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Adrenaline trips painfully down every nerve-ending. “I know that. You’ve spent the last twenty minutes yelling at us about it.”
“I’m not talking about Olivia.” Brady lowers his voice as he leans closer. “I’m talking about whichever one of us has been helping the bitch.”
With effort, I keep any reaction out of my expression. “You cannot be serious.”
“Maybe old man Pratt mentioned Havoc House to his daughter, and she knew about the legacy. But our bylaws are confidential. I refuse to believe that any of the alumni would risk their position by passing a copy along to her, of all people.” Brady’s already large nostrils flare, making him look like an angry truffle pig. “I need to know which one of us is stupid enough to be helping her.”
I resent the implication that I’m being driven by stupidity, but I can’t exactly tell him that.
“Olivia is sneaky, and she’s been in the house a dozen times before. Maybe she just found a copy lying around.”
“And maybe we’ll wake up tomorrow to pink grass growing on the lawn, that seems about as likely.” Brady’s mocking laugh echoes off of the wood paneling. “She made it through the Gauntlet. I had guys stationed at every exit from the woods. The only way she could have gotten past them is if she flew over the damn trees. Someone helped her.”
“You don’t know that,” I reply calmly, even though my mind is whirling. “Olivia isn’t like the other girls around here. You should assume she’s capable of anything.”
Brady just stares at me. “Nobody makes it through the Gauntlet unless we want them to.”
Except for me.
My hands ball into my fists, an involuntary reaction to my renewed anger. That anger always seems to bubble just under the surface. I used to have better control of it.
“Let’s say I believe you,” I say finally, once that burst of rage is under enough control that he won’t hear it in my voice. “Who do you think is our Benedict Arnold?”
“I had a suspect…but things have changed.”
I’m tense, waiting for Brady to suddenly point at me with accusation on his face. Next thing I know, the alumni will come swarming out of their hiding places to drop a black bag over my head and drag me off to God knows where.
Or maybe I should stop letting my imagination run away with me and focus on the very real here and now.
Even though I know I shouldn’t ask, I can’t help myself. “What are you going to do when you figure out who it is?”
“Run them out of Havoc House. Blacklist them from everything that matters until the only thing left is farming corn in Ohio.” Brady says it almost gleefully, like the idea is something he jerks off to at night. “Maybe even something worse if the situation calls for it.”
I’m more than a little sick of this double agent bullshit. It has always itched at me to pretend to be something that I’m not, even though I’ve been doing it for years. Pretending to care about Havoc House bullshit to please my father. Pretending to be the cavalier playboy with no greater concern than how to fill his time between one party and the next. St. Bart’s is supposed to be an elite school, but the workload has never been more than a passing consideration for me. For all I know, the professors know better than to challenge a Havoc Boy with a failing grade.
I’ve spent so long pretending that it’s getting hard to remember which parts of me are even real.
Avoiding meeting his gaze, I go to the bar to make myself a drink. I don’t actually want it, but I need something to distract myself.
And something to distract Brady so he doesn’t see right through me, assuming he hasn’t already.
He follows me to the bar and holds his hand out for the glass, not bothering to ask if I’m making one for him. Anticipating him, I’m already pouring another.
I take a sip, harsh liquid burning a trail down my throat. “If one of my guys is a traitor, they aren’t just going to come out and admit it.”
“That’s where you come in.” Brady steps further away from the door and leans closer to me. “These guys don’t trust me anymore, not now that I’m the alumni asshole who decides their futures.”
I already know where he’s going with this, but I still want to hear him say it. “And?”
Brady’s expression is grim. “You’re going to help me find the problem so we can take care of it.”
* * *
The next morning I wake up to the sound of my phone’s location feature buzzing incessantly. It takes way too many tries to unlock it as I fight off the remnants of deep sleep. When I finally get past the lock screen, dozens of notifications pop up for missed messages from my father.
DarthVanKoch: Call me
DarthVanKoch: Why haven’t you called back?
