Then the waitress came.
"I'll have the citrus salad," Olivia said without looking at her. "And make sure the dressing is on the side this time. Last time it was too much."
The waitress nodded.
"And sparkling water. Not room temperature. Get it right if you want your little tip."
Your little tip.
I watched her face. She didn't blink. Didn't seem to realize she'd just spoken to another human being like she was dirt. Her friends exchanged a quick, uncomfortable glance. They'd noticed, too. Olivia turned back to the table, smiling like nothing had happened.
That was when I knew. Not just that she was fake. Not just that she was rude. But that she couldn't have written those poems.
The woman in the attic—the one who whispered about melancholy hearts and water that spoke to her—most likely had.
"So, Daniel," Olivia said, her hand sliding onto my thigh under the table, "tell me and my fiancé more about that waterfront property."
I shifted my leg, letting her hand fall away. Her smile tightened. Across the table, Daniel started talking.
Chapter 7: Chloe
I heard her before I saw her. Luckily, I was just sitting on the floor, staring into space and planning in my head. Everything I didn’t want her to see was hidden already. It had to be a bit after three in the afternoon.
The door banged open. My heart revved up—not because I was scared, but because I was scared that this might be the time I’d kick this bitch down the stairs.
“Well,” Olivia sang, her voice bright. “Look at you. Still right where you always are.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe too deeply.
"Look what I brought you, freak."
She dropped a restaurant container on the floor. It popped open. A piece of steak landed on its side—I could see the teeth marks in it. Next to it, a hunk of bread. Mashed potatoes clung to the Styrofoam. My stomach turned.
"Eat up," she sang. "Wouldn't want you to waste away before the big twenty-five hits."
She flounced around my room like she owned it. Which, in her mind, she did.
"God, this place is depressing." She picked up a cracked porcelain doll from my shelf, made a face, and dropped it. It hit the floor and shattered. She didn't apologize. Didn't even look. "I don't know how you stand it up here. Then again, I guess you don't know any better, do you?" She laughed.
I stared at the wall. Counted the seconds. One. Two. Three.
She opened my trunk—the one Mary brought years ago. It was lined with a false bottom and broken things and clothes to hide what mattered. My lungs seized, but my face showed nothing.
"Just rags," Olivia muttered, pushing clothes around. "Anyway."
She moved to my desk—the one with the loose board beneath it. Everything I owned was hiding there: my tablet, my mother's jewelry, and keepsakes. She stopped at the window.
"My future husband and I went to the club today. His name is Killian. He was supposed to marry you, but you’re not worthy." She ran her fingers along the dusty glass, leaving trails in the grime. "At the club, I introduced him to my friends. He couldn't keep his hands off me."
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. Wanted to ask if "couldn't keep his hands off you" meant the same thing it meant when I was in his bed last night.
But I was a doll. Dolls didn't speak.
"He's so handsome," Olivia continued, turning to admire herself in my cracked mirror. She fluffed her hair and smoothed her dress. "And rich. Like, disgustingly rich. Daddy says the merger will set us up for generations. Not that we’ll need it soon—Landry money already does that. But more is more, right?"
She spoke as if she had my kinfolks' blood actually running through her veins. She glanced at me, waiting for a reaction she'd never get.
"Right," she answered for herself.