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SIX

FREYA

Today, it didn’t rain. At least the sky was generous enough to allow me some sunlight.

Grandma spent the entire morning on the phone, her low voice echoing through the house, talking about something to do with Paisley. Even though she was there, the loneliness clung to me like it always did.

Wrapped in a gray blanket, I sat in the garden, clutching the chamomile tea she had made earlier. She hoped that would calm me, but it didn’t. My stomach was still twisted in knots, and all I could think of was that evil maple leaves smiley face he left for me to find.

My mother hadn’t called. I didn’t know if she was aware of what had happened last night or if she was intentionally ignoring it, possibly thinking that somehow I was alive.

I pulled the blanket further toward me, my gaze intently upon the same maple where I’d last seen him. My stalker.

The word made me shudder. Tears welled up at the back of my eyes, causing them to blur as I looked intently, willing him to disappear if only I looked hard enough.

I hated the fact that a stranger who followed me home through the night could care about me more than my own mother. And the police officers who questioned me last night expressed more concern than my grandmother. I wished that I could go back to the bookstore, get caught up in a new novel, and be transported to a life that was not my own. But Grandma wouldn’t let me leave. And to be honest, I didn’t want to be alone in the town either.

I was trapped, caught between what if, what could be, and what was—this was suffocating me. The worst kind of suffocation.

A sniff slipped from me as the chill nipped at my nose. The blanket was useless from the cold, but the cold didn’t hit me quite as hard as the silence. I missed the constant rumble of New York, where silence was a stranger that didn’t belong.

My therapist told me that I used the chaos to hide behind problems because I was raised within chaos. She knew that my family was broken, that I was somehow fixable. But she couldn’t fix me. And maybe the hardest part was that I still wanted to be fixed. That I still held on to the foolish hope that my mind was going to be stitched back together.

My teeth clamped down on my lower lip, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands until the biting pain came. I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. The pain grounded me.

A loud noise behind me. Footsteps.

The noise brushed my thoughts away, making my body tense, pulse spiking. And as I spun around, heart hammering, grandma raised her hands in surrender.

“It’s okay. It’s just me.”

I exhaled.

It’s just her.

“Do you need more tea?” she asked, nodding toward my untouched cup.

I looked down, barely noticing the mug was full. Shaking my head, I swallowed past the lump in my throat. My heart was still recovering from the jump scare.

“Would you be okay staying here for an hour?” she asked. “I have to go to Paisley to deal with something.”

I hesitated, then forced a nod.

It’s broad daylight. I should be fine. Right?

“Okay,” she said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around me.“I won’t let anything happen to you, Freya. You know that, right?”

My throat tightened. “I know.”

I just wished I could believe it.

“Okay.” Grandma sniffled, swiping a finger under her nose.

I nodded, watching her head back inside.

The next sound was the clinking of keys, the click of the closing door, then the rumble of the car fading away. I stayed there for a moment and made my way back inside, leaving my untouched tea behind in the garden.

Upstairs, my body ached to be back in the bed, wrapped in sheets. I wanted to sink into the mattress, watch a movie, and pretend the world didn’t exist. But the closer I approached the door to my bedroom, something caught my eye.

The door to the room next to mine was open. Not that wide, but just wide enough to unbalance me.

The door of that room was always locked. For as long as I remember, no matter how hard I worked throughout childhood, I never could open it. But now, seeing it open, I just had to get in.

My hand came to the doorknob. I hesitated for half a second before opening it.

The room swallowed me whole.

The walls were painted a rich purple and covered in faded Buffy the Vampire Slayer posters. It was the polar opposite to the rest of the house, where the entire place was spotless white. This room just happened to be locked in time. Why?

My grandmother was obsessive about keeping things tidy. And she’d let this room be left the way it was. Why would she do that?

The room was a mess; old, dirty clothes were just thrown on the bed. Shirts hung off the chair, inches away from an old desk. On it was an old white-box computer with Powerpuff Girls stickers at the edges of plastic that were chipping off.

The atmosphere shifted, sending shivers down my spine. I could see the breath coming out of my mouth, wisps of fog curling in the light. The cold seeped through to the bones within me until I stepped forward. And then, as soon as it began, the chill was gone. Like a wind that was never there. I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears.

I swallowed to force myself to focus back on the room.

The bed was made, and on it was a neat stack of black envelopes.

I slowly scanned the room around, trying to make sense of it. I know that the room was not my mom’s. That was certain. But there was someone else. Had to be.

On the wall hung a group of old photographs carefully arranged together like a mosaic of memories in the shape of a heart. A girl in the photograph stared back at me.

Long black hair. Blue eyes. A perfect, almost haunting smile.

I stepped closer. My fingertips grazed one of the photos, tracing the initials written just beneath it—A.R.

