Page 87 of Disobedient Pawn

“What do you mean by car?”

“Mr. Davies has been trying to reach you. A car is waiting to take you to Thanksgiving dinner. Before you stomp your feet and refuse to go, the kitchen is closed, and the staff have all gone home to spend time with their families. You will do the same. Unless, of course, you want detention and a mark on your record.” My mouth fell open. “You have fifteen minutes, and make sure you dress nicely. Have a good evening Ms. Davies.”

I watched Dean Henry walk down the hallway. Well, that was a grade-A bully maneuver if I’d ever seen one, and way more effective than anything Vicky or Nash had pulled so far. Closing the door, I went to my dresser and rifled through the drawers trying to find something that Dean Henry would consider nice. What did that mean? Formal, semi-formal, business casual.

I finally decided to modify the outfit I had purchased with Myles. The skirt and top were a little too sexy for Thanksgiving dinner, but it would be perfect if I wore a black knit sweater.

I dressed as fast as I could and tossed my hair up with a fancy clip before putting on some eyeliner and a pair of shoes I bought to go with the ensemble. There that was as good as it was going to get. I looked good for only fifteen minutes of prep time.

Slipping my arms into my coat, I grabbed my phone and purse and walked out the door. It was strange not to hear any noise. There was no music playing or laughter filling the air. The silence was startling now that I’d grown used to the hustle and bustle of the dorm. It made me feel safe and not so alone—a stark contrast to home, when I had only my thoughts to occupy me as Mum slept.

Pushing out the large doors into the cold November air, my eyes landed on the black car, and it finally dawned on me that I would have to face my father for the first time in weeks.

Taking a deep breath, I opened the back door and found the car empty of other passengers. Figures. He couldn’t be bothered to show up himself.

“Ms. Davies,” the elderly driver said as he turned around in the front seat.

I slipped into the car and closed the door, happy to be out of the bitter wind.

“Yes, I’m Ms. Davies. You can call me Ren.”

“No can-do, Ms. Davies, but you can call me Styles,” he said, smiling, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

“Styles? That’s an interesting name.”

His warm expression was infectious, and I found myself smiling back.

“My name is Harry Styles. I’m sure you can see the resemblance. I’d hate to be mistaken for the superstar,” he said, starting the car.

I laughed as I buckled.

“Yes, I can see how that would happen.”

“Any particular music you’d like,” Styles asked as we left the academy.

“I’m good with whatever you choose. Thanks, Styles.”

He laughed again.

“Harry is fine, Ms. Davies. I’m not sure I’m cool enough to go by Styles these days.”

“I think you’re plenty cool.”

I stared out the window at the landscape passing by. A thin layer of snow coated all the trees. It snowed in the morning only to melt by midday and then fell again at night to start all over. My view of the lake was much clearer now that the leaves were gone. I wondered if it ever froze over and what was on the other side.

“You’re not like the other students I’ve driven around from Wayward,” Harry said.

“You mean I’m not an asshole,” I blurted out and Harry burst out laughing.

“Something like that. Well, settle in. We have about a half-hour drive.”

Harry turned on a local station playing a pop song, and I let myself get lost in the music. I should have been figuring out what the hell to say to my father when I saw him, so I didn’t punch him.

It would be nice to have one moment, one meal, that didn’t end in all-out war. Was he forgiven? Not even slightly, and I had a million questions. Leading with, what the hell did he do for a crime family that could’ve gotten Mum killed? Was it really random? Was the robbery and murder why he rushed us out of town? Also, why did I have such a strict curfew? How did he know where I was, and why keep sending the Sheriff after me if he couldn’t be trusted? I looked at my phone and narrowed my eyes. Was he tracking me?

I looked over my shoulder, out the back window and half expected to see the Sheriff’s car, but no one was there.

The anger began to bubble again, but it was Thanksgiving, and if there was any day of the year to put my snark aside for a few hours, it was today. I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to think of anything that wasn’t violent. I would have a nice meal and then…shove the pumpkin pie in his face if he didn’t answer my questions. That felt like a good compromise.