The Risk (Kings of Linwood Academy 3)

I check my bruise in the m

irror and find that the swelling has gone down a bit, although the deep purple looks just as harsh in the light of day. When the twins lead me downstairs for breakfast. I can’t help but tread lightly, worried about running into their parents, but as it turns out, there’s no need for concern.

We bump into their mom on the way to the kitchen. She looks like she just got back from a run, in a designer tracksuit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe combined. The guys introduce me, and if Mrs. Lauder notices that they’re each holding one of my hands as they do, she doesn’t say anything.

“Nice to meet you, Harlow.” She glances at my bruise, then tugs her gaze away and smiles, looking distracted already. She glances at Dax and Chase. “Your father and I have that party at the Masterson’s tonight. You’ll be on your own for dinner. I’ll have Cheryl cook something and leave it in the fridge.”

“Sure. Have fun.”

Dax nods, and he and Chase lead me away as their mom heads upstairs. She’s older than my mom, but she could probably pass for younger. Whatever plastic surgery she’s had is subtle but effective, peeling away the years as if they never existed.

I wonder if she’s trying to reclaim the youth she “wasted” on raising her kids—that is, if giving birth and then basically ignoring the twins could be called raising.

“Told you.” Chase grins at me as we walk into the kitchen, which is huge and full of chrome and steel appliances. “She doesn’t give a shit.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

My stomach goes tight as I glance back toward the stairs where Mrs. Lauder disappeared.

I feel a sudden need to make up for the lack of affection the twins get from their mom and dad, to make sure they know that they’re cared about. Cherished. I rise up on my tiptoes to kiss him, and he returns it hungrily before walking to one of the fridges and rifling through it.

It’s strange. Their entire interaction with their mom was actually… pleasant. There didn’t seem to be any tension or anger on either side. But they also didn’t sound like they were talking to their mom—more like they were talking to a roommate they barely know.

A painful pressure builds in my chest, and I realize what I want to do today. What I have to do.

I need to go visit my own mom.

* * *

“Oh my God, Harlow! What happened?”

I barely pick up the phone receiver in time to hear my mom’s words. She shot to her feet the second I entered, and she’s staring at the purple bruise on my head with wide eyes.

“I got into a car accident.” I lift a hand to cut her off before she can say anything else. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Is everyone else okay? What happened? Whose car was it?”

Her barrage of questions comes fast, and I bite back a smile as I realize one unexpected side benefit of my stupid car wreck is that at least it’s taking my mom’s mind off her impending trial with an incompetent lawyer as her only defender.

“No one else was hurt, it was just me. The roads were bad, and I spun out. It was… a friend’s car.”

She knows who River is, but I don’t mention his name. Dax and Chase drove me today, but they’re waiting outside like Linc used to.

“God, sweetheart.” Mom puts a hand over her chest. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did you get checked out?”

“Yep. I went to the ER, and everything’s fine.” I scoot forward on my chair, resting my elbows on the small counter that runs along the base of the window separating us. “How are you doing, Mom?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” She blinks distractedly, still staring at the bruise on my face. Then she shakes her head, seeming to clear it. “I’m sorry I was so down yesterday, Low. That’s not what you or I need right now. It’s not… going how I’d hoped it would, but we have to have faith in the system, right? I didn’t do it. So we have to trust that the truth will come out in the end.”

My heart aches as I take in her expression. After everything that’s happened, even after all the moments of fear and hopelessness, Mom still has the ability to snatch optimism out of the black sludge of life.

How the fuck could a jury ever think this woman is capable of murder?

That thought sticks in my mind, bringing back my conversation with Judge Hollowell yesterday. Should I tell her what he said? Should I follow the advice he gave?

I honestly don’t know what game he was playing. I’m guessing he let me into his house and agreed to talk to me because he wanted to try to feel out what I know, to make sure Mom’s shit-for-brains lawyer doesn’t have some amazing trump card up his sleeve.

God, I fucking wish.