The Knight (Coleridge Academy Elites Book 2)

by Lucy Auburn

  Tanner comes to a stop nearby, more slowly and in control, then leaps off his bike and rushes over to me. The first thing he does is reach out and grab my helmet, gently lifting it off my head and looking into my eyes, the sun shining down on him. I bite down on my lip to keep from whining about the pain, feeling like a fool.

  "You okay?"

  "I'm fine." Wincing, I look down at my legs, the breath hissing through my teeth. "Just feel stupid is all. I should've known not to brake too quickly. I'm an idiot."

  "Nah. It's a mistake anyone could make." His fingers are warm on my cheeks as he tilts my face up towards the sun and stares at me intently. "Your pupils are responding to light." Seeming not to care about how close we are at all, he runs impatient fingers through my hair, and relaxed minutely. "No bump on your head. You were lucky—all you got is a bit of road rash. It'll scab over and itch like a bitch, but you'll be fine."

  "Thanks." Tanner doesn't take his fingers out of my hair right away, slowly drawing them down towards my neck, then abruptly pulling back as if he's been stung. I watch his expression shift from wide open to closed off, turning back into the boy who's uninterested in what goes on around him, who mostly grunts instead of speaking. Impulsively, I ask him, "What's the deal with you and your dad?"

  He frowns at me. "That's a pretty big leap in conversation."

  "We're gonna be stuck here for a while," I point out. "And I've been wondering why it is that you hate him so much. I mean, the way you talk about him, it's like you'd love nothing more than for his campaign to be ruined. But don't you want him to be president? You'd get to live in the White House and flirt with a whole new crop of privileged teenage girls."

  Sighing, he combs his fingers through his short-cropped hair, then licks his lips and gets to his feet. Holding out a hand, he helps me up, then motions towards a bench in the distance. "Might as well sit down. I'll probably have to get that asshole Suede to drive over here and pick us up. You're in no condition to ride back."

  I hate to admit that he's right. He offers his arm for me to lean on, and I reluctantly take it, only able to put a little bit of weight on my left leg without hissing in pain. The cuts in my skin are shallow, but they stretch from ankle to knee, inches wide and painful. Tanner grabs the bags off the back of his dirt bike as we walk past it, then lowers me gently onto the bench, staring at my leg. The blood, at least, is helping to wash the dirt away. Lucky me.

  It doesn't seem like he's going to answer my question. Opening the bag, he pulls out a water bottle and a flat pack which, once he opens it, reveals a small first aid kit with some ace bandages and antibiotic cream. Surprise flickers across my face, and he smirks at me. "What, you thought Lukas was the only boy scout? I know a thing or two."

  "I thought that pack was full of hard seltzer," I confess. In response, Tanner pulls out three cans, condensation dripping down their silver bodies, and I roll my eyes. "Of course."

  "You might want one." He passes a cherry flavored can over to me, and I take it, curious. "This is going to sting."

  That's all the warning I get before he's pouring cool water over my road rash, making me bite down on my lip from the sudden pain. The water flushes the dirt from my skin, revealing all the little pockmarked spots where the gravel scratched me to hell. With my luck, it'll probably be red and angry for a while before it fades, ruining the warm weather outfits I've been hoping to wear.

  As Tanner uncaps the ointment and starts to carefully spread it on my skin, I open up the can of seltzer and drink deep, surprised by the pleasant fizzy taste of it. There's no heavy bitter punch of alcohol, which makes me think it'd be easy to get drunk on something like this—that's probably the point.

  Conversationally, Tanner says, "Evangeline Connally isn't my mother."

  My head jerks around towards him, and I nearly choke on the seltzer sliding down my throat. Coughing, I mention, "I knew you were adopted. At least after that interview."

  "Yeah, thanks to you Dear Old Dad made me go on an apology tour." He rolls his eyes, continuing up my legs with careful fingers, the ointment slowly soothing the pain. "I guess I should clarify: Evangeline Connally isn't my mother, but George Connally is my biological father. He had an affair."

