The Third Lie's the Charm (7 page)

The clock tower, Station 2, loomed ahead, imposing as it ticked past the one o'clock hour. Year-two students had Open this period, and the most popular loitered around the brick behemoth happy and loud, their free period slipping away with every laugh or friendly punch.
Tempus
edax
rerum.
“Time is the devourer of all things.” Time always seemed hungriest during Open.

I loved the tower. The long shadows it cast on the green, the five-degree temperature change when you entered the darkened space. I made it a point to walk past it every day after school, and I spent a lot of time within its cool walls reading by one of the windows, thinking, or talking to Grace. But today I veered early. At the center of the popular crowd stood Taylor and beside her Bethany, and I didn't have time for them. It was hard enough to avoid Liam and Maddie all day. At the rate my people-to-avoid list was growing, I wasn't going to be able to leave my house by the end of the week.

Sure enough, I heard my name carried sweetly across the green, a slight question mark tacked at the end. I figured it had to do with my new blood-red locks.

When I turned (because you always turned for Taylor Wright), she waved me over, her white teeth catching the sun. She didn't even wait to see if I'd come, because everyone always came when she called them. Instead she turned, continuing her conversation, assuming that I'd be scampering over like her well-trained dog.

“I can't! I have a study group,” I yelled over, referencing the pile of books in my arms for effect. A hush fell over Taylor's lackeys. Taylor's eyes narrowed, and she took a breath like she might yell something back at me, but she pursed her lips instead.

I just tucked the books closer to my chest and rushed nerd-alert style across the remainder of the green toward the Pemberly Brown library. Toward Bradley Farrow. Toward ex-Headmaster Sinclair. Swallowing back any nervousness, I swiped my student ID to enter.

I braced myself to see the ex-headmaster, totally focused on keeping my face impassive. Worried that he would take one look at me and know that I knew about his half brother.

But I shouldn't have worried. A new guy manned Sinclair's post. His security hat was pulled low over his eyes and he was young—couldn't have been more than twenty-five—and scrolling through something on his phone.

“Where's the headmaster?” I blurted out, hearing my mistake as the kid's forehead furrowed. “I mean, Mr. Sinclair. Where's Mr. Sinclair?”

“Sabbatical. Can I help you with something?”

Now it was my turn to furrow my brow. Sinclair had taken a sabbatical right at the same time another student died under circumstances eerily similar to his half brother? This was more than just a coincidence. It had to be.

“There you are,” Bradley called from a table near the door of the library. His cheekbones were sunken, eyes puffy. Blank eyes met my questioning ones.

I glanced nervously out the glass doors to make sure I hadn't been followed and double-checked the security desk. The young kid smirked down at his phone.

“Please tell me you know what all this means. How the hell did no one know that Sinclair's brother was killed in a Factum Virtus?” Bradley asked.

I smoothed my hair, self-conscious all of the sudden about the shocking new color. Bradley didn't appear to notice either way. “I don't know, but it's related, right?” I kept my voice low. I wondered if I should mention Grace's journal page tucked away in my pocket. I could shift in my seat and pull it out, unfold the page and smooth it against my leg. Let Bradley read the words. I could. But I looked down at my fingers instead. I wasn't ready yet.

“What does this even mean?” Bradley asked again even though no one had the answers.

“I have no idea. That new security guard said Sinclair's on sabbatical, but Seth got his address. We can go after school. Maybe ask him some questions?”

Bradley leaned back in his seat and rubbed his fingers roughly over his eyes. He didn't want to do this. I could tell he didn't want to go there. He wanted last week. He'd give anything to go back to a time where Alistair was still alive. If he could stop his friend from taking the challenge, he would give everything he had. And I knew exactly how he felt. I'd still give anything to go back to last year. Back to Grace.

“Meet me at the arches after ninth.” Bradley's eyes flicked up to the clock above us. 1:48. Open was almost over.

The arches. Station 5. Pemberly Brown had twelve stations that were really just random plaques on school landmarks etched with ominous Latin proverbs. The stations also marked the entrances to the underground tunnels. The tunnels that the societies had been fighting over for the past forty years. Whoever owned the tunnels owned the school. The Sisterhood had originally built them as a way to move about the school freely after the boys had invaded the private girls' academy. And now that they've vanquished the Brotherhood, the Sisters had the tunnels back.

