by Callie Rose
His expression turns stern, and he glances back and forth between the two of us.
“I know this has been a difficult semester, ladies. On a number of counts. But I don’t want to see either of you in my office again, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter.
At least I got what I came for—I have a school to go to again—but the victory tastes bitter on my tongue.
“I promise.” Savannah nods and rises, still sniffling as she rests her hands on the desk and leans toward the older man, letting her cleavage do what it does best—draw his focus like a fucking magnet. “Thank you again. I’m so glad I decided to come forward; it’s such a relief to have that off my chest.”
His gaze flicks down to said chest, and instead of telling her that her top is in clear violation of the student dress code, he just clears his throat and nods.
“I’m glad. You can both collect tardy slips from Mrs. Wheland on your way out.”
Savannah moves toward the door, flashing me a conciliatory, apologetic smile as she wipes the tears from her cheek. It takes me a few seconds to get my body to move, then I’m striding after her, my footfalls heavy. She’s already picking up her tardy slip when I reach Mrs. Wheland’s desk, and the middle-aged woman with the bottle-blonde bob hands me a slip too.
I mutter a thanks under my breath, barely looking at her. The second Savannah and I are back out in the hallway, I grab her shoulder, spinning her around to face me.
The kings all waited for us outside the office, and at the sight of me stepping up to Savannah, they move to flank me quickly, though I see confusion flash in their eyes.
They don’t know why they’re backing me up yet, but they’re doing it anyway.
“What the fuck?” I hiss, glaring at Savannah.
I want to scream it, but I know if this altercation gets too obvious, we’ll end up right back in the principal’s office—and considering he just said he didn’t want to see us again, that could only end badly.
The sadness, the contrition, and the puppy-dog innocence in her expression disappear like someone flipped a switch. Tears still gleam in her eyes, still dampen her cheeks, but they look incongruous and out of place on her face now.
“See, Pool Girl?” She sneers and arches a brow. “It’s not that hard. If you were better at it, maybe you wouldn’t have been expelled in the first place.”
“I got expelled because you sabotaged me!”
Fuck, that was louder than it should’ve been. Hands wrap around my upper arms, squeezing in warning, and I suck in a deep breath, forcing my body to relax. It’s poised and tense like I’m about to go into battle.
“I could still tell the whole school your dirty little secret, Savannah,” I mutter, my voice strained. “So watch the fuck out.”
Her features stiffen, the look of helpless fear and anger returning for a second. Satisfaction flares through me, but I don’t let myself celebrate. When animals feel trapped, they’re more likely to bite.
Her lips curl, and she takes a step closer to me, lowering her voice.
“Don’t worry, Pool Girl. I won’t mess with your tests anymore. But murderers don’t belong here. Everyone knows that. And if I don’t get rid of you, someone else will.”
21
I spend most of the weekend trying to catch up on schoolwork I missed—again.
Trent returns to school on Monday, and even though he’s had a few days to heal up, his face still looks pretty bad. Anyone who hadn’t already figured out that his “flu” was a lie knows it by now. The rumor spreading around the school is that he was jumped over the weekend outside some club downtown—which happens to be exactly what happened.
But none of the kings’ names are ever mentioned in connection with the assault. Most people have no idea who did it, and the few who do know aren’t saying shit.
Trent isn’t protecting the guys with his silence. He’s protecting himself. He sounded almost hopeful when he asked if they were even that night, but I’m sure he knows if he rats them out, they won’t be.
And he’s not dumb enough to start a war with these boys.
The man in black, Iris’s death, my mom’s arrest—we’re all in over our heads as far as that shit goes.
But here? Inside the walls of Linwood Academy?
The four kings really do rule.
Maybe that’s why, despite Savannah’s cryptic warning to me, the entire week passes without incident.
No more of my tests or quizzes get fucked with, and Mr. Osterhaut instructed my teachers to allow me to catch up on the assignments I missed.
The second half of this semester has been rough. Mentally, emotionally—and sometimes literally—I just haven’t been here for it. But it matters to my mom that I do well, so I cling to my passing grades like a mountain climber on a sheer rock face.
On the Saturday before finals week, I go see her again. I went last weekend too, but it’s been harder to fit in more frequent visits while trying to stay on top of school. Her entire body seemed to loosen with relief when I told her I got re-admitted to Linwood, and even though I was glad I could deliver good news, I hated that she’d spent a week worrying about me.
“So, are you ready for all your tests?” she asks, after we’ve gone through our usual greeting and inane chitchat.
It always takes us a couple minutes to work into a real conversation when I visit, maybe because so little about this is natural. The phones we have to hold, the glass partition between us—none of this is what it should be like to talk to my mom.
I scrunch up my face. “Um, define ready.”
“Low.” She fixes me with a serious look.
“Yeah, I am. Or, I will be. There are a couple classes that are gonna be tough, but I’ve got friends who are helping me study.”
“Good.”
That seems to cheer her up immensely. I don’t mention that the “friends” who are helping me study are the four boys who tormented me during my first few weeks of school—the four boys I’m now hopelessly entwined with, caught up in a web of shared secrets, burning attraction, and undeniable chemistry.
