1
Alan Rook
Alan Rook’s breath puffed as his feet pounded the sidewalk. Cold sweat coated his skin, making him wince against the frosted air surrounding him. He couldn’t stop.
His late night runs had become the only way to control his fear, by shedding it in little droplets that traced the path of the sidewalk. Alan had been out every night for the past week, pushing his body along the same route. The familiarity of each street corner, each stretch between the ornate, ostentatious street lamps soothed his oversensitive nerves. His lungs ached as he wheezed. The muscles in his calves burned, but still he didn’t slow.
The fear chased him onward.
Ever since that conversation with his goodie-two-shoes student Adrienne Lewis, he’d known his time at Embassy Academy was coming to an end.
Adrienne’s stepsister, Charlotte, he understood. She was a manipulative social climber like him. But Adrienne was different. More honest. Alan had threatened her to keep her mouth shut, and it had worked, but only for a time. Eventually, she would tell someone about his dealings.
And now, with the death of another of his students, he knew it was time to move on.
It wasn’t his fault that she had become addicted to amphetamines. That once they didn’t give her the highs she craved, she’d pressed him for something more.
He’d denied her. Frankly, Alan deserved a medal for turning down the extra dough he could have gotten by peddling harder substances. It would have been easy, what with being surrounded by rich, entitled brats all day every day.
The dead girl’s parents wouldn’t see it that way.
They would be looking for justice for their daughter’s death, and if they discovered it was him who’d sold her that first baggie of little white pills, well…
Alan would have to be more careful about who he sold to in the future. No more sniveling, snotty politicians’ kids, that’s for sure. He was sure he could find kids who were attending his next school on scholarship. The ones who were so bent on proving themselves that they’d take the help he offered them in the form of a chemical boost. Ones whose parents were less involved, or who at least held less sway in the current political climate.
He’d already begun looking for openings at other schools. His instinct was to get as far away from Washington, DC as possible, so he’d looked for job openings on the west coast. He’d never lived on that end of the continent, and the thought of waking up within running distance of the ocean was greatly appealing. He could picture himself on the beach in California, eating tacos and getting a suntan. Maybe he could take up skateboarding. Everyone out there skateboarded, didn’t they?
An image of the ocean, deep blue and roiling, rose in his mind. Its expanse unfathomable. A reminder that ultimately his actions weren’t enough to change the course of history. That his small-time dealings didn’t matter in the grand scheme of life. He wasn’t one of the villains. Merely an opportunist.
Even though he’d sold a teenage girl some drugs that had led to her downfall, it wasn’t really his fault. Besides, she was the one who’d looked for something with “more kick,” as she’d phrased it. And she’d gotten it elsewhere.
Blood roared in his ears, filling the silence of the night.
Less than a mile to the school, now. He’d be back in his tiny, stuffy room in less than ten minutes. The promise of a scalding hot shower was the only thing motivating him, making him push his wavering muscles further past the brink.
Far in the distance, lightning flashed. By the looks of it, there was a heavy storm coming.
The ache in Alan’s shoulder was punishing, a result of the frigid temperature. His rotator cuff was almost fully healed, but it ached whenever the weather dipped. Anger flared in him. He’d never experienced pain like this before in his life, but one wrong swing in lacrosse practice and he had a debilitating injury. The only good thing about it was that it had made it so much easier to get his hands on product to sell, despite that one incident at physical therapy.
His lungs were burning. Screaming in protest of the punishing run.
He inhaled for a count of four and exhaled for eight. He was the master of his body, not his lungs.
Up ahead, the traffic light turned yellow, then red.
Alan groaned. He’d have to stop, jogging in place at the corner.
He hated that.
His shoe snagged on a raised step in the sidewalk, making him lurch forward toward the curb. Flailing his arms, he righted himself before he could face plant into the asphalt.
His shoe had come untied.
Heart straining loudly in his chest, Alan knelt down to tie his laces, keeping the traffic lights in his peripheral vision. It was about to turn green. He stood just as the walk signal lit up. Perfect timing.
Alan didn’t even bother to look as he jogged into the crosswalk. Rarely were there cars on this street this late at night, since it dead-ended into the academy.
He ignored his buzzing phone. Checking it now would disrupt his mental flow. Bending over, he untied his shoe, pulled the laces tight so they wouldn’t come undone again.
A car’s headlights slid over him as it sped around the corner.
Alan froze, hunched over in the street, his fight or flight instincts skittering in indecision. Rendering him inert.
The car sped closer. Did they not see him?
Fear crept up Alan’s neck, whispering evil thoughts in his head.
It was ludicrous. The driver of that car wasn’t aiming for him. Were they?
Blood bubbled in his veins as his heart pumped at double speed.
Yes. They were.
The car lurched toward him. Tires screeched. Burned rubber filled Alan’s nostrils. Dropping the laces still gripped in his fingers, Alan lurched forward. His feet obeyed his commands, but it was not soon enough.
Metal met flesh in a crushing blow.
He felt nothing more.
2
Charlotte Cavendish-Holt
Fizzing lightness tingles through my arms and legs. Probably the wine I gulped down a few minutes ago. It’s strange. I’ve never felt the need to break my own rule against drinking, especially in public, but tonight I just couldn’t handle it.
Yet another night at a fundraiser for Daddy. Yet another disappointment.
Standing beside him during his speech, my lethal politician’s smile firmly in place, would have been a triumph. The assurance that after the debacle that was last semester, Daddy finally sees me as worthy. But yet again he relegated me to the sidelines while Cal stood front and center with that asinine blank expression on his face.
You’d think that once Daddy realized Cal wanted to be an artist, not a politician, he’d look to his next oldest child. But no.
At my elbow, Adrienne stands with a goblet in hand, sipping at her sparkling cider. She’s flanked by Mikhail, her shadow and protector, his eyes always alert for possible trouble. After all the drama last semester, Daddy assigned my bodyguard to Adrienne, leaving me free of the pesky tail.
My sister’s nose crinkles in pleasure, making me want to burst into indecorous laughter, but I won’t. Drawing attention to myself in such a state would not be beneficial for my future career as a politician. No, better to tamp down the bubbling sensation in my belly as best I can. It’s not Adrienne’s fault Daddy sees her as a potential heir. Adrienne is awesome. She’s both incredibly naive and incredibly badass. She’s sweet and knows how to bust her butt to get stuff done. Somehow, she managed to figure out who actually killed Na last semester. My stepsister may look like a doe-eyed Bambi with her wide set eyes, but she has guts. Substance. Still, would it kill her to get sick once or twice so she couldn’t come to all of Daddy’s campaign functions? Maybe then the press would stop gushing over her long enough to notice someone else.