“Move out of my way,” she demands.
I do as she says, turning to watch her sashay through the courtyard straight for the cafeteria.
“Well, that went well.” Breaker laughs as I step up beside him.
“She’s going to be trouble,” Dixon adds.
“That’s the kind of trouble I live for.” I pat them both on the shoulder and head in the same direction as Palmer.
Thinking about the days before of zero contact between myself and Palmer sends a surge of excitement through my body. This is a game for us, trying to prove who is more powerful when it comes to the other. Control is something neither of us are willing to surrender, but that’s the whole point. She finds the fun in demonstrating her strength. My amusement comes from watching her try to own me.
We enter the cafeteria to searching eyes. Breaker and Dixon head straight to our new spot, a booth against the furthest wall. This is the only way we can keep our eyes on everyone.
I cut to the front of the line with no argument from anyone and grab a tray. While reaching for a drink, I see Dillon leaning over one of the longer tables, talking to Palmer. Her eyes are far too focused on the fork in her hand. It amuses me how effortlessly she’s blowing him off. When he reaches forward and tucks his finger under her chin to force her attention to him, I set my tray down.
I stride forward, then stop in my tracks. Palmer stabs at his hand and stands with him trapped under her fork.
“Don’t ever fucking touch me again, you got it?” She releases her hold, and the fork falls to the floor as she walks away. She’s barely a foot from him when Dillon hits her where it hurts.
“I thought you were like your sister!” Dillon shouts.
Palmer twirls on the balls of her feet and saunters up to him. “Don’t get it twisted. I’m just like my sister, and if you knew a damn thing about her, that should be enough warning not to ever put your sleazy, good for nothing hands on me.” She stands firm, unmoved, exposing a strength I’ve always known she had. Dillon, on the other hand, is learning what it means to step on the toes of a Weston girl.
Their little standoff has everyone’s attention, and after a minute, the corners of Palmer’s mouth tip up in a barely-there smile.
“There’s my girl,” I murmur.
Without uttering another word, she turns and leaves. Her eyes never search for us, proving what I already know. She’s able to stand shoulder to shoulder with the likes of us.
“Where’s your lunch?” Breaker asks, noticing my empty hands.
I slump down in a chair, linking my hands together in one large fist. With a swift smack to the table, I start to calm down. “I lost my appetite.”
“Girl has some balls,” Dixon states.
“Dillon is up to something.” My stare locks on my quarterback. After several minutes, his eyes dart over his shoulder, catching me.
Not that I’d ever look away. I want him to see my eyes on him. He should know he’s being watched, especially if he fancies harassing Palmer, because that shit won’t work for me. She’s officially off limits as far as my patience is concerned.
“Dillon’s a harmless prick. He gets off on sniffing around what’s ours,” Breaker says. “Did it with Quinn. Did it with every piece of ass Dixon’s ever sniffed around.”
“We have more pressing matters to deal with than a steroid junkie,” Byron says as he slips in beside us. By the look on Breaker and Dixon’s faces, I’d say everyone is on the same page.
“Well, I think it’s safe to assume that whoever attacked Palmer is more than likely the same person who’s trying to get you charged with Reed and Georgina’s murders,” Dixon says. “I’m still trying to hack into the officers’ phones, but whoever set them up didn’t want anyone getting in.”
“Keep trying,” Byron demands.
“And if they aren’t the ones, then they have to at least be connected to them in some way,” Breaker adds, climbing on top of the booth and resting on the small ledge connecting ours to the one behind us.
This isn’t the smartest place to be having this conversation. Although no one has seemed worried about the allegations against me, there’s plenty of breathing room between us and everyone else. I prefer they keep their distance.
The three of them compare theories and bounce ideas off each other on who could be doing this and why. There’s nothing for me to contribute, nothing else for me to give.
“So, I’ll ask again,”—Byron raps his knuckles on the tabletop— “what’s the plan?”
“No plan.” I stand and grab my bag off the floor. “I’m going to be late for my next class.”
“When have you ever given a fuck if you’re late?” Breaker argues. “You’re top of our class. You could not show up for another class for the rest of the year and still ace your exams. Don’t you think this is kind of important? Someone is framing you for the murders of two girls.”
At this point, these charges feel more out of my hands than anything ever has.
“Whoever’s doing this isn’t done. That’s what I’m certain of.” I exhale a lungful of angered breath and poke my finger into my chest. “I’m looking to face jail time for murders I didn’t commit, and the girl who I fed to the lions”— I gesture to them, which isn’t fair considering I’m the king of this jungle— “somehow has stolen a part of me I didn’t know existed, so yes, my fucking plan is to do nothing.”
That’s not exactly true. I won’t do anything hasty when it comes to Palmer. Careless won’t work for her. Small and subtle is the way to go.
“Marek Hawthorne!”
I search the room and see one of the dean’s secretaries at the doorway. When we lock eyes, she tilts her head, requesting me to follow her.
“All right, boys! My time is up,” I announce, hiking my bag over my shoulder.
I’ve been expecting this request from Dean Eberstark. The increased police presence is more than likely a ruse to prove to our major donor families that safety is his top priority.
“Deny. Deny. Deny,” Byron advises.
“I didn’t do anything,” I plead.
“Doesn’t matter. They’ve already made up their minds about you,” Dixon adds. “And here’s the information you wanted. I did a little extra digging for you.” He hands me a blue folder, and I tuck it into my backpack.
“You’ve always loved extra credit.” I nod my chin in thanks.
After a quick hike across campus, I’m sitting in front of the dean’s desk, waiting for him to hang up his phone call. The blue folder Dixon gave me is begging for me to read it. I wonder what he found.
My eyes skim along Dean Eberstark’s bookshelves. Photo frames line many of them. Snapshots of the dean with the elite on campus. Mr. and Mrs. Weston smile wide in a photo that appears to have been taken at a Christmas party. On the far left is a black frame, and in the middle of it, is a photo of young Henry with his arm draped over the dean’s shoulders. The black and silver flag hanging in the background behind them has some sort of design that’s distorted by the folds.
“Henry was the top of his class.” His eyes dart between me and the frame. “Much like yourself, Marek. You’ve been given quite the opportunity here at Glass Heart Academy. So much so, your future possibilities are endless.”