chapter one
Elle,
I miss you already. Deep down, she does too. Just so you know: I’m not mad. I understand why you had to leave. It sucks here without you, though. The same photographers are camped outside for the millionth day in a row. Every time I leave the apartment, they’re in my face, snapping my picture, asking ridiculous questions. I feel like the worst kind of celebrity. How’s this for a tabloid caption: Shamed Celebutantes: They’re Just Like Us! (Too soon?)
Love you for infinity,
A
I’ve crossed nine state lines before I admit the truth: I will never be able to escape. Not really. I can trade my concrete jungle for white sandy beaches; can swap honking cabs for crashing waves. I can cut and dye my hair. Change my name. But the memories are the part of me that I will never be able to shed. And the part I most want to.
Guilt writhes at my core as I read Aria’s Email on my cell one last time, then tuck the phone into the Camry’s cup holder, next to my 4th Starbucks cup in a few hours. The rest of the car is stuffed with silky scraps of the life I left behind: Stella McCartney, Alice & Olivia, Theory. And then there are the real things: the last paperback my father slipped under my pillow. My running shoes. The silver monogrammed money clip my mother gave me. A framed picture of Aria and me, goofing around on the steps of the Met when we were kids. I’m giving her bunny ears.
The car shudders in protest, reminding me to focus on the road. I’m shocked that the Craigslist wheels I bought just a few days ago for less than a grand, cash, have gotten me this far. Just a few more miles, I plead silently. I press my bare foot into the accelerator. Fueled mostly by my desperation, the car surges onto the causeway, crossing Biscayne Bay.
The bay is the fake kind of turquoise you see in movies. The sun sets in my rearview, syrupy splashes of pink and red and orange dripping into the water. It’s beautiful here, a different kind of beauty than the gritty, glistening façade of Manhattan. I don’t deserve this kind of beauty. Not after what I’ve done.
From behind new tortoiseshell glasses, I blink back tears. Rake my fingers through the auburn layers that have replaced my signature blonde waves. I didn’t have a choice, did I? I told the truth! I told the truth, and now my family is ruined. My father trapped behind bars. My sister a prisoner in our home, at least until she leaves for college. My mother so depressed she can hardly get out of bed. So furious, she hasn’t spoken to me since the trial.
“Get it together, Elliot.” I shake my head, hoping to clear the clutter in my brain. No luck.
On the other side of the bay, I veer north, winding through Miami Beach. Too soon, I’m approaching the bridge to La Gorce Island, one of Miami’s most exclusive communities. Caffeine and adrenaline surge through me, and I have the sudden, frantic urge to throw the car into reverse. What was I thinking, accepting a job 1300 miles away from the only home I’ve ever known? What if I can’t do this?
I reach the small bridge that stretches across the water to the island and stop at the guard station on the other side.
“Name?” The female guard’s voice is muffled outside my window. I fumble around for the power window switch and find a manual handle instead. It takes about twenty seconds and some serious bicep to lower the window an inch. Warm, salty air floods the car.
“Um, Sloane?” I shout, tilting my lips toward the crack. “Sorry, I can’t—Elle Sloane?” My voice lilts in a question, as if I don’t even know who I am. It’s not far from the truth.
The woman’s gaze slides dubiously across the dirty, dented car. I don’t blame her.
“I’m here to see Dr. Goodwin.” My cheeks grow hot. “For the Allford Academy reception?”
She narrows her eyes and consults the clipboard in her hand. “Sloane, Elle. Here you are.” She doesn’t hide her disdain. “Straight ahead, miss. Take the first exit after the roundabout. Dr. Goodwin is at the end of the street.”
“Thanks.” I don’t bother trying to roll up the window. The car bucks forward onto a narrow lane that’s lined with palm trees. The homes here are set far from the road, shielded by ornate wrought iron gates and endless emerald lawns. The lawns are edged with floppy green leaves and punch-colored flowers. Hibiscus, I think. The homes are stucco mansions with red tile roofs; modern, pristine glass rectangles; imposing stone castles. Money looks different here than it did in New York.
At the end of the street, symmetrical bunches of palm trees flank a long private driveway that is lined with flickering luminaries. I crane my neck. Dr. Goodwin’s home is one of the Spanish-style castles: creamy stucco, tile roof. Lighted fountain in the center of a circular drive. Shiny black luxury cars inch in a distinguished parade around the fountain.