Boys who are much more than friends.
“And how are things with Lincoln?” she asks, as if she somehow reached inside my head and plucked his name right out of my thoughts.
I’m falling in love with him.
He’s agreed to share me with three other boys.
He’s waiting for me outside right now.
“They’re… okay,” I say evasively, wishing I could tell her any of those things. “I just feel better living somewhere else. It makes things less awkward.”
As far as Samuel Black knows, Linc and I are still “broken up”, so I have to let my mom believe it too. Just in case. I’m careful never to outright lie to her about him, but it’s all fucking semantics at this point. Whether it’s a straight-up lie or a lie of omission, there are so many things my mom doesn’t know about my life right now that it makes me a little sick.
There was a time in my life when we told each other everything.
I miss those days.
“All right. As long as you’re okay,” she says, but I can tell she’s beating herself up again for not being able to take care of me—for leaving me alone to fend for myself.
I wish I could tell her that I’m not as alone as she thinks I am. That I have a good support system, four boys at my back who won’t let me fall if they can possibly stop it.
Someday.
Once she’s out of this place, I’ll tell her every fucking thing.
“I am, Mom. Promise.” I put my hand against the glass, and she mirrors the movement. “I’m excited for winter break though. It’ll be nice to have a little time off. Plus, I can come see you more.”
“Well, I always like that.”
She smiles, fiddling with the collar of her jump suit. I hate that I’m starting to get used to the sight of her in orange, that it’s no longer as shocking as it used to be. I don’t want to get used to any
part of this.
We talk for a few more minutes, but she seems distracted and quieter than usual today. Something’s bugging her, but I can’t figure out what. Maybe she got some news from her lawyer?
The court-appointed attorney is a guy named Scott Parsons. He looks like he could be my age and acts way too fucking nervous to give me any confidence in his courtroom abilities, but Mom insists he knows what he’s doing and that she trusts him.
When I finally can’t take it anymore, I blurt, “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Mom opens her mouth like she might try to brush it off, then closes it and sighs. “My trial date has been set.”
My throat goes dry, and my heart kicks against my ribs. Fuck. I always knew we didn’t have unlimited time, but this puts a ticking clock on our attempt to find any damning evidence against the real killer.
“Shit, Mom. When?”
The words are barely a whisper, but the phone’s mouthpiece must pick them up anyway, because she hears me.
“Two months. The prosecution is pushing hard to speed this along. Scott is trying to slow things down, but…” She trails off and sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a good thing. The sooner my trial comes, the sooner I’ll have a chance to go home. Get back to my life.”
No. It’s not a good fucking thing. I don’t want my mom within a hundred yards of a courthouse until I know there’s no chance a jury could ever convict her.
And right now? With the evidence built up against her?
I can’t count on that.
Clutching the phone with both hands, I try not to let her hear the sharp, uneven breaths that fall from my lips as I work to get my emotions under control.
Shit. This can’t be fucking happening.
Linc’s been trying to get something on his dad, trying to pinpoint the connection between him and Iris—but he hasn’t been able to find the paternity test I stumbled upon in Samuel Black’s drawer all those weeks ago, or anything else so far.
“Oh, and Judge Hollowell isn’t the one assigned to my case,” Mom adds with a slight grimace. “Maybe it’s for the best, anyway. He’d probably have to recuse himself since we went out a few times.”
I sit up straighter, my grip on the phone tightening.
“That is better. Now that you know he won’t be presiding over your trial, there’s no reason you can’t reach out to him. Just for advice, Mom,” I add, leaning forward, my whole body taut with tension. “I know Scott means well, but he’s not—”
Good enough. Tough enough.
Connected enough.
Alexander Hollowell is a respected judge in Fox Hill, and the fact that he’s been invited to several of the Black family’s cocktail parties means he’s definitely well connected.
He might be able to talk to the right people, nudge things in the right direction, and give mom a fighting chance here. If she had to go on what sounded like two pretty “meh” dates with him, maybe she can at least get some legal help out of it.
“Oh.” Mom shakes her head, waving a hand like she’s brushing the thought away. “No, sweetheart. I don’t think that’s a good idea. I was just grasping at straws before.”
“So grasp! Grasp!” I blurt the words so loudly that the guy having a quiet conversation with the prisoner behind the glass partition several feet away glances over at me. I bring my volume down but scoot to the edge of my seat, leaning my elbows on the little counter in front of the pane. “Now’s not the time to play it cool or worry about imposing, Mom. If there’s even a chance he could help you, even a little bit, you have to take it!”
She considers my words—I can see her turning them over in her mind—but then she shakes her head, a sad, patient smile tilting her lips. “I don’t think it’s worth it, Low. We didn’t have a love connection. It was just a couple dinners. Even if he remembers who I am, why would he want to help me?”
“Of course he remembers who you are, Mom, come on!”