  "Oh." My stomach drops as I realize how much it must've hurt him to have to go on TV and declare himself adopted, all to hide his father's indiscretions—which he must be proof of. "I'm sorry."

  "Don't be. My mom was miles better than that stone-hearted bitch he makes me call 'Mom.' She loved me." His voice is carefully neutral, but I can hear the pain behind the words. "Dad wanted to pretend like I didn't exist, but then his pretty blonde wife wasn't getting pregnant easily—that part was true—and my mom was diagnosed with cancer. She called him up and told him that his mayoral run would be ruined by scandal if he didn't do something to support us financially. He caved. I was only three, but he wanted a son."

  Studying him, something clicks in my mind, and I wonder how I didn't see it before. Maybe because I wasn't looking—that was the point, after all. "Your mom, was she..."

  "Black? Mixed, but yeah. It's more obvious when I'm standing next to the girls." Tanner unrolls the ace bandage and starts to wrap it gently around my legs, his movements still shockingly soft for a boy so hard and wild. "That was part of why Dad didn't want me around at first, I'm sure. The good folks of Kentucky look down on men who cheat on their pretty blonde wives with a black woman." He snorts indelicately, even as my heart squeezes into such a tight fist that I feel the pain he won't put into words. "After Mom died, dad did adopt me under the books, along with Evangeline. Right after she got pregnant, and she claimed it was a sign from God—that he'd blessed them with children because they'd taken in an orphan. Nevermind that I was George Connally's son from the start."

  "She didn't leave him?"

  "And miss out on being a First Wife? Please. It was obvious even then where things were heading for him. He was in with all the right people, and they'd pull all the strings to put him to the top. Me being around just gave them more leverage over him, and the people who put men like George Connally on the presidential fast track love a candidate they can control."

  A surge of daring, fueled no doubt by the hard seltzer, makes me ask, "When you say the right people, do you mean the Syndicate?"

  Tanner looks up at me, mouth quirking to one side. "You figured that out, huh?"

  "Blake told me," I confess. I don't tell him what we were about to do when the secret spilled. "He said I deserved to know. He was light on the details, but it sounded like something out of a thriller. A secret society pulling the strings and running the world? That's the stuff of fiction."

  "Or front page news, if you dare to read between the lines. Most people don't want to." Tightening the end of the ace bandage, he slides the metal clip over it and hops up onto the bench next to me, a can of seltzer in his hand. "The Syndicate isn't exactly the most secret organization in the world. Anyone who wants to can see which billionaires are donating to which presidential campaigns, who is hiding money in Panama, and all the journalists who write puff pieces about the rich and industrious. It's all a public game. Only the darkest part is kept secret, and if anyone tried to go public with it, they'd just call it all conspiracy theories and get you chucked in the looney bin."

  "You sound so sure."

  "My mom tried to expose a member of the Syndicate before she died." He grimaces. "She thought that since the cancer was taking her either way, there was no downside. So she went after the pharmaceutical CEO who fought off the FDA and nearly killed her with a drug that's since been banned. Needless to say, her evidence was written off. It wasn't enough for the authorities to do anything. It never is."

  Heart beating, I point out, "I'm about to do something when I testify against Hass."

  "Ah, but he's Syndicate lite. A little league teenage boy caught with his pants down making a very stupid mistake. He hit one of their own. It's different."

  "I'm not one of their own."
>
  Reaching over, Tanner ruffles my hair, a light smile on his face. "You'll be safe."

  "If I'm not?" This close, I can see the golden brown in his eyes, and I feel the heat of his hand. It wasn't that long ago that the same hand was traveling up my skirt as he pushed me up against a bookshelf. I wonder if he felt anything when he did it. I wonder if he feels anything now. "What will happen if they come for me?"

  "Then I'll threaten my dad with public exposure of his affair, and make him pull the strings to let you loose." There's a fierce expression in Tanner's eyes even as his mouth curves up into an insolent quirk. "What's he gonna do, disown me?"

  "That's the worst that can happen."

  After I say the words, though, I wonder if they're true.

