Page 42 of Deposed

He huffed a laugh. “That hardly seems fair, does it?”

I would have clenched my jaw with frustration if it wasn’t already swollen and aching, but blood pounded in my ears. This man treated my situation as a big joke, and the worst part was that I couldn’t confirm his identity. I turned my head, hoping that the one remaining camera in my hair might pick up a little footage that could give the reporters a clue about my location. I still didn’t understand why they hadn’t already gotten the police to kick down the door.

The room was empty, save the paint-stained dust sheet underneath me. It reminded me of a show about a forensics expert and serial killer who was meticulously careful about not leaving his victims’ DNA in crime scenes. I shook those thoughts away and focused on what I knew. The mystery man had to be affected badly enough by the leaks to have gotten involved with an abduction, so he was either Mr. Chaloner, our headmaster or Mr. Frost, our Latin master.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“The only person standing between you and Carbuncle’s wrath.”

I squinted my good eye and whizzed through my options. The police had arrested the headmaster. Last term, I’d seen him in cuffs, being bundled into the back of a police car. And Mr. Weaver from the Board of Governors had said he was facing charges of fraud and money laundering. Would they let someone with links to organized crime out on bail? I would have thought they would try to keep him in custody, so he wouldn’t use his Swiss Bank Account money to leave the country.

Maybe it wasn’t Mr. Frost. He was more than capable of an abduction like this, but his hair was red and thinning, not thick and dark. But if I were going to commit a crime and didn’t want to be identified, I would wear a wig.

I knew two things for sure. One, he didn’t want me to see his face in case I recognized him, which meant I might go free at some point. And two, he had collaborated with Charlotte, who had told me about the party and had probably left that fake invitation lying about in the hallway for me to find.

My tongue darted out to lick my lips. “What are you going to do to me?”

“You’ll remain here until your stepfather pays a ransom of a million pounds.”

All hope of leaving the empty apartment alive drained away with my plummeting stomach. Rudolph only cared about maintaining his reputation. He wouldn’t care