Now that I can access my e-mail, I see that Gerard sent me a message every single day. The first ones were really short, but as he got used to typing with the one hand he was able to say a lot more. He’s the only person in the world who doesn’t think I belong here. He can’t wait until they let me out, which sounds like it won’t be for a while. He says he’s going to come and visit, just as soon as he’s been fitted with the prosthetic hand.

And I just read Marylou’s e-mail…the one with the link to her award-winning psych paper that she feels will secure her a place in one of the best grad programs. I read it. It detailed every aspect of the case.

Including the entire Law of Suspects story.

Including the part about the guillotine.

I’m logging off now and going back to my room. And I am going to ask them to up my meds. I like it here, nice and safe, with no sharp things and everyone all locked up. It is, as Gerard would say, better than the alternative.

The Mirror House

CASSANDRA CLARE

The two hours of washboard dirt road between the airport in Kingston and the tiny town of Black River would be bad enough even if I wasn’t hung over from all that wedding champagne. As it is, I spend most of the time staring out the window and trying not to throw up. It isn’t easy, especially since we keep passing dead animals on the side of the road and sometimes piles of burning garbage that stink like hot plastic.

My mom said Jamaica was going to be a paradise. But then again, this is the same woman who insisted that she and Phillip needed to leave for their honeymoon the morning after the wedding. Why they decided they had to bring me and Evan, Phillip’s son, along with them on their trip, I’m not sure. They explained it to me—or at least my mom had, with Phillip sitting there glowering like he always did—as something about “family togetherness.” But with Phillip dead silent as always and Evan scrunched up as far away from me as he can get on the van’s sticky bench seat, I’m not sure how much togetherness we’re really going to achieve. Of course, given what happened in the garden last night after the reception, togetherness is probably the last thing that Evan and I need.

The villa my mother has rented is much more beautiful than it looked in the online photos. The floors are shiny, dark as the polished outside of a walnut shell; the walls are blue, sponge-painted with a wash of green, calling up the colors of the sea and sky. One whole wall is missing, just open to the deck outside, the turquoise swimming pool and the cliff falling away to the white sand and dark sea beyond. The sun has just begun to set, casting widening rings of red, gold, and bronze over the water.

My mother stands in the arch of the doorway, her hand against her throat. “Oh, Phillip…look!”

But Phillip isn’t looking. He’s over by the front door with the pile of bags, speaking to Damon, the bellboy, in a low, gruff voice. Something about how Damon shouldn’t be expecting a tip and anyway he could have carried his own damn luggage. Damon shrugs his white-shirted shoulders, philosophical, and leaves, stepping past Evan, who is leaning against the wall, staring down at his shoes. I can tell he’s embarrassed by his father, but when I try to smile at him, his glance away from me looks like a flinch.

Phillip looks over at me. Maybe he sees the expression on my face—I’m not sure—but either way he still reads me all wrong. “Evan,” he says, “take Violet’s bags to her room.”

Evan starts to protest. His father shoots him a look of disgust.

“Now, Evan.”

Evan hoists the duffel over his shoulder and follows me to the room marked 3. It has louvered windows that look out over the deck, a skylight, and a huge white bed canopied with drifts of mosquito netting. Evan sets the bag on the floor with a bang and straightens up, his blue eyes flashing.

“Thanks,” I say.

He shrugs. “Not a problem.” I watch him as he glances around, watch the way the muscles in his shoulders move as he turns. “Nice room.”

“I know.” I laugh nervously. “The bed is huge.”

The moment the words are out of my mouth, I freeze. I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t even have said the word bed around Evan, not after what happened in the rose garden. He’ll think I’m joking, being stupid, or he’ll think I’m asking him—

“Guys! Dinnertime!” My mom pops her head around the door, smiling brightly. I’ve never been so glad to see her.

“I’ll be right there—I just need to wash my hands.” I duck into the small bathroom while Evan skulks out on my mom’s heels. The walls of the bathroom are tiled with ocean-washed glass in soft and dull blues, greens, and reds. I run the water in the bronze basin and splash some up on my face. When I glance into the mirror, I see that my cheeks are red as roses.