Chapter Twelve - Paxton
I have to admit, seeing Cindy as a blonde has definitely had the effect she was going for. I’m not a sucker for blondes—I like girls of all flavors equally. But, Je-sus. Bombshell is the only word to describe this woman as a blonde.
Nope, her tits aren’t any bigger today than they were yesterday. In fact, she’s not even showing any cleavage right now. That dress is the perfect combination of tailored, sophisticated, and sexy without being trashy. But she is so strikingly beautiful, it’s hard not to stare.
And the color. I have to scratch my chin as I think about the coincidence of the color. We look like a couple. A powerful, beautiful, coordinated couple.
A team.
“Read it out loud,” my mother says, handing Cindy the silver envelope and card.
“Wait,” I say, putting up a hand. “She doesn’t really need to be here. I get it, you’ve got my attention.”
“What are you talking about?” Cindy asks, ready to read like she was asked.
“Paxton,” my mother says, using that feigned voice of reason I remember all too well from my childhood. “Shut up and listen for once.”
I glare at her.
She glares back.
Do I not intimidate anyone anymore? There was a time when—
“‘You are cordially invited,’” Cindy starts. She squints her eyes. “Some of the lettering has worn off.”
“Let me see,” I say, making a swipe for the card.
Cindy slaps my hand. “You can’t see it any better than me. Just give me a second.”
I look at my mother and roll my eyes. She indulges me with half a smile. “It’s old, Paxton. The engraving has worn thin. Be calm.”
Be calm.
I take a deep breath just as Cindy continues.
“‘You are cordially invited to Pledge’—that’s a capital letter. Not sure if it’s important or not, but…” Cindy looks at me. “Just giving you the facts. ‘To Pledge Silver.’ Also capitalized.” She stops and frowns. “I don’t get it. What’s Pledge Silver?”
“Sounds like a furniture polish,” I say.
“Right?” Cindy laughs. Her whole face is different with the new hair. Fresh, and innocent, and fair. She’s not wearing the dark eye makeup today either. In fact, I’m sure she’s wearing makeup, but it’s hard to tell. She looks… natural.
“Are the two of you in kindergarten?” my mother quips. “This is very serious and you won’t be laughing when we get to the end of this day, I’ll tell you that right now.”
I want to share another smile, but Cindy goes back to reading, properly chastised.
“‘The Event’—what’s with the capital letters?” Cindy looks at my mother for an explanation. “It’s important, right? They are proper nouns?”
“Cynthia,” my mother says, getting her name wrong—on purpose, I can only assume—having a hard time with the Disney aspect of it. “We will discuss the hidden meanings once you finish. If,” she stresses, “you can manage that?”
I wait for Cinderella to correct her about her name, but she doesn’t. She takes in a silent, but deep, breath, and keeps going.
“‘The Event will start the Game of your life. You will pledge allegiance to the party, place your pieces on the board, and take your chances with your partner as you storm the world with your prowess.’” Cindy frowns. “I think they overdid it with the P words.”
“They can be dramatic, I agree. Keep going,” my mother says.
“The rest is just dates and times. The thirty-first of October.” Cindy frowns again. “Halloween. Weird. At midnight. Creepy.” She stops reading and hands me the card. “There’s no year, but that card looks… vintage.”
I look it over, but that’s it. That’s all that’s on it. “What is this?” I hold it up and look at my mother.
“An invitation, of course.”
“To what? Some fraternity?”
“No,” Cindy says. “Some kind of Skull and Bones stuff, right?”
“Secret society?”
My mother remains silent as we work through things.
“It’s meant to like… scare people,” Cindy says. “Or make them feel special, right?”
My mother absorbs our guesses and expectant looks, folds her hands on the dirty desk, unmindful of the dust all around her. “Something like that. Yes.”
“It’s yours?”
She shrugs in my direction, noncommittal. “No, not really mine.”
“Well, where did you get it?” I feel a headache coming.
“A friend.”
“Mother,” I say, anger and fatigue getting the best of me. “What the fuck is going on? And don’t”—I point at her getting ready to point at me—“scold me about language. Weird shit is happening again. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I roll my eyes in the direction of Cindy, just to make sure she knows not to say anything too specific in front of her. But my mother waves her hand at me, like she’s unconcerned.
“This is why I’ve called you both here today.”
“Both? What are you talking about? Cindy has nothing to do with this.”
“Perhaps,” my mother says, smiling at the beautiful girl who just happened to drop into my life. “We can always hope, anyway. Can’t we?”
Cindy’s eyes go big. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, dear. You wouldn’t.”