“The arches?” My voice cracked a little. According to legend, if you kissed under the arches, Station 5, you'd get married. Nerves spread like a virus in my belly. It felt wrong to imagine anything as selfish as a kiss right now, but I couldn't help it.

“Yeah, but first follow me. We've got a few minutes left and I have an idea.”

I followed Bradley back toward the front desk.

“Hey, man,” he said to the security guard, who barely looked up. “I'm an office aide for Mr. Sinclair and I accidentally left my Econ binder in his office Friday. Mind if I slip in and get it?”

“Be my guest,” the kid said, nodding toward Sinclair's open door. I followed Bradley in, amazed at his natural ability to lie. I thought I was good. We actually made a good team, and all I had to do was follow. Not a bad gig.

As soon as we were through the door, we sifted through piles of papers, moved books, opened drawers. Sinclair's desk looked like a hoarder's paradise, so we really couldn't do much more damage. I flipped through an old, dog-eared yearbook, marveling at how different kids from the '60s looked compared to our school pictures.

“Kate…” Bradley's voice had an edge to it that immediately grabbed my attention.

I waded through the piles of paper and walked over to where he was standing with a thin sheet of paper trembling in his hand.

“Look at this.”

It was nothing really. Or it could have been nothing. Just a class list for third-years. Rows and rows of black names printed on cheap printer paper.

But it was the slash of yellow that caught my eye. And the name it highlighted.

Alistair
Reynolds.

“What the hell is he doing with a class list with Alistair's name highlighted?” I asked.

The list was at the top of a pile of zoological records in regards to our school mascot, a wolf whose habitat was maintained on campus as a part of a new Parent Teacher Association grant. His name was Bondi, and it apparently took thousands of dollars a month to support his reserve. Fascinating if you cared. I didn't. The only thing I cared about was piecing together all of these seemingly random pieces of information to understand what had happened to Alistair and why, but it was like someone had mixed the pieces of five different puzzles together into one box. None of them seemed to fit.

“We have five minutes to get back to Main,” I said, checking the time on my phone. “But I'll meet you by the arches after school.”

Bradley tucked the files into his blazer and raised an eyebrow. “What? Oh yeah…the arches.”

His golden eyes were dull and blank again. It was almost like he didn't see me, and I couldn't blame him. In fact, I knew the feeling. I imagined all he could see was his best friend's name, reduced to nothing but highlighted black letters on a piece of paper.

I had to admit that there was a vague sense of disappointment when Bradley didn't grab my hand after school. So much for the romance of the arches. I did, however, manage to get some type of bug stuck in my eye. I tried to tell myself that it had nothing at all to do with my furiously batting eyelashes. Surely that was just a natural, feminine response to the hotness that is Bradley Farrow.

“You have the address?”

“5067 Longacre Lane,” I said, trying to fish the bug out without smudging my mascara or causing permanent damage to my cornea.

Longacre Lane ran parallel to the main drive leading to PB and was still officially considered campus, so we walked through the gardens toward the road. Neat houses were tucked on the street, many inhabited by the families of teachers and administrators who worked at Pemberly Brown.

I didn't want to think about what we'd actually do when we found the house. Sinclair was dangerous. He'd had a hand in covering up Grace's death, snuffing out every piece of evidence to protect the school at all costs. And now that Ms. D. had demoted him to head of campus security, he'd stopped shaving and started wearing sweat suits to school. He looked like Forrest Gump after he ran across America, only with crazy eyes.

“I'll ring the doorbell and distract Sinclair at the door, tell him I have to interview him for a project or something.” Bradley rubbed his eyes. “Go around back and see if you can enter through a back door or window. Take anything that looks interesting.”

Clearly, Bradley didn't have any qualms about putting my personal safety at risk to further our little investigation. Liam would have flipped his shit if he was there to see me sneak around the back of the house to do Bradley's dirty work. I tried really hard to convince myself that it was empowering, that Bradley and I were on the same page, both of us willing to sacrifice anything for justice. But mostly I just felt disposable. And a little scared. Breaking and entering into Sinclair's house freaked me out.

