“I need you to come with me.”
He takes my arm and begins to lead me through the crowd. I should feel relieved by the rescue, but my stomach knots as I follow the man. Why did he know my name? Why was he looking for me specifically?
The other students murmur and hiss their speculations as I pass, some even grinning triumphantly, as if they’ve figured out what’s going on. That only makes me more nervous.
When we’re free of the angry mob, I manage to mumble, “Wh-where are you taking me?”
“The administrative building,” he answers without sparing me a glance.
“But why?”
“You’ll be informed once we arrive. Just come along.”
“Y-you saw that, right?” I sound so hysterical that I have to drink in a deep breath before I continue, “What they were doing to me back there?”
He makes a noise. Once again, he doesn’t look at me, but thanks to the lights from a news helicopter flying overhead, I witness his jaw clench. “We’ll be at the administrative building shortly.”
I’ve been through this type of situation before, so I know there’s no use asking any more questions. He’s not going to tell me a goddamn thing. Very likely, he doesn’t even know what’s going on himself. He’s just meant to deliver me to higher authorities, who’ll no doubt question me extensively.
Why, though? Why are they bringing me to the administrative building? Did the officer hear what the other students were saying? That they’re blaming me for the fire at Angelle House?
If he did, I may be more screwed than I realized.
When we finally reach our destination in the center of campus, he doesn’t slow his pace as we bound up the stone steps to the main entrance, and I take extra-long strides just to keep up with him. The interior of the building is buzzing with activity, a weird sight at this time of night, but not surprising given the fire. The officer guides me through the frantic chaos as teachers and staff rush back and forth, warding off concerned calls from parents and inquiries from the press. We go up a wide staircase to the second floor, and he turns me in the direction of the guidance counselors’ suite.
My heart is pounding as he escorts me inside and then leads me to a conference room. There’s a long shiny wooden table, and he pulls one of the chairs in the very middle of it out and tells me to take a seat. I do so, hesitantly, staring up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
“Please tell me what’s going on,” I try again to get more information, even though I know it’s a useless effort. Sure enough, he just looks at me with a raised brow, then turns and leaves the room without another word.
Shit.
I’ve played this game before—the waiting game. The accident with James wasn’t even my first time interacting with authorities. That’s one of the unfortunate results of having Jenn for a mother. I became fairly familiar with the cops back home, having been regularly interrogated by CPS and the authorities about Mom and her drug using, drug associates, and drug dealing.
By the time I was twelve, I was already a fucking vault and the cops eventually gave up questioning me with their obligatory social worker tagalong. They knew it was a waste of breath and energy trying to get me to snitch.
At least, until James happened and all of Rayfort demanded blood for blood.
Then they were very interested in what I had to say.
Dread begins to settle in, turning me into a jumpy and impatient mess. I remember what comes next. The hours of questioning. The allegations. The good cop, bad cop bullshit as they try to break me down. I’ve been through it all before, except the very last time I was recovering in a hospital bed while they questioned me about the death of my best friend.
I can’t understand why I would be a suspect now, though. I wasn’t anywhere near the dorm when the fire started.
My innocence might not matter, though, since the whole campus seems to think I’m guilty. For the first time in almost a year, I wish I were back home. At least I knew how to handle these situations in my own world. And Angelview Academy sure as fuck isn’t it. I’m just a visitor here, playing pretend among the rich and powerful, and it’s obvious they’d all love to see me nosedive into oblivion and shatter to pieces—just like that water bottle they’d thrown at my face.
Hauling in a deep breath, I fist my hands on the table and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Calm down,” I whisper over and over as tears of frustration trickle down my cheeks. I swipe them away, along with the dirt from my classmates’ assault, then rake my hands back through my long, disheveled hair. “Calm the fuck down, Mal.”
I haven’t done anything wrong, but my heart rate won’t come down, and my stomach won’t stop gurgling like it’s going to explode at any moment. I’m having a hard time breathing again. More than anything in the world, I wish I could call Carley. She would know just what to say to help me settle my nerves. She was the first person who ever gave me true stability, but I don’t feel that now. Not even close. I’m out on a ledge, all by myself, one step away from tumbling into an endless abyss. There’s no one to pull me back from the edge and save me from myself.
No Carley to comfort me.
No Loni or Henry to have my back.
No Liam to engage me.
No Saint to infuriate me.
Saint. Fucking Saint.
Thinking of him doesn’t help the tears disappear. It only makes it worse. I’m so terrified that he’s dead, my chest feels like it’s caving in. I gasp in air and slap my hands flat on the table, as though it will anchor me from the spiral I’m about to fly into.
He can’t be dead.
The thought of Saint anything but thriving and arrogant and larger than life just seems so … wrong. There’s so much that’s unresolved between us. So much fury and desire and longing and sorrow. If he’s gone, what happens to all that? Will I be forced to carry it with me for the rest of my life, with no hope of closure? Am I going to be stuck with this giant hole in my heart, just because I never got to know why he did what he did to me?
Finally, the dam breaks, despite my best efforts to hold everything in, and my slow falling tears become a downpour as I recall my last interaction with him.
Saint had blown up my whole world without blinking. Without looking like he cared at all. I’d hated him more than ever after he did that. I’d struck him and threatened him, and…
Fuck.
I threatened to kill him tonight.
And at the time, I’d meant every word as people stood around listening to me say it.
I’d slapped him, threatened him, and his dorm ended up burning down just hours later.
That’s why I’m here. They all think the worst of me anyway. Why wouldn’t they think me capable of killing someone, especially him?
But I didn’t. This isn’t like last time. This isn’t James. This time, I really had nothing to do with it.
I hear the door click, and I tense, my fingernails digging into the top of the table as I wait to see who’s coming inside.
A breath of relief rushes past my lips when Headmaster Aldridge and Mrs. Wilmer, the senior guidance counselor, stroll through the door.
“Ms. Ellis,” Headmaster Aldridge says in his customarily firm voice, his eyebrows shifting slightly as he takes in my appearance. “Thank you for coming in so willingly.”