She dips her head, acknowledging that I’m probably right about that, but then she shakes it again. “I still don’t know why he’d want to help. Even if it’s allowed, it’s probably some kind of ethically gray area. I don’t want to put him in that position.”
I blow out a breath, puffing my cheeks. She may be right, but I still wish she’d try. The amount of faith she still has in this system terrifies me.
Then again, maybe that’s because she doesn’t know she’s been actively set up, that this isn’t all just some massive misunderstanding waiting to be cleared up. She’s behind bars because someone—a cold-blooded murderer—framed her.
I wish I could fucking tell her. But if Mr. Black got even a whiff of an idea that she knew she was framed, that she might tell her lawyer and have him look into it, I don’t know what he’d do.
As long as she’s in here and he’s not, she’s safe. She’s alive.
Alive. Alive. Alive.
That’s all that matters.
As long as that doesn’t change, we can figure the rest out.
Samuel Black heard my rant that night. He was one of only a few people who came outside from the party and witnessed me screaming at Detective Dunagan. But he also saw the detective dismiss my words, saw the boys claim they had no idea what I was talking about.
Now we’re stuck in a catch-22. As long as he doesn’t think we’re poking around, we’re relatively safe. But we need to poke around to find some tangible evidence linking him to Iris’s death.
And in the meantime, my mom’s going to be tried for murder in two months.
Fucking hell.
I tell Lincoln the news as soon as we get back in the car, and his expression hardens. He grabs my hand as he pulls out of the Fox Hill Correctional Center visitor parking lot, lacing our fingers together before bringing our joined hands to his lips.
Fire blazes up my arm from the brush of his mouth on my skin, and I let it burn away the worry and panic inside me for a moment.
God, I miss him.
He was right. There is no only between us. I’m not sure there ever has been.
I see him every day at school, but I miss having him sneak into my bedroom in the mansion late at night, miss tearing at his clothes as his lips consume me, miss wrapping myself in his spicy, addictive scent.
But I know when—if—I’m ever able to leave River’s house, I’ll miss the fuck out of him too.
It’s… weird, having this kind of connection with more than one guy. Not bad weird, just different.
Unexpected.
Something I’m still learning how to navigate.
The feelings I have for each of these four boys are growing, developing into something stronger than I was prepared for. I haven’t had to crash at the twins’ house yet—although with my track record, that day is coming—but the two of them have an almost supernatural ability to put me in a good mood. I find myself gravitating toward them, craving their presence. Craving Chase’s bright energy and Dax’s dry sense of humor.
Linc nips at the back of my hand with his teeth, and I swear I feel it everywhere in my body. I suck in a breath and shoot him a look, and his amber eyes smolder when he meets my gaze.
“The guys are all coming over to my place for the beginning of winter break. You too.”
I raise my brows. “Really?”
“Yeah. My parents will be in Colorado for the week after school lets out. It’s the perfect fucking time to go through my dad’s shit without worrying about him catching us.”
My heart jumps. Shit, that’s brilliant. That’s exactly what we need. We can finally poke around without worrying about getting caught.
There has to be something in that house that will tie Mr. Black to Iris.
“Okay, perfect.” I take in his profile as he watches the road, letting my gaze trail over his angular features and strong jawline. “Lincoln? Thank you.”
He nods grimly, lowering our hands to rest on my lap. A muscle in his jaw ripples, and I bite my lip. I hate this all on so many levels, but I espe
cially hate that if our suspicions are right, Lincoln will essentially be losing his father.
When he drops me off at River’s house, he leans over the center console, palms the back of my head, and kisses me like he won’t see me on Monday—like he might never see me again. I kiss him back just as hard, and when we’re both breathless and flushed, I finally pull away and slip out of the car.
I feel better knowing we have a plan, a chance to do some serious digging soon. But it doesn’t stop worry from building up in my chest like a pile of rocks.
River meets me outside and brings me downstairs. His dad is home for once, sitting in the large living room off the main entrance reading the paper. He’s dressed in a full suit—I’ve never seen him in anything else—and his ash-brown hair is mixed with gray. Like Lincoln’s dad, he has the look of someone who was devastatingly handsome in his youth and has aged extremely well.
Mr. Bettencourt glances up as we pass by, his expression hard and disapproving. We both ignore him though—that’s what River almost always does, and I just follow his lead.
As soon as we reach his bedroom, I make a beeline for the suitcase I packed. I’ve been replaying my conversation with my mom over and over in my head since I left the prison, and I understand why she said what she did. But I can’t just let it go there.
If there’s even a slight chance that Judge Hollowell could help her, I’ve got to try.
River sits on the couch, watching me with curious eyes as I dig my mom’s cell out of my bag and enter her password. After tapping the screen to pull up her contacts, I scroll down to the H’s. She must’ve exchanged numbers with this guy if she went on a few dates with him.
Sure enough, after several other last names that start with H, his name flashes on the screen. Alexander Hollowell.
I pull my own phone out of my back pocket and type his number in there, then connect the call. It’s the weekend, so I’m guessing he’s not in his office, but I’m also guessing this is his personal cell number.
