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“You’re right, I’m sorry. That won’t happen again.” He says the words like they taste bad, then ruefully shakes his head. “I came back to tell you that you’re wrong. I want to help you. I don’t want to be the guy who looks the other way anymore. It’s not worth it. It’s not worth seeing more people get hurt.”
I want to believe him, even if I’m not sure that I actually do. The fact of the matter is that I can’t do this without his help. Without him, I’ll have to leave without seeing this justice finally be done.
“No secrets,” I tell him. “You hide anything from me and I’ll make sure you go down for whatever it is that Havoc House has done.”
Drake answers without hesitation. “Deal.”
Chapter Eight
When we get back to the house, Brady immediately corners me. There’s already a drink in his hand, so at least he isn’t about to ask to make him another.
“We need to chat,” he says, holding up a hand when Nolan moves to follow us. “In private.”
I don’t need to look to know there’s a scowl on Nolan’s face at being left out.
I’m not exactly happy to be alone with Brady, either. Something about the guy is definitely different. He was always a skirt-chasing, booze hound, but now his edges seem sharper. Whatever happened between last year and now changed him from one of us into something else.
It’s hard to tell the difference between confidence and sociopathy.
It cannot be a coincidence that our alumni representative arrived the day after Vaughn’s car got run off the road with the girl we’d been instructed to chase away at all costs sitting in the passenger seat. There are coincidences and then there’s willfully ignoring the obvious.
But I need proof.
Brady strides through the house with the confidence of somebody who knows that no one can stop him. I trail after him, feeling like a kindergartner following his older brother to school and not the president of the fucking house in my own right.
“Where the hell are we going?”
He laughs, the sound derisive. “Patience, grasshopper.”
Instead of heading upstairs like I expect, Brady opens the door to the basement and flicks on the light at the top of the stairs. The single bare bulb isn’t enough to illuminate the dusty, concrete steps and I take them slowly to avoid tripping. Brady doesn’t seem to notice the dark as he takes the steps two at a time on the way down.
Like he’s taken these steps enough times to navigate them without looking.
The basement is creepy and dark, like any unfinished space in a house as old as this one is. Rusted sporting equipment and rickety furniture is stacked in haphazard piles. There are unlabeled boxes scattered around and I can’t even guess at their contents. Most of the stuff seems like it was dumped down here and promptly forgotten. I doubt anyone is planning to come back and claim any of it. Cleaning out the basement has been on the pledge to-do list for at least a generation without anyone ever actually doing it.
At the back of the basement is a locked door, one that I haven’t seen opened in the three-and-a-half years that I’ve been at St. Bart’s. It’s just outside the small circle of light provided by the overhead bulb.
Until now, I’d always assumed that door led to a storage closet.
Brady produces a key dangling from a long strip of leather. The head of it is shaped like a tiny skull.
He holds it out to me with a chilling smile. “After you.”
I take the key. The metal is cold and too heavy in my hand.
I unlock the door as Brady’s gaze bores into the center of my back. My hand doesn’t shake as I fit the key in the lock, despite the fact that I am officially creeped the fuck out.
Briefly, I wonder if there is some eldritch horror trapped behind the door and Brady is offering me as a sacrifice to ensure bountiful harvest. If ever there was a point in my life when I felt like I might be about to step into the gaping maw of a monster, this is it.
The door swings silently open as automatic lights come on in a space that is significantly larger than the storage closet I imagined.
The room is warmer than it should be, with no dust in the air like the rest of the basement. Gone is all the abandoned junk and concrete floor. Wood paneling covers the walls and brocade furniture is set up on a thickly carpeted floor that is the color of red wine.
It takes me another few moments to figure out why the hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end.
I recognize this room, but not because I’ve ever been inside of it before.
I recognize it from the video.