Who are you?

A sharp chill ran down my spine. I turned back to the bed, my eyes falling onto the envelopes. On top, in elegant gold letters, was written my name— Freya Sinclaire.

My hands started to shake as I tried to reach for the top envelope. The paper was smooth, almost silky beneath my fingers, and carefully, I flipped it over.

A red wax seal stared back at me.

I hesitated. Then, with a quick breath, I peeled it open.

My eyes scanned the first line of the letter.

And then—I started to read.

“Dear Miss Sinclaire,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as one of the top five students of the Class of 2017 at Blackthorn Academy of Verity and Vision. Your academic excellence, particularly in mathematics and English history, has marked you as a student of immense potential.

We believe you can thrive and surpass expectations within our institution.

Classes will start on September 23rd, and upon your arrival at Blackthorn on September 21st, you will be placed into a House, chosen for you during the Welcoming Ceremony that evening.

The train to Glascoe, High Scotland Lands, departs at 9 a.m. on the 21st. A ticket has been issued under your name—failure to board will be taken as a formal decline of your acceptance.

Your housing and academic materials have been provided in full. Courtesy of your scholarship, granted in recognition of your bloodline’s contribution as one of the Academy’s co-founders.

Freya, we expect great things from you. We believe in you.

It’s time you believe in yourself, too.

Dean of Blackthorn Academy, Lord Jack Blackthorn.”

The sheet of paper trembled faintly in my hand. My lungs contracted; the air was trapped halfway between gasp and breath.

This was real.

There was something that was waiting for me that I was meant to be a part of, and my grandmother had kept it from me.

I placed the letter carefully on the bed but was already reaching for the rest. There were twenty-six envelopes lined up in rows. Twenty-six letters. And she meant to keep them hidden.

My fingers trailed through the pile to one that was intended for my mother.

Was she part of it, too? Did she know?

I know she had been keeping secrets. But secrets big enough to break us apart?

I clutched the envelopes tightly in my hands and turned toward the door. I stepped into the hallway, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

It was time to find out the truth.

It was time to believe in myself.

An hour had passed.

The low hum of an approaching engine crawled into my ears before I heard the car come to a stop outside the house. My fingers tightened around the stack of letters. My heart pounded against my ribs, but I forced myself to move, stepping downstairs until I reached the first step and stopped.

The front door creaks open.

“I’m home,” she said with a weak smile. But the smile vanished the moment she saw me, eyes locking intently on the envelopes that I was clutching in my fists.

“Where did you find them?“ she insisted, drawing nearer. Her voice was firm, but there was a tremor underlying. “Freya?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Why did you keep them from me?” My voice was quiet, but the weight of my words hung between us like a blade. “Did you know what was inside?”

She hesitated. Her eyes dropped to the floor as if searching for an answer in the worn wooden planks beneath her feet would save her. Then, slowly, she met my eyes again.

“I knew,” she whispered. “I’ve always known, and I...”

“Nana,” I cut her off, my voice rising, “there’s something good for me out there, and you kept it from me!”

Her breath hitched. “Blackthorn is far from good, Freya,” she said, her voice raw, shaking.

I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I guess I’ll never know, huh?” My fingers curled around the letters, the edges biting into my skin. “What about me? What I want?”

“Don’t be selfish,” she raised her voice, taking another step toward me. “You don’t need this.”

“Selfish?” My voice cracked. My chest burned. “I’ve never been selfish! My whole damn life, I’ve done everything I was told, gone where I was supposed to, been who I was expected to be. But when has anyone ever asked me what I wanted? What did I need? Where I wanted to go?”

She reached for my hand, but I flinched, taking a step back.

“No.” My breath came faster now, my vision blurring with unshed tears. “No one has ever chosen me.” My voice broke; the letters trembled in my hands. “Maybe it’s time I choose for myself.”

She shook her head. “Blackthorn is not the place for you,” she warned, her voice almost desperate. “It will break you down, Freya. And you will be alone.”

A silent tear slipped down my cheek. I clenched my jaw, my hands pressing against my legs, the edges of the envelopes cutting through the fabric of my pants.

“I’m already alone,” I whispered. “I’m already broken.”

She sucked in a breath, her hands trembling at her sides.

“I lost too many people to Blackthorn.” Her voice cracked. “I can’t lose you, too.”

“You will lose me if you don’t let me go.”

“Freya,” she whispered, her hand covering her mouth as if she could swallow the words I just said. “Please.”

I turned away from her.

“The train leaves at 9 a.m. in three days,” I said over my shoulder. “And I will be on that train.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

Maybe I was.

Maybe this choice would lead me down a path of regret. But I would rather make a mistake than spend the rest of my life wondering what if .

I took the stairs, one step at a time, never looking back. Some mistakes are just meant to take us to the right place.