  There's so many worse possibilities that I can't even imagine what will happen next.

  Chapter 25

  Sitting in the back seat of an SUV, staring out the tinted windows, I wonder how it is that my life has come to this. I never thought that I'd be testifying in a case like this—or that Georgia would be sitting in the seat next to me, her lips lined in pink gloss, staring at her phone and scrolling through social media comments.

  In the front seat, Mrs. Reynolds, the residence director, checks her rearview mirror and pulls over to the courthouse parking lot.

  "This is it, girls."

  Glancing out the window, I see reporters and get nervous. "The DA said he'd meet us here. Aren't we supposed to have some kind of police escort or something? It's a high profile case."

  Georgia rolls her eyes. "Relax, Brenna. You'd think someone put a hit out on you the way you're acting."

  "Actually, last semester... nevermind." I doubt reminding her of the very attack on me she lived through a few short months ago will improve Georgia's disposition. Somehow she's only become more self-involved since we went to the cops about that day in the aircraft hanger, her follower count swelling with each sympathetic piece that comes out about the case. "Let's just wait for him to show up. I'm sure it won't be long."

  Georgia taps her fingernails on her knees as we wait. At first I think she's just bored, but then I realize she's just as nervous as I am. What we're about to do is a big deal—whether she acts like it or not.

  Two teenage girls going up against a golden boy of the Syndicate.

  I hope Tanner was right when he said I have nothing to worry about. Somehow I doubt he or any of the Elites will swoop in to save me if things go wrong. Whatever the Syndicate is or isn't, their families are all no doubt involved in the organization, and when it comes to boys like them, blue blood always comes before any other type of alliance. I'm on my own in this, with only the system to rely on.

  Thankfully it's not long before the District Attorney shows up, his assistant DA trailing behind him, along with two uniformed men. They shoo the reporters out of the parking lot and close the gate, then have Mrs. Reynolds pull closer to the courthouse and drive into a small private parking garage. Something releases in my chest as the garage door seals behind us, the outside world blocked out along with the early morning sunlight.

  The Syndicate may know who I am, or at least strongly suspect it, but I don't want to confirm their beliefs. And I don't want to be sitting near a car window when they decide what to do about me. Maybe I've been watching too many high drama TV shows, but bad things tend to happen to witnesses who go up against shadowy organizations. I'll be lucky if today ends with Hass behind bars and all my blood still inside my body.

  "Good to see you bright and early." The DA greets us as we get out of the car. "Hope the reporters outside weren't too much trouble."

  Georgia pouts. "I wanted to give an interview."

  "As we went over before," the DA's smile grows tight, "it's very important that your testimony not be public until after the FBI is able to track down the source of these human traffickers. I've been told they're very close to cracking the case. Now, if you'll follow me."

  He leads us into the courthouse, with its stark white walls and yellow tile floor. I feel a trickle of sweat go down my back despite the unseasonably cool weather; some part of me reached for a blazer this morning to wear while I testify, even though I know there's no reason for me to try to look a certain way. Even with my best clothes on, I still can't hold a candle to Georgia, who's walking beside me in confidence and skinny heels.

  The Assistant District Attorney goes over everything again. We'll be giving our testimony to the jury in a closed chamber. No media access, no photographs. Only Hass and the opposing counsel will be there from the other side. As he gives us advice on speaking clearly and overcoming our nerves, we pass by the bathroom doors, and Georgia asks for a chance to go to the bathroom—really, I'm sure, she wants to redo her makeup.

  "Go on ahead." The ADA peers down the hall, and the bailiff stands at the end of it. "I'll just escort Brenna the rest of the way, and leave the bailiff with you."

  For some reason he and the DA are in a hurry. Maybe they just want us to get to the courtroom and testify quickly; I don't know how all this works. But they lead me down the hallway, their steps long and difficult to keep up with, looking very important in their tailored suits with briefcases in their hands. We head towards a private office with big glass doors, and the ADA offers me a bottle of water.

  "I..." Looking down the hallway, I suddenly feel queasy. "I need the bathroom too."

  Frowning, he peers out and confirms that the way is clear, the bailiff still standing there. "Fine, but make it quick."

  Nodding, I fast walk down the hall towards the bathrooms, the need to pee—or something—overwhelming. My stomach is in knots, my bladder overly full, and every nerve in my entire body feels fried and on edge. I can't stop thinking about that night in the storm, when the two men kidnapped me and chloroformed me, and I almost joined my brother six feet under.

  It could have gone so much worse.

  Things still could go terribly.

  And I never found out why Hass "found" me in that trunk. This whole time, I've been hoping the investigation would turn up something on those men, but if it did, no one bothered to reach out to me. I know they were just cogs in the machine, but they're cogs I want destroyed—along with Hass.

  Maybe real life is like this. You don't find the answers to every question, or get a nice little bow tying everything together at the end of the story. Life goes on anyway, and we tell ourselves that it doesn't matter, even when it does.

  The mistake, I realize, is that I put finding answers in someone else's hands. This whole time I was doing things wrong. I should be cracking open the files on Silas's hard drive myself, hunting down leads and finding where the trail ends like Nancy Drew, instead of leaving it to people who don't care about my brother's killers the way I do.

  Grabbing the restroom door in slick hands, I sigh when I discover it's been locked. Of course—Georgia wouldn't want to share her space with anyone else. But suddenly I need nothing more in the world than to pee, and I can't wait. Jiggling my foot, I glance over at the men's restroom and ease the door open.

  The coast is clear. Sliding inside, I quickly do what I came here for and stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. There are shadows under my eyes, born of nights spent lying awake, worrying about today, thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

  My brother died trying to expose the truth.

  I won't have honored his memory unless I finish the job.

  After today, I vow to myself, I won't rest easy even if Hass is put in prison. I'll make sure that whatever evidence Silas compiled makes it to see the light of day—nevermind the risk or how many ways Cole tries to warn me off of it. The Syndicate needs to go down, and they'll never see it coming from a teenage girl like me, born in Wayborne under a stormy sky.

  Licking my lips, I grab my cheap off-brand concealer out of my purse and dab some under my eyes. Then I head out of the bathroom—and pause.

  The lock on the women's room has been broken. It's subtle, the wood of the do
or still intact, but a little sliver of light eases its way out that wasn't there before.

  Glancing at the end of the hallway, I see no sign of the bailiff, and my pulse races.

  The smart thing to do would be to walk away.

  But I didn't come this far, fight this hard, to turn tail and run. If Georgia is in trouble, I have to do something. Hands shaking, I pull the keychain pepper spray Wally gave me out of my purse, and slowly push the door open.

  On the stark white tile floor of the bathroom, beautiful red hair soaks in a pool of blood.

  I don't give myself time to think. Running into the bathroom, I turn and raise the pepper spray—there's no one there. Pushing open the stall doors, I find them both empty. Blindly, I call for help, hoping that whoever comes will be on the right side. Then I turn to face Georgia and swallow at her pale skin and closed eyes.

  Getting down on my knees, I reach out with trembling fingers and press my touch against her neck. There's warmth there, but no blood surging in her veins to meet me. No pulse anywhere that I can find. Cold all over, I put a flat palm against her chest, and don't feel her ribs rise with breath.

  When I pull my hand away, it comes back sticky. The red of the dress she wore to the courtroom is soaking with blood.

  I call out for help again, barely able to tell what words I'm saying, uncertain what will happen when someone comes. Then I straighten up, trembling, blindly stumbling to the sink to wash the blood off my hands—

  The mirror is covered in writing.

  YOU TOOK HIM FROM ME.

  I stare at the crumbling lines drawn in red lipstick, stomach dropping as I take it all in. Photos are taped to the mirror—photos of Tanner laughing, taken from a distance, as if with a long lens like the one I took to the private airport. There are somehow pictures of me with him in the library. Then more photos, ones of Georgia with him, but in all of them her face is scratched up and covered in black Xs.