Page 14 of You Were Warned: Part One

That makes me laugh hysterically; she is a walking cliché. Like all the men in that world—rich and well-bred—her husband Michael is no different, fucking his secretaries or women younger than his wife. He started hitting on me when I was sixteen. Estelle is almost five years older than me, and Mom pushed her and Michael together when they were fourteen. They have been together ever since—not that either of them had a choice. Estelle claims she is happy, which is laughable. What, happy turning a blind eye to infidelity and the fact that your husband is a pervert? I can understand why some women deal with it, at least when the men are richer and can provide them with the life they want. But Estelle is a Vanehurst—she had the lifestyle and prestige before she met Michael and became a Belgrave.

“Oh god, I could not think of anything worse than three mini Estelles running around.”

Dad laughs. “This one is a boy.”

God, that would make Mother so proud—having two girls and a boy, and Estelle now following in her footsteps.

“I can’t believe she is on her third. She has no maternal instincts whatsoever, and I see no reason to keep spawn as pets if you are paying other people to raise them.”

I’m so damn thankful our father raised us. Sure, we had nannies to keep up appearances, but he was home every night with us.

“Does she know what causes it?”

Dad laughs but doesn’t answer, he is well used to my disdain for my sister; it has been ongoing our entire lives. When she wanted to play princesses, I wanted to be the zombie and eat her brain. She hated it, and it only fueled my desire to torment her.

“Be nice,” he says finally.

“Why start now?”

“Fair. How are your spiders?”

My father is where my love of spiders came from. I was never allowed a pet as a child, and when he brought home a little cage containing my first jumping spider—little Mellow, God rest his soul—I fell in love.

“Good. Cinnamon is on a one-woman mission to escape her tank every day, so I’m thankful Nails is going to make my house escape-proof. She can’t get out of anything except her tank.”

“That’s good. I forgot to tell you—your mother saw a photograph of the island.”

“Where?”

“Some travel article.”

“I would pay money to see her step one foot on here.”

Dad laughs. “Me too.”

“You rebel,” I say to him.

“I’m becoming rebellious in my old age.”

“Next you’ll skip golf.”

He fakes a gasp as I lean against the window frame. “Let’s not get carried away. Very spooky that island.”

“That is the idea.”

“I saw a clown.”

“Which one?” I ask because clown doesn’t narrow it down, not when the vast majority of people who come here are the most scared of them.

“How many do you have?”

“No idea, depends on the day.”

“This one had bells.”

I grit my teeth. “That’s the Jester. We only have one island imbecile.”

“Hmm,” he says as I take the last sip of my coffee, which has now gone cold.