It was the kind of detail I would include for a sexy billionaire sheik and his virgin secretary-turned-mistress, but so not an image I wanted associated with Sebastian St. James.
He didn’t appear even remotely offended. If anything, his smirk only deepened, his eyes sparking with mocking amusement. “Emptor Academy has a state-of-the-art security system, classes taught by some of the world’s most brilliant minds, and political connections that make the Ivy League green with jealousy. I’m sure there are benefits to the public school system.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “You have plenty of time to prepare yourself for a future of staggering mediocrity.”
I hated him.
More than anything, I wanted to come up with a clever put-down. Something so deliciously snarky it would wipe that smile right off his face. Except I wasn’t sure what to say. My high school did suck. The classes were packed past capacity and the teachers could barely keep their heads above water. Still, it was my shitty education.
But I didn’t say a word as the full impact of my conversation with Detective O’Brian finally sank in.
Somebody wanted me dead and the cops appeared more intent on dangling me as bait than, y’know, protecting and serving. Given that Emptor Academy housed the children of diplomats and rock stars, they probably had an impeccable security system in place. Something that would keep the Starbucks Killers of the world far, far away from me.
“I can’t afford it,” I mumbled, hating to admit the truth. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were all probably served on fine china and prepared by master chefs. Any one of those meals would decimate my nearly nonexistent college fund. I didn’t want to guess how much they charged for residency in their fancy dorms. The answer would only depress me.
“We happen to have an excellent scholarship program.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair as if he offered tuition to girls sitting in police precincts all the time.
Heyyy, wanna transfer to my prep school? I’ll pick up the tab, girl. No worries.
I nearly snorted out loud. No worries. That was a good one.
“What do you get out of this?”
This whole conversation was giving me flashbacks of my eighth birthday when my mom’s unemployed boyfriend du jour, Pierre, had handed her twenty bucks and suggested a girls-only burger dinner. My mom and I had searched her closet for the most ridiculously colorful outfits we could find. She’d paired a floor-length gown with dozens of beaded necklaces, sneakers, and hot pink lipstick. I remember thinking she was the most beautiful woman in the whole world as she took my hand and shared a conspiratorial smile with me. As if the two of us were playing an elaborate joke on everyone who gave us funny looks. We had strolled into a tiny diner and giggled together over our milkshake and fries—only to come home to a burglarized apartment. Pierre had hocked our television, toaster, everything that wasn’t nailed down before making his exit. My mom had quietly surveyed the damage before walking straight into the bathroom and scrubbed at her face until every last speck of makeup had been removed. She didn’t leave her bedroom for any reason except work over the next two days. I sat cross-legged where the couch had been only a few hours earlier, scrunched my eyes shut, and wished that my mom would stop dating losers. I wished that she’d give up on men and be happy with me. Only me.
It hadn’t happened.
That was the day I’d learned never to trust someone who acts out of character. Especially when that someone has nothing to gain by this seemingly random act of generosity. A lesson that made it impossible for me to simply accept Sebastian’s offer at face value.
“I’m bored. I might as well see how this plays out,” Sebastian replied slowly, too casually, and I knew that he was hiding something. Something big that involved me.
“You don’t offer favors, Sebastian. That’s even harder to believe than the ‘goodness of your heart’ bullshit.”
His lips quirked up into a smile. “Interesting. So you do have some instincts. Given your crappy taste in friends I assumed you were that stupid about everyone. I’m feeling more entertained already.”
“Let’s say, hypothetically, that I do accept the scholarship. What happens next?”
Sebastian smirked, as if he hadn’t expected any other response. People probably didn’t say no to him often.
“Then you’ll go home, pack your things, and a car will arrive for you at precisely nine o’clock.”
“What are the living arrangements?” I asked.
My stomach lurched at the thought of transferring schools, no matter how temporary the move. Ben. I wouldn’t be able to see him, or Audrey, for that matter, if I was stuck keeping a low profile at Empty Academy while the cops hopefully shifted their focus back to the killer with the baseball cap. And okay, if I was being totally honest with myself, the thought of increasing my distance from Ben seriously freaked me out. Things had been off with our dynamic for a while, even though I couldn’t quite put my finger on when or why it had shifted. Ben and I still teased and bickered and spent time alone together. I helped explain multiplying fractions to his little brother, Cameron. I even shared my suspicion that his former lab partner, Shelby Thomas, wanted to conduct more than chemistry experiments with him. Nothing had changed. Except now the air between us felt heavily charged with anticipation, as if we were both bracing ourselves for something momentous. But the reason I’d never acted on the impulse to rise up on tip-toes and sneak attack him with a kiss was because it was, well, Ben.
He was the one guy I had always been able to count on. My rock. Whenever my mom went through one of her frantic dating spree phases, determined to find The One she believed was somewhere out there searching for her on whatever new dating app just hit the market, I could always hide out at his place until I was ready to face an empty apartment. It happened frequently enough that his mom considered finding me eating cereal in her kitchen a normal event on a Saturday morning. Ben had been there for me through the Pierre years, the Dimitri era, the Hans episode, and he hadn’t so much as flinched when I told him about my mom’s current flame, Viktor. He had just tugged playfully on the end of my ponytail and said, “I’ll make omelets in the morning with pepper jack cheese.”
Because he knew that was my favorite.
Ben was my escape hatch and Audrey was my seatbelt. I needed them.
If that wasn’t incentive enough to stay put, there was also the fact that my mom needed me. I was in charge of cooking and cleaning every time she got her heart broken and resisted climbing out of bed. It was my job to repeat over and over that she was a great mom, that she was going to be fine, that we would both be fine, every time she became withdrawn and secretive.
I couldn’t do any of that from Emptor Academy. I didn’t care if the dorm rooms there came equipped with four-poster beds and enormous clawfoot bathtubs. It was only a matter of time before my mom was completely suckered in by her boyfriend. Again.
Ben might think I was a hopeless romantic, but I knew better. I loved my romance novels because the hero never robbed the heroine on her daughter’s birthday. There was safety in a happily ever after ending. You could trust your heart in the pages of a romance novel.
Watching my mom date loser after loser had dulled my own optimism.
“Emptor Academy provides communal living at its finest,” Sebastian said, unaware that I’d already considered and rejected his offer. “You’ll be sharing a room with Kayla. She’s very clean. She’ll make you feel right at home.”
I was momentarily distracted by the mental image of a faceless girl who obsessively wiped down windowsills. She probably wore Prada while she sprayed the doorknob with disinfectant.
“And you would know this how?” I asked disdainfully.
He leaned in closer and I caught a heady whiff of male arrogance, which should have been repulsive but somehow wasn’t.
“Because—as previously established—I know everything.”
It felt good to scoff at him, even as a small part of me wondered what kind of access he h
ad to private information. Money talks, and with a few well-placed bills and a smile, he could probably gain access to nuclear launch codes.
He had tracked me to the police station.
That much I did know. I forced myself to take a moment and break down the components of our conversation into easily digested chunks. Sebastian had tracked me down. He wanted something from me. He thought I had a secret agenda, probably because he had one of his own.
I shook my head and tried to make it even simpler.
Sebastian St. James had the funds to make nearly any problem solvable and there was a mystery in my life that no police officers would eagerly agree to help me answer. The Case of the Absentee Dad. My pulse began speeding up. According to my mom, they had met and fallen in love when she was playing the small, but critical, role of Waitress #3 on a big-budget action movie in Los Angeles. He had been everything she’d always looked for in a man. Funny, warm-hearted, with a genuine smile that made her knees go weak. He left supportive little notes on napkins next to the coffeepot each morning. Held her in his arms as she fell asleep each night. My mom’s eyes tended to go dreamy when she reached that part of the story. For three blissful months they’d been inseparable—right up until the day she’d woken up to find him gone. No note. No explanation. After two weeks of waiting for him to return, she took a pregnancy test that put everything in perspective real fast.
My mom liked to say that she left Hollywood with the only Emmy that truly mattered.
That my dad would always be the one that got away.
The man that my mom described became my ultimate fantasy father. Endearingly nervous about meeting me for the first time and full of regret for all the years that he’d already missed, I pictured him standing at the steps of my school with an enormous bouquet of flowers and an explanation for everything. It was easy to imagine because I’d always known it was pure fantasy. That I would never be able to find him on my own.
Morgan will know what to do, always was better with the details. And they’re coming, girl. I’d stake my life on it.
Ben would tell me to hand in the Slate and be done with the whole thing. To do my civic duty and get the hell out. To accept whichever deal the police offered that would keep me the safest.
Except if the dead man was right and my father—my actual biological dad—was in danger and his Slate could help me track him down? I wasn’t sure I could walk away from that possibility without regretting it for the rest of my life. If he was even half as wonderful as my mom claimed, then maybe he really could keep her happy. Maybe he’d be able to prevent the headlong collision course she appeared to be on with every lowlife creep within a fifteen-mile radius.
“What if I change my mind?” I shoved back the wisps of auburn hair that had slipped free from my ponytail because I needed to do something with my hands. If I didn’t keep them in motion Sebastian might notice that they were still trembling slightly. “What if I get to Empty Academy and decide that I want out?”
Sebastian laughed the low chuckle of someone assured of their own victory.
“You’d be the first.”
It looked like I’d be setting all sorts of new precedents, because I had no intention of settling in, staying put, or sticking around. I just needed to buy myself a little more alone time with the Slate.
So I met his stormy blue eyes straight on and hoped that he couldn’t tell I was bluffing.
“I’m in.”
Chapter 6
Sebastian didn’t stick around to watch my mom make her big entrance. Instead, he pressed a business card into my palm and left without so much as pausing to say goodbye or good luck or whatever it was you should say to someone when they are stuck sitting in a police precinct for their mom to arrive. I glanced down at the card, unsure what to expect.
Sebastian St. James
Certified Bad Boy
He was the kind of guy who could get away with putting a warning label on his own business card. Then again, maybe being the kind of a seventeen-year-old who carried business cards was its own kind of warning. My fingers instinctively rubbed the thick cardstock, and as much as I hated to admit it, the velvety texture felt good.
