelia We’re doomed, Alex

My sweet, lonely, pessimistic, drunk girl. I want to be the reason she learns to have faith in the world again. I feel like I’ve turned a corner. Like we can be together and figure out the distance and the baggage later.

Alex We’re fated, Ophelia.

Ophelia Fated for dooooom.

Alex Fated for an old dusty cottage, where I can watch you do crosswords until your hair turns white.

Ophelia There aren’t cottages in New York City

Alex Who said anything about New York?

Ophelia I’ll call you on Monday when I’m back at Sorrowsong, ok????

I pack my mother’s things into a bag, wondering why, after a life in a

house with seven women, I’m no closer to understanding what goes on inside their heads.