I want to ask so many questions, but I know my mother better than anyone. She’s being cryptic, and when she gets in one of those cryptic moods, there’s no getting her to say more than she feels necessary. So instead, I huff out a long breath of air and sit in the chair next to Cindy, resigned to the fact that Mariel Hawthorne is in charge here.
“The letter came from the Silver Society. Have either of you… heard of it?”
“No,” I say, my patience just about done. “But I’ve certainly seen those envelopes before.”
“And the invitation?” my mother asks, cocking one eyebrow at me.
“No.” I shrug. “It wasn’t an invitation.”
“What was it?”
I have never told her this. Never told anyone this. Nolan got a glimpse of my evidence back in his house on Martha’s Vineyard, but it was only a glimpse. He has no clue what I was up to that night back in college.
“Was it a game, Paxton?”
How to explain to your mother that you were playing that game, that night? And how to explain that the two cannot possibly be related, even though they must be? They must be related. Silver envelopes have followed me my whole life. I asked Perfect about it just yesterday, while all that shit on Martha’s Vineyard was being wrapped up. He denied having seen any silver envelopes. But he called me back later last night and told me about the scavenger hunt he sent Ellie on. He used silver envelopes. Did that count?
Hell the fuck yes, it counts. Why the fuck would he use silver envelopes?
He didn’t have an answer. Said they were nice. Sophisticated and elegant.
And then Nolan. I asked him too. And he said he sees them everywhere. Even back in school, he said he got an invitation to a party but he threw it away and never went.
Was this his invitation?
I get up so fast, my chair scrapes across the dusty barn wood floor. “I need to call Delaney.”
“No, you do not, Paxton.” My mother is calm and cool. Unfazed. Collected. “Whatever is going on with him is not related to you.”
“He said he got an invitation back in school and it came in a silver envelope.”
“Nothing,” my mother repeats, “to do with you. And you haven’t answered my question. In what capacity did you use—or see—silver envelopes back in school?”
“I’ve never seen one,” Cindy says. “Do I need to be here for this? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“I’ll deal with you later, Cynthia.” Cindy winces at the name. “But for now, please be still and let Paxton answer.”
I exhale again. Long and loud. “It was a game. I was playing a game that night.”
“This game have a name?” my mother asks.
Cindy shifts uncomfortably in her seat. When I look over at her, she bites her lip.
“Ransom,” I say. “It was called Ransom.”
“Were you playing with that girl?”
I nod. Slowly. Guiltily. “I was.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing she didn’t ask me to do.”
“Was anyone else playing?”
I nod.
“The other Misters?” Cindy asks, leaning forward in her chair.
I shake my head.
“Who?” my mother demands.
“The other girls from some new house. First-years, I think. I don’t remember their name.”
My mother takes out her phone, taps the screen, studies it. “Kappa Delta?”
“No.”
“Alpha Chi Omega?”
“No,” I say. “I told you, they were new. They weren’t Greek.”
It’s my mother’s turn to let out a long breath of air. “Well,” she says softly. “OK. I don’t know who they could be then. How did the game end?”
“With me in jail, obviously.” So pissed off. I look over at Cindy. She won’t even meet my eyes.
“No, Paxton. You didn’t go to jail that night. How did that night end?”
“I don’t know, with… fuck. I don’t really remember. It’s been ten years and it’s all kind of a blur these days. I just remember waking up with people shouting at me. Jesus fuck, who cares? The only thing that mattered was I ended up in jail.”
“You don’t think your little game had anything to do with those charges?”
“Do you?” She stares at me with that cold, hard look I remember growing up. “Yeah, of course I think it’s related. How the fuck could it not be related? It was called Ransom, for fuck’s sake.”
“Language, Paxton,” my mother practically growls.
“Did you kidnap her?” Cindy asks.
“Stay out of this,” I say, irritated.
“Sorry,” Cindy says, putting both hands up like she’s surrendering.
“Did you kidnap her, Paxton?” my mother asks, her question devoid of emotion.
“It’s called Ransom. So yeah, I fucking took her. Like I was supposed to.”
“What did you do with her?” Cindy again.
Jesus fuck. “Does she really need to be here?”
“She really does. What did you do with that girl, Paxton?”
“I fucked her. OK? I tied her up, made my ransom demand, and then we fucked. We laughed and we fucked. I didn’t even know Perfect had taken her out that night. I didn’t know anything about what Romantic was doing with her. I didn’t know shit, other than I was playing the game.”
Long, loud exhale from both women as they sink back into their seats.
“Did you use a silver envelope?” my mother asks. “For this ransom demand?”
I feel very guilty right now. Very. Fucking. Guilty. “It was part of the game. They sent me the envelope and the card. They said make the ransom demand by cutting out letters from magazines. So I did. It was a game.” They both stare at me. “I didn’t rape her.”