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Emma sits upright, startled. She clutches the pillow to her chest again.
“Yes, I know about your sister,” Rachel says softly. “And your mom. I never talk to anyone without googling them first. It’s the first law of reporting. Dating, too, for that matter. And Emma—I can’t imagine what it must be like to lose two people so close to you. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Emma snaps. “It really fucking sucks.” She digs her nails into the pillow. “But if you just found out about it on Google, I don’t think you really care. So don’t ask me if I want to talk about it.”
“I won’t,” Rachel says. “But would you be willing to talk more about your fears for the world? You know so much about the issues we’re facing.”
“No,” Emma stands up. “Thanks for asking. I’m glad you’re not trying to bury your head in the sand like everyone else. I’m glad you see that we’re killing ourselves and all the other species on this planet. But this is my story to tell, and I’m going to tell it on my own terms.”
CHAPTER 24
To:[email protected]
Subject:Emma Blake
Lori: Per our last convo, please prep Rose Room for Emma’s overnight stay. Have housekeeping remove computer and TV. We want her to focus on rest.
She should be in before 7 p.m. and monitored at all times.
PH
To:[email protected]
Subject:re: Emma Blake
Yes but I don’t think isolating her from the student population is wise. Can we get her some visitors? I can reach out to folks.
To:[email protected]
Subject:re: re: Emma Blake
Lori: Yes, good idea. We will have a guard too. For her safety.
PH
To:[email protected]
Subject:re: re: re: Emma Blake
Let me do it. She trusts me. As much as she seems to trust anyone, anyway.
To:[email protected]
Subject:re: re: re: re: Emma Blake
Lori: Thank you. It is of the utmost priority that we keep Emma Blake safe.
CHAPTER 25
“WAIT A SECOND. You want me to sleep here?” Emma asks, incredulous. Lori Bly, the therapist, and the school nurse have just tag-teamed her outside the dining hall and led her, protesting, straight to Pemberly Hall.
Lori lightly touches Emma’s shoulder. Emma flinches like she’s been burned. “Just for a night or two,” she says. “So you can rest.”
Emma takes a reluctant step into the room. It’s on the second floor, with two large windows looking out onto the quad. On the left is a queen-size bed with a pink comforter and six decorative pillows. Two polished bedside tables sport matching brass lamps and fake succulents. There’s a desk, an overstuffed armchair, and an antique trunk with a vase of real pink roses on top. Everything is clean, impersonal; the air smells like furniture polish.
“The poet Mark Plante stayed here last year when he came to lecture—did you see him?” Lori smiles. “Quite a few illustrious people have slept in this room, in fact.”
“But illustriousness is not whyI’mhere,” Emma says. She knows what this is: a pretty jail cell. A gilded cage. “I don’t have any of my things. What about my toothbrush and pajamas? My laptop? My homework?”