Page 1 of Wicked Brutal

Ifound things out.

That was the simplest explanation for what I did, although the boys preferred creepy hacker shit and my mother preferred not knowing enough to become legally obligated to ask questions. Edgewood preferred cash. Usually a lot of it.

By the end of junior year I’d built a decent side business out of the fact that rich teenagers were nosy, impatient, vindictive, horny, and almost universally convinced privacy was something that happened to other people. I found cheating boyfriends, deleted pictures, passwords, hidden accounts, family secrets. Once, for three hundred dollars and courtside Celtics tickets, I proved somebody’s father had been lying about owning a yacht for four years. That one was still my favorite.

Preston Avery approached us during lunch on one of the last Fridays before summer break. All five of us were at the table we always took near the windows — Kaiden at the head, because Kaiden would somehow sit at the head of a round table; Xander tipped back in his chair beside him; Danny eating something that looked like it had been assembled entirely out of protein and sadness; Iz stealing fries off everybody else’s trays; and me with my laptop open.

Preston stopped beside my chair. “Harrington.”

“Avery,” I said, not looking up.

“I need something.”

Iz reached across the table and stole one of my fries. “That’s how all his best relationships start.”

“Fuck off,” I told him.

“See? Chemistry already.”

Preston ignored him. “Can we talk?”

Kaiden glanced up from his phone. “You are.”

“Privately.”

Xander laughed. “No.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Preston said.

“You’re standing at our table,” Xander said. “Unfortunately, you’re talking to all of us.”

Danny finally looked up from his lunch. “Sit down or leave. You’re blocking the window.”

Preston’s jaw tightened, and I almost felt bad for him. Almost. He dragged the empty chair from the neighboring table over and sat at the end.

Iz leaned toward Kaiden. “He’s joining us. Should we vote?”

“No,” Kaiden said.

“Why?”

“Because he’d lose.”

Preston looked at me. “I want you to look into someone.”

That got my attention. I closed the spreadsheet I’d been working in and leaned back. “Who?”

“Ally O’Toole.”

The table went quieter. Not silent — just enough.

Everybody knew Ally. Edgewood wasn’t some enormous public school where you could go four years without learning the names of half your class. Most of us had known each other since we were kids: same school, same town, same country clubs and political fundraisers and charity events our parents dragged us to. The O’Tooles had owned the lake property beside my family’s for longer than I’d been alive.

That didn’t mean I knew Ally well. I knew of her. Quiet. Smart. Pretty. Red hair. Stayed out of everybody’s shit, which already made her one of the smarter people at Edgewood.

Iz popped another fry into his mouth. “Why?”

“Why what?” Preston said, annoyed.