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“I could kill you for letting her get hurt.”
I know that talking to Vaughn right now is about as productive as yelling at a brick wall, but I’m frustrated and out of other options.
Evangeline said that Vaughn was taking them to the police station. He wanted her to sign a statement as Olivia that exonerated Havoc House. It doesn’t make any sense that he would do that unless he was responsible for the attack or he knows who was.
“Was it you?”
I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from shouting. I’m not a hypocrite. If Vaughn had come to me that night asking for help, loyalty to him might have won out. But I’ve spent the last six months having smoke blown up my ass, every Havoc Boy on campus insisting up and down that they didn’t have anything to do with it.
Best-case scenario is that Vaughn knows more than he told me.
“I need to know what you know, Goddamnit.”
I can feel the conspiracy churning around me, practically see the threads being pulled by forces outside of my understanding. But the bits and pieces refuse to come together into any cohesive whole.
It’s obvious that Evangeline is telling the truth when she claims that she only came here to figure out the truth of what happened to her sister. Recklessness is written into every aspect of her personality. I can’t even really blame her for trying to manipulate me into giving her information that I don’t actually have.
Both of us are playing a game, and neither of us is winning it.
I turn away from Vaughn because I don’t want to look at his battered face anymore.
Something in the corner of the room catches my attention. Vaughn’s backpack is tucked into a shelf near the sink. Someone must have thrown it into the ambulance with him.
On impulse, I rifle through it until I find his phone.
The screen is cracked. It takes a second to light up, making me worry it’s broken.
There is a facial recognition feature on the phone. It won’t work to unlock it while Vaughn is unconscious, but I don’t need to use it. I’ve seen him put in the passcode enough times to have it memorized. He has never attempted to hide the screen from me while unlocking it. Just another reason why I thought I’d always be able to trust him.
Because we’re not supposed to keep secrets from each other.
There are at least a half-dozen unread messages, most of them from a blocked number. I quickly scroll through, getting more and more disturbed as I read.
Unknown: We have given you more than enough time.
Unknown: You have until tonight to get rid of the girl.
Unknown: Do not let your personal feelings get in the way. This girl isn’t worth losing everything.
Unknown: If we have to intervene, you will go down with her.
There was a single text from Vaughn in response, one dated from yesterday afternoon.
Vaughn: I’m taking care of it tonight.
I open Vaughn’s photo album and flick through the pictures from last year. At first, they’re what I expect to see. Photos from the sidelines of our games or parties at Havoc House, more than a few are shirtless selfies he’d taken of himself while posing in the bathroom mirror. Typical shit.
Then a flash of blonde hair stops my scrolling in its tracks. The face is more than familiar. I’ve seen it in person hundreds of times, watching her when she wasn’t paying attention as I tried to get a read on the chick that was more sphinx than girl.
I check the date. The photo is from last semester, about a month before the Bacchanal.
There is something in her expression, a shyness, that alert me to the fact that I’m not looking at the girl I’ve gotten to know over the last few months.
This is the real Olivia.
The picture was taken under the bleachers of the stadium. Vaughn and Olivia are in it together. He has his arm wrapped around her shoulders as she hugs a scarf done in St. Bart’s colors around her neck. His grin is wide, but she half-smiles at the camera like she isn’t quite sure she’s the one he meant to capture on film.
Vaughn had known Olivia well enough to sneak off with her after our games when he claimed he just wanted to hit the showers early.
