“No,” I said. “Not exactly.”
That made my mother step forward.
“Harper, who are you talking to?”
I moved out of her reach.
“Maya, I’m sending everything now.”
“Use the secure link I’m texting you. Do not edit anything. Do not delete anything. Do not warn anyone. Do not confront Sterling. And Harper?”
“Yes?”
“If what you’re saying is supported, tomorrow’s wedding may already be under observation.”
My pulse slowed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you are not the only person looking at the Sterlings.”
I looked out the kitchen window at the perfect white tent being assembled on the back lawn for the family brunch. Men in black shirts carried crates of champagne. Women arranged flowers Chloe had not paid for. My parents’ house looked like the opening scene of a magazine spread.
Inside it, I had just been violated by the people who raised me.
Outside it, a billionaire wedding was being polished for cameras.
And underneath it all, the ground was rotten.
“I understand,” I said.
Maya’s voice softened. “What happened to you?”
For one second, I could not speak.
Then I said, “They cut my hair while I was asleep.”
There was a pause.
“All right,” Maya said. “First, send the Sterling file. Second, photograph yourself immediately. Third, photograph the room, the trash, the scissors, anything with hair on it. Fourth, leave that house.”
My father stood.
“Enough,” he snapped. “Give me the phone.”
He took one step toward me.
And for the first time in my life, I did not move backward.
“Touch me,” I said, “and I will make the second call to the police from the front yard.”
He stopped.
My mother’s face drained of color.
“Harper,” she said, trying suddenly to sound maternal. “Let’s not turn this into something ugly.”
I almost laughed.
Ugly had already happened.
Ugly had hands.
Ugly had scissors.
Ugly had my father’s flashlight.
I lifted my phone and took a picture of myself right there in the kitchen.
No filter.
No angle.
No hiding.
My jagged hair. My pale face. My mother standing behind me with her arms crossed. My father frozen beside the table. The scissors on the counter.
Then I walked upstairs.
My mother followed me, hissing my name, but she did not try to stop me.
In the guest room, the damage looked worse in daylight.
Red hair covered the pillowcase in thick, curled pieces. More lay in the trash can. Some had fallen between the mattress and wall. One long lock, nearly two feet, was draped over the back of the chair like something dead.
I photographed all of it.
The hair.
The sleeping pills on the nightstand.
The glass of water.
The door.
The trash.
The uneven chunks left on my head.
Then I packed my bag.
My mother stood in the doorway with tears in her eyes now, but they were not for me. They were for the consequences finally entering the room.
“Harper, please,” she whispered. “You can’t do this today.”
I zipped my suitcase.
“That is the first true thing you’ve said all morning.”
She swallowed.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can do it tomorrow.”
I pushed past her and walked out of that house.
My father shouted after me from the porch.