I remembered reading an article in one of my mom's boring home-decorating magazines that claimed a person's home represented its owner's inner psyche. If there was any truth to that BS, Sinclair's house was the spitting image of his identity. It was smaller than the rest on the lane, sitting on a large corner lot, all smug and proud. But the grass was wild and the flowerbeds overgrown, and tall bushes covered most of the windows. It looked like a house that had given up, a house that didn't have anything left to lose. It looked ominous.

I did my best to ignore my shaky legs and moved toward the back door, listening carefully for the ring of the doorbell, my cue.

Ding
dong.

The back porch of the house was screened, and I held my breath when I tried the door.

Open. Open. God, Grace, whoever is listening, please let this door open.

Someone must have been listening, because the door slid quietly on its track and I slipped through like a whisper. The doorbell chimed a second time and my heart thundered in response to the sound, but I couldn't hear footsteps approaching the door, couldn't hear Sinclair's voice or Bradley requesting a fake interview. Maybe he was out and we could both hunt for information.

But as I slid closer to the window, I noticed something red along the glass, a gross swipe of jelly or some sort of candy. Ew. I hoped I wouldn't have to touch it as I crawled through the window.

“Ohhhhh.” I spun around at the moan, expecting Bradley behind me in the yard, but no one was there. The sound had come from inside. There was someone inside. There was someone close to the window.

More jelly on the floor. Why was there so much jelly on the floor? Where was the broken bottle? I stepped closer. And closer. And saw him. The pools of red on the floor weren't jelly. Not jelly. Not jelly. Not jelly. I screamed as loud as my voice would let me.

Bradley sprinted to the backyard, the door slamming as he entered the back porch. His eyes were wide as he pressed his hands onto my shoulders asking if I was all right, surveying me from top to bottom.

“The window…”

Bradley pulled the screen free and opened the window farther, sticking his head in and gasping himself. “Oh my God.”

Sinclair was sprawled on the kitchen floor, surrounded by blood. My eyes blurred at the sight of him, either with tears or as some sort of automatic coping mechanism to protect me from further trauma. I couldn't do this. I couldn't deal with another death.

But then I heard it again. The moan.

“Oh my God, Kate, he's still alive! Call 911!”

Sinclair's eyes bulged as we came closer and he shook his head, trying to move closer and closer to the door. His arms were completely covered in blood, and half of his face appeared severely disfigured. “Wooolf.” He said the word as I dialed 911 and tried to explain what we'd found.

Bradley gently pressed towels over Sinclair's wounds and he moaned in response. “What happened?” he asked, searching the room.

“Wooolf,” was all Sinclair was able to say.

“Five minutes,” I said, placing the phone on the counter. I couldn't look at him. I couldn't look down. And then I remembered why we'd come here, how we'd thought Sinclair was involved. Maybe he was as much a victim as anyone else. Five minutes. I rushed into the family room where a TV screen glowed, odd shadows cast along the walls and ceiling. Nothing but a broken lamp and some dirt knocked out of a planter. I searched the rest of the first floor and found nothing but tipped furniture, evidence of a break-in.

Distant sirens rang out. The second floor. I had to check the second floor. I ran toward the front of the house, toward the stairs that would lead me up. And there, perched in the middle of a step was a note on the same creamy card stock as Alistair's message.

Part of an old yearbook page had been pasted to the card, bold words scripted in red over the faces of students.

Specta lupos
. It's your turn now. Anni 1964. Page 17.

Faciem Lupis. Wolf. “Face the wolves.” Save the Brothers. Year 1964. Page 17. This must have been what Sinclair had been mumbling about. I shoved the note under my uniform shirt just as the foyer was bathed in red and blue lights, and then I heard it. A sound so quiet, so menacing that I felt it in my bones instead of hearing it in my ears. The sirens began to wail, and for a moment, I thought I must have imagined it, but in the split second of silence, I heard it again. From the shadows. A low, menacing growl.