It takes all my discipline to face them calmly.
“Back up to the Chancellor’s office?” I say.
“Not this time,” the one called Brenner says.
Closing in on me from both sides, they herd me in the opposite direction, to the northwest corner of campus.
I see our destination, dark and plain and isolated from every other structure around it: the Prison Tower.
My stomach clenches and my legs go stiff.
Of all the places on campus you don’t want to go, this is the most dreaded.
If you walk through those doors, something has gone very wrong.
This is where they brought Miles Griffin and Ozzy Duncan before Ozzy’s scheduled execution.
I don’t know exactly why they’re “escorting” me here, but I can guess what the topic of conversation will be.
Brenner uses a keycard to unlock the door—the only doors at Kingmakers that are electronically sealed, impervious to the students’ lockpicking techniques.
The other groundskeeper shoves me through the doorway.
“Keep your fucking hands off me, or I’ll break your arm,” I snarl. “I can walk on my own, unlike you who barely looks like you can blink and breathe at the same time.”
The groundskeeper clenches his fist, taking a menacing step toward me. Brenner clears his throat, reminding him that, for the present at least, their orders are to transport and not attack me.
The Prison Tower has a squat and ugly shape, the interior damp and cold from the thick stone walls and lack of windows. I can hear water dripping somewhere in an irregular, maddening rhythm. The low ceiling of this bottom floor makes me feel cramped and claustrophobic—I could reach up and touch it without stretching.
“This way,” Brenner says quietly.
He leads me through a weathered wooden door.
On the other side, as I knew he would be, the Chancellor waits.
And worse, much worse—this time he’s accompanied by Professor Penmark.
Lola Fischer stands off to the side, looking simultaneously eager and slightly nauseated. She shifts from foot to foot, fiddling with a lock of her long, wavy hair.
The room is empty of furniture—no tables or chairs, no rug on the floor. The walls are bare stone without any windows. Yet I notice the presence of several metal hooks and rings, bolted to the walls and draped from the low ceiling. The shackles hang in the still air like a hangman’s noose.
The door closes behind me, Brenner remaining in the room with us, the other groundskeepers staying outside.
I stand before my three accusers. Taking a slow breath to calm my heart, I tuck my hands in my trousers so no one will see them shaking.
“Dean Yenin,” the Chancellor says, in his low, gravelly voice. “Do you know why you’re here?”
This is the oldest trick in the world, used by every traffic cop in existence when they pull someone over.
You should never guess at your own misconduct.
“No,” I say mildly. “I have no idea.”
I refuse to look at Lola, or Penmark, either. I keep my gaze fixed steadily on the Chancellor, his eyes glinting like sunken treasure in the wrinkled coral of his face.
“You’ve been accused of a very serious infraction,” the Chancellor says, quietly. “Or more accurately, your inamorata has been accused. You have a right to face your informer.”
He nods toward Lola.
I don’t give her the satisfaction of a single glance. She’s nothing to me. No matter how hard she tantrums for attention.
My only concern is discerning what Lola knows, and what she’s told the Chancellor.
The Chancellor waits, the silence thick and cold as fog.
I keep my mouth shut.
He who speaks first, loses.
“Cat Romero killed Rocco Prince,” the Chancellor declares.
Oh, fuck.
I stand perfectly still, hands in pockets, face expressionless. He won’t get so much as a flick of an eyelash out of me.
“Lola Fischer says you witnessed the murder,” the Chancellor says. “She says you’ve been using that information to blackmail Cat Romero for almost a year.”
I stay silent, waiting to hear what else he knows. And more importantly, what evidence they have.
“If you were not involved in Rocco’s death, now is the time to speak,” the Chancellor tells me, his coal-black eyes boring into mine. “This is your only chance for clemency. Tell me everything you know, and you may be absolved.”
He wants me to throw Cat under the bus. He brought me here first, without her. He’s trying to get me to crack. Which means . . . he doesn’t have enough evidence without my testimony. Whatever Lola told him or showed him, it’s not quite enough.
That doesn’t mean we’re not in a fuck of a lot of trouble.
It only indicates that I might have a chance to take the heat off Cat.
I take a deep breath, hoping I know what I’m doing.
“Yes,” I say boldly.
The Chancellor quirks one black eyebrow.
“Yes, what?” he demands.
“Yes, I know who killed Rocco Prince.”
Professor Penmark leans forward with a hungry expression on his hollow face.
“Well?” the Chancellor says, impatiently. “Are you going to tell us?”
“No,” I say.
This next silence is like the vibration after the ringing of a bell. A bell that can’t be un-rung.
“Dean,” the Chancellor says ominously. “Choose your next words very carefully. Are you telling me that you did indeed witness the murder, but you refuse to confirm if the perpetrator was Cat Romero?”
“That’s right,” I say. “I know. And I won’t tell.”
Professor Penmark lets slip a horrible smile of anticipation.
The Chancellor clenches his jaw, disappointed, but resolute.
“We’ll see about that,” he says.
Brenner strides forward and seizes one of my arms, Penmark the other. They force me down on my knees and raise my arms on either side of me, in the shape of a pall.
Penmark pulls the chains down from the ceiling, closing the manacles around my wrists and wrenching them into position so the chains are taut and I can’t move.
Lola stares at me, fixated. She looks like a child who flipped a switch, and now stands in awe of what she’s put into motion.
Strangely, I’m not afraid.
Whatever happens next, I know I won’t break.
I’m the only thing left standing between Cat and certain destruction.
Once I’m fixed in place, the Chancellor nods to Brenner.
“Go get her,” he says.
29
Cat
The moment I see that Dean is not waiting for me outside Chemistry class as promised, I know something’s wrong. Dean wouldn’t forget. He wouldn’t be late.
So I’m not entirely surprised when a brawny groundskeeper seizes me by the arm and begins to drag me in the direction of the Prison Tower.
I suppose I wouldn’t have been surprised either way. This is something I’ve dreaded every day since I chucked Rocco off that wall. Since I even started planning it.
I did my best to cover my tracks—but I always knew this particular skeleton in my closet was clawing at the door, desperate to get out.
I feel a numb, floating sensation as the groundskeeper pulls me across the endless expanse of lawn that separates the Keep from that dark, lonely tower.