Cecelia Ahern - Flawed

“Thank you,” I whisper, squeezing her hands in mine. “The man who brought me here. Do you know his name?”

“Carrick Vane.”

I smile. I didn’t imagine him, I didn’t dream him.

“Does he mean something to you?”

I nod and remember the feel of his seared chest beneath my finger as he carried me away from danger, see his Adam’s apple at the tip of my nose.

“Will you find him?”

“Yes,” I say, full of confidence now, not able to think about the fact that I am leaving my family, going into the unknown alone. I think of how Professor Lambert quoted Pólya, “If you can’t solve a problem, then there is an easier problem you can solve: Find it.” I can’t take down Crevan all by myself, not now, but I will have to find Carrick Vane. It is all I have now.

SIXTY-FIVE

I TIPTOE DOWN the stairs as quietly as I can, knowing one false move will be the end of me. Once downstairs, I hear the raised voices of my dad and Crevan, Dad going at him full throttle. I want to burst in there and stop Dad, afraid that he’ll be next in the firing line for protecting me, but I know I can’t. It won’t help anything in the long term. My only way to end this is to reveal Crevan to the world.

“Go,” Juniper whispers loudly, and I feel her pushing me.

I stare at the door to the library, unable to leave Mom and Dad in this situation, feeling frozen on the spot. If I leave, they could be punished, accused of aiding me. If I give in and stay, they will be safe. The door suddenly opens and Juniper grabs my hand. Both of us freeze. It’s all over.

Instead of Crevan, Mom steps outside, face pale but angry. She has a new undercut hairstyle, one side of her hair has been shaved close to her head, the other side still a reminder of her long, beautiful waves. She looks like a warrior. She sees me with the packed bag, ready to leave, and she closes the library door firmly behind her. I know she won’t let me leave and I will have to try to convince her. She rushes to me, throws her arms around me, and covers me in kisses. She whispers one word close to my ear that leaves no question in my mind and goose bumps on my skin.

“Run.”

With tears almost blinding me, I leave her side, feeling torn from her, ripped at the seams. I clamber over our backyard wall. I stay low and run to reach the lane, which will lead me up the hill to the summit hidden from view.

A car appears from around the corner, lights on full, and heads toward me. It stops me in my path. I’m not sure whether it’s going to stop; and with its headlights on, I can’t see who’s driving. But I fear whoever it could be intends on running me over. I don’t recognize the car, though it is brand-new, expensive. It stops inches from me. The headlights are still so bright I can’t see who’s behind the wheel. I think about turning around and running, but I know Crevan is in the other direction. I am so close to the lane that will hopefully take me to freedom, the lane I used to take to see Art on the summit, when life was simpler.

The driver’s door opens, and Judge Sanchez gets out. My heart races.

“Nice evening for an escape, Ms. North,” she says, coolly.

“What do you want?”

“I want what you want,” she says. “We have something in common.”

“I doubt that,” I say, bitterly.

“To bring Crevan down.”

I’m shocked by that admittance, but, of course, I shouldn’t be. She was trying throughout my entire case to undermine him. She was just using me to do it.

“I hear you know something about him that could be beneficial to both of us. Something that’s making him awfully nervous, sending out groups of Whistleblowers here, there, and everywhere. I don’t know what it is, but I’m hoping you can tell me.”

“What makes you think I can trust you?” I’m panicking. I need to get away from this. I need to escape. My family can’t hold Crevan back from searching the house for me for much longer, and if it’s true that I’m being held responsible for both the rally and the riot in the supermarket, then the Whistleblowers and the police will be here to take me away. I hope the police find me first, but Crevan won’t let me get away from him that easily.

“You can trust me. I’m going to let you go,” she says, and I am totally confused. “You’re not much use to me in Crevan’s control. I can see the damage you can do when you’re free. You’ve really shaken him up, and he’s making more mistakes than usual. Do you know what it is you have over him?” she asks, curiously. I can tell that it’s killing her, not knowing what it is that I know.

I swallow hard, thinking about it, and then finally nod.

She smiles, a small, sly smile. “Who’d have thought it would be you.” She looks me up and down. “You know, I believe in the Guild, a public inquiry, inquiring into matters of urgent public importance, but I don’t believe in how it’s being used now,” she says, eyes hard and focused on mine. “I was trying to help you in the court case, Celestine. You should have taken the prison sentence. Did you like the little show I arranged for you to hear at the castle? I thought witnessing a branding would scare you out of going through with it, that you’d just admit to aiding a Flawed.”

It was she who arranged for Tina to have a meeting so that Funar could force me and Carrick to sit outside the Branding Chamber.

“If you help me, I can do something about that band around your arm.” She roots in her pocket with black leather gloves and produces a card. “I’ll let you run away, Celestine, but contact me when you’re ready, and we can help each other.”

It’s almost too good to be true, but I slowly reach for the card, take it hesitantly, and inch away from her, waiting for someone to jump out from hiding and grab me, but nobody does. I keep moving, quickening my pace. She watches me and then gets back into her car. She starts up the engine and reverses.

I follow my mother’s advice.

I run.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOR THE PAST twelve years, I’ve been writing one novel every year, which is a difficult-enough pace to keep up with. But in the summer of 2014, when I had finished editing The Year I Met You and should have been recharging my brain for my next novel, The Marble Collector , the premise for Flawed arrived in my mind and wouldn’t go away. Celestine North arrived in my life and wouldn’t go away. I have never experienced such a rush of adrenaline, have never written with my heart so much in my throat, with such a trembling hand, and have never written a novel so quickly. I had to get this story out of me, whether people wanted to read it or not. Six weeks later, Flawed was finished. For that, I thank David, Robin, and Sonny for your love and patience while I wrote, and my mom, dad, sister, and brother-in-law for your encouragement in my writing about this subject matter. Thank you, Marianne Gunn O’Connor and Vicki Satlow for your guidance and encouragement and for believing this isn’t just a story for myself, but one that could be shared.

I wrote Flawed in six weeks, and there was inevitably a lot of editing required. A lot more than six weeks’ work. The story would not be what it is now if it weren’t for the clever insights and support of Jean Feiwel, Anna Roberto, and Will Schwalbe at Macmillan. Your input raised this story to a new level, making it faster, bigger, better, deeper.

I wrote this story with anger, with love, with passion; every word and sentiment came from the heart. If there’s one message that I hope this book portrays, it’s this: None of us are perfect. Let us not pretend that we are. Let us not be afraid that we’re not. Let us not label others and pretend we are not the same. Let us all know that to be human is to be flawed, and let us learn from every mistake made so we don’t make them again.