I flipped it over and in the left hand corner it gave the address and contact information of a Manhattan law firm where he must have one of the senior partners on retainer. For a boy who got his kicks using lock picks to steal whiskey from his own home, the ability to hand over his lawyer’s number had probably gotten him out of more than a few tight spots.
Detective O’Brian poked his head into the waiting room and said, “Still breathing? That’s good. Try to keep that up, will ya?” before returning to his desk in the inner sanctum. Leaving me to sit there, twirling the business card in clumsy circles as I tried to distract myself by creating a best-case scenario. My mom would be thrilled to learn that I’d been accepted as a student in an elite private school. She’d break things off with Viktor and decide to learn how to be happy on her own. We’d go home and she might attempt some ridiculously complicated recipe from Hungary or Romania or some other Eastern European country, blasting Latin music from our crappy speakers until Mrs. Sampson in apartment 36 yelled at us to quiet down.
I wouldn’t miss that old lady. Not in the slightest. She was the kind of woman you expect to end up splashed across the news as the Trick or Treat Killer who slips razor blades into homemade Halloween cookies. The first time she saw Ben walking toward the apartment with me she had said disdainfully, “Like mother, like daughter, I suppose. Try not to get knocked up. You’ll only regret it.”
Ben had draped an arm across my shoulder and leered at me with mock interest.
“I dunno, I think we would make great parents. I’m thinking Victory Cabbage if it’s a girl, but I’m open to other suggestions.” He had grinned down at me, waiting for my speechlessness to give way to laughter, as if he’d known that arguing with him over ridiculous baby names would soon drive away Mrs. Sampson’s vicious words. Transform it into one big joke.
The memory hit my stomach so painfully that it cramped. Ben could find a way to make me smile through just about anything. Without him, without Audrey, I wouldn’t have enjoyed a single day at our public high school. Starting over at a new high school without them? It felt as unthinkable as chopping off my own limb to survive. Part of me couldn’t believe that the situation could really be this dire. That Sebastian’s offer could truly be my best option. Even if I transferred to Emptor Academy, I’d still be the only student eating lunch by herself. It wouldn’t exactly be hard for an assassin to pick me out of the crowd.
I was so royally screwed.
My phone chirped at me to signal that I had incoming texts.
Ben: You okay?
Audrey: What’s going on? Did they take the Slate? CALL ME!
I fought the urge to reexamine the Slate that had landed me in this mess. The last thing I wanted was for Detective O’Brian to have any more questionable video footage of me. I didn’t know what to believe, but staring at a battery-dead tablet wasn’t going to solve anything. And after being informed that someone was out to kill me, texting anything about the Slate seemed like a particularly bad idea. So instead I sent a quick message back and tried not to flinch every time the door to the precinct opened.
Em: Fine here. Fill you in later.
I should’ve been prepared to see my mom striding toward me, but somehow I wasn’t. Maybe it was the panic glazing her brown eyes that had me rattled. She looked sweaty and scared and absolutely panic-stricken. An unwanted pang of guilt tugged at me as she swept me into a fiercely protective hug. I’d done that to her. I’d scared her speechless.
Someone at the front desk must have paged Detective O'Brian because he sauntered into the waiting room like he owned the place. Judging by the appraising gleam in Detective O’Brian eyes after giving my mom a prolonged once-over, he didn’t see anything wrong with her looks. My already queasy stomach twisted in disgust. Detective Luke O’Brian had no moral qualms pre
venting him from scaring the living daylights out of a sixteen-year-old girl, which meant he was a complete jerk.
In other words, he was exactly her type.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Danvers,” he said smoothly.
“It’s Ms. Danvers, actually, but you can call me Vera.” She released me from the tight clasp of her arms, but couldn’t seem to resist resting a hand on my shoulder blade. I must not have inherited my shaking hands from my mom, because her grip remained steady as she focused her attention on the jackass in front of us.
“Well, Vera, I’m Homicide Detective Luke O’Brian.” His chest puffed out as he lingered on the homicide part as if it were possible my mom might fail to understand the gravity of the job unless he spelled it out for her.
My mom blanched as she pulled me closer. “Is it Viktor?” she demanded. “Did he do something?”
Oh god.
I didn’t know how to feel. Part of me was pissed off that she even had to ask if her boyfriend was involved in something deadly. Furious that she would invite someone into our lives if some small part of her wondered if he might be dangerous. Another part of me was already sick of being forced to explain the events of yesterday, again, knowing full well that none of it would make any more sense now than it did when I’d spoken to Officer McHaffrey.
Except this time I’d also have to put up with Detective Dumbass checking himself out in every reflective surface as he continued hitting on my mom. He’d also be waiting for me to slip up. To reveal some discrepancy between this explanation and what I said in the interrogation room.
So I decided to keep the whole thing as straightforward as possible.
“Remember how I told you I was going to be writing in Starbucks yesterday?” My mom nodded so I pressed on. “Well, Detective O’Brian here—” I forced myself to spit out the title, “believes that someone in a baseball cap tried to kill me.”
My mom’s immediate hug was so tight that she effectively cut off any further explanation. There was no way I could speak when I could barely manage a tight wheeze.
Dial Em for Murder Page 4
