Named after the aunt who burned down her high school, Olivia Peterson never had a chance at a normal life. But when an innocent birthday tradition results in a new set of curtains-and an unforgiving hole scorched into her carpet-Olivia realises that...
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Ryan intended to take me to Ireland by any means necessary. In his bags, he had packed all-sorts of supplies. This included: clothes, toiletries, what looked like a sedative, and fake IDs. The sedative, I assumed, was for if I refused to go with him, and I was glad he hadn't needed to use it... yet.
I knew that Ryan would administer it if he had to, but he tried to play it off by winking at me when he withdrew the liquid from one of his bags like it was an inside joke.
It wasn't funny.
There was still the chance that Daniella would claim I set fire to her house just to spite me—though we would both know I was innocent. But Ryan wouldn't, and that terrified me. I had placed my life in the hands of the notoriously cruel Daniella Reese. I hoped I wouldn't live to regret it.
My fake ID said I was called Bridget, Bridget Smith. And Ryan didn't see the humour in him choosing the worst alias of all time. Bridget Smith was one step away from Beth Smith, and from there he may as well have called me Jane Doe. It was textbook "look at me I have a fake name!". Especially if there were news reports for a missing girl matching my description. If we had to go to Ireland, I'd be screwed, despite his mysterious and magical methods of disguise.
Considering these Honoured people were supposed to be experienced at this covert nonsense, I found this hilarious. Ryan didn't. And he scowled whenever a giggle flew from my mouth.
"Do you still not grasp how serious this is, Olivia?"
Ryan tossed me a pile of clothes and ordered me to get changed. It was a good thing he was so prepared—dark patches covered my jeans, which I assumed were blood, and my old band t-shirt had been torn to shreds. I had almost forgotten about the accident until then.
"How do you know how to drive?" I blurted out.
Ryan turned to face me with one eyebrow raced. "What?" he grumbled, rummaging through one of the many bags on the basement floor.
"When you came to get me from my house, you drove us here. How do you know how to drive? Aren't you sixteen?"
It was possible that he had an early birthday and was seventeen already. I hadn't known him long enough to be familiar with the details. But when he registered my question, his expression grew guarded, and I knew that however he had learned how to drive, it wasn't legal.
"I did one of those week-long courses for kids," he mumbled.
But I knew better. I couldn't imagine big, bad, and scary Ryan Murray driving around a traffic cone laden car park, with a squeaky-voiced instructor.
"How do you know how to drive, really?" My eyes narrowed into slits.
Ryan sighed and stood from his crouched position. When his back was no longer hunched, he leant back, and a crack rattled around the room as he relieved his sore joints.
