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UNLIKE MOST PEOPLE, both Sabrina and Sloane didn't find it hard to hurt the ones they loved. Self-destructiveness was inherited, and it was difficult to break out of that cycle. Sabrina found no remorse in making her children sick, just to satisfy some weird motherly urge within her to care. Sloane, on the other hand, knew she'd have to hurt someone she loved to keep them safe, even if that meant upsetting herself too. She wouldn't let anyone else be dragged into her mess.
With Sloane now bedridden, Sabrina was more preoccupied with her than Everett. Her stepbrother was still fed medicine often, but not as much as before. In the little moments that Sloane could get up from bed and see him through the crack in the door, she noticed Everett was looking less pale. The more she could get her mother away from him, the better.
She didn't really have much of a plan. She wondered if she'd keep up this act until her mother eventually killed her, and hopefully by then, Everett was graduating and moving into his college dorm, far away from Sabrina's grasp. And maybe, just maybe, with her distracted enough, there would be fewer Jawbreaker killings. Sloane had only been taking her medicine for a week and she hadn't heard of a murder yet. Whatever plan she was concocting, it might be working.
Sloane had been bedridden for at least a week. She answered Bobby's texts when she could, but every other call, text, notification – completely ignored. She hadn't talked to Peter since New Year's. He had been blowing up her phone for the past week, wondering where she was or what was wrong. Sloane only had the strength to text short messages like Sick, or, Talk to you soon. Peter was growing restless. She could tell he wanted to talk to her, see her, but she couldn't let him in on this.
She knew she had to minimize the casualties. The day had finally come when she couldn't ignore him anymore. She couldn't let Sabrina get to him, so he could be safe, but making this phone call was terrifying. Her phone was practically shaking in her hand. Sloane never had a problem with hurting people ... until now.
She looked through her messages. There were 24 unread texts and 6 voicemails. She listened to a few.
"Hey, Bernstein," Peter's voice was strangled through the speaker, "please let me know if there's anything I can do while you're sick. I'll come to the penthouse and feed you medicine if you want. I don't care if it's, like, a life-threatening illness or something. Anyway, call me."
