PROLOGUE
Rusty
There weren’t a lot of jobs in Rocky Point, Maine, especially after the lumber mill shut down. And custodial services didn’t exactly pay a mint, even at a fancy school like Blackbrook Academy. But Rusty Nayler knew the secret of success:
Rich folk played by a different set of rules.
In that way, Rusty could still be a part of the game. He held the keys to every lock in the school. With Rusty on their side, a desperate student could find their way into the labs after hours. They might even get late-night access to the contents of their teacher’s desk drawers.
For a price.
And then there were the . . . extracurriculars. Blackbrook had a curfew, and strict policies about drinking and private shenanigans in the dorms. As a member of the staff, Rusty was tasked with upholding those policies.
But he could also be convinced to look the other way, or even help hide the evidence. It was extraordinary, the things that money could buy.
Over the years, Rusty had amassed quite a tidy sum from Blackbrook students with too much money and not enough sense. It was a nice gig. Certainly, the perks made it easier to ignore the jeers of students when he was mopping up their messes or emptying their trash cans. He never responded, but he did keep it in mind when he set his fees.
That was part of the game. He never could understand the locals who wouldn’t play along. Those like Linda White, who knew the rules as well as he did but rejected every chance to take advantage of them. Those like young Vaughn Green, who refused to even believe the game existed and that he was part of it . . . whether he liked it or not.
Or so Rusty had always thought. He’d given Green a job when the boy first came to Blackbrook, scholarship in hand, eyes shining with delusions Rusty didn’t have the heart to dispel. Green might be a Blackbrook student, but he wasn’t really one of them. For two years, he’d watched the poor kid working himself to death, trying to play the game against those who’d already bought themselves a winning hand.
But then, the storm had come. Green had shown a different side of himself that day.
It took a murder for him to get a clue.
And in the weeks that followed, Rusty saw how Green was sneaking around and taking advantage of the chaos that had followed the storm. Little wonder. Ever since the headmaster’s murder, Blackbrook was in free fall. Parents had yanked their precious youngsters’ enrollment. The administration was forced to cut back on staff hours and even terminate a few jobs. Everyone had to look out for themselves.
That’s what Rusty was doing out here, at midnight, forcing a stubborn old lock buried in a tangle of knotty vines. He should have charged more for this task. But some deserved favors. Those who had weathered the storm by Rusty’s side definitely counted.
The student had remained silent the whole time Rusty struggled with the lock. Usually, they never stopped talking, always ready to explain in great detail how they weren’t really a cheater or a degenerate or a thief but that this was a special circumstance.
Not this time. Maybe his companion knew there was no point in lying.
Rusty hacked away at the vines until the creaky door budged. No one had used this tunnel since Prohibition. Lord only knew what might be hidden away down there.
He cast a careful glance at the kid. “Okay. We’re in.”
His companion nodded once and climbed past him into the hole in the vines. Rusty eased in, too, casting the weak yellow beam from his flashlight around the dirty stone walls riddled with invading roots, mold, and creepy-crawlies.
“What are you looking for again?” he asked skeptically.
“I didn’t tell you the first time.”
Fair enough. But Rusty was sticking around, anyway. There’d be hell to pay if something happened in this death trap and got traced back to him. Blackbrook was under enough scrutiny, and the interim headmaster wasn’t about to let things slide.
But it was all Rusty could do to keep up. The kid wasn’t even using a flashlight. He turned a corner, then another, and all of a sudden, Rusty knew exactly where they were headed.
“Wait a minute—”
But Rusty was the only one who stopped. He shone the beam up over the familiar walls.
“You never said this was where we were going.”
Rusty turned, but the kid had vanished.
“Hey!” he hissed, suddenly very conscious of who else might be listening. “Where’d you go?”
His flashlight beam flickered as he cast it about the dank space, illuminating mossy walls and detritus washed up in the flood. Generations’ worth of odds and ends.
“Get back here!” Rusty whispered into the shadows. But the kid was gone.
His light faltered again. Rusty tapped at the base of the flashlight. He should have put in new batteries before this little outing. In the darkness he thought he heard some shuffling, and when the light came up again, it shone on more junk. Decades old, by the look of it. Rusty had no idea how the papers and pictures and boxes and blankets had survived the flood. He peered closer. A hobo’s hideout? But then he saw the school crest, and the name on the papers.
Oh. Him.
Just another enterprising young Blackbrook cheat. Fifty-odd years of thieves and degenerates. Rich folk with their own sets of rules.
He heard footsteps at his back. At last, they could get out of there.
His flashlight flickered again, but not before he saw the face of the person approaching.
“It’s you,” blurted Rusty Nayler.
They were the last words he would ever speak.
1
Orchid
Class was over, but the bell didn’t ring. The intercom system was still a bit spotty since the flood. Their teacher, Dr. Olverson, went on about Planck’s constant for another few minutes, then stopped and looked sheepishly at the clock.
“Oh,” she said. “I guess . . . you’re all dismissed? Don’t forget chapter four for homework! Do the first six questions in the back of the text.”
They “all” consisted of six students, each of whom was silent as they scraped back their lab stools and packed up. Orchid McKee watched them cluster into groups as they left class for lunch or their dorm. She was used to not being invited to join. What she wasn’t used to were the stares. She hated being watched.
But now, as part of the Murder Crew, it was nearly as constant as Planck’s.
Yikes. Orchid. On second thought, maybe it was a good thing she didn’t have friends to whom she might say dorky stuff like that out loud.
She finished wrapping her scarf around her face and headed out into the frigid cold. The scars of the flood were still evident everywhere on campus. Yellow bands of caution tape stretched across the quad, guarding against the endless slicks of mud and black ice. Most of the buildings had boards and warning signs over doors and windows. Blackbrook was in session, but it still felt abandoned. Most of the student body had not returned in the wake of the murder. The ones who did said it was creepy.
Orchid and the rest of the Murder Crew were the creepiest part.
Speaking of the Murder Crew . . . Vaughn Green bounded down the stairs of the administration building and met her on the walk. “Hey!”
“Hey,” she replied warily. Which Vaughn would meet her this time?
“I thought I might run into you.”
“Chances are good. There’s only a hundred kids left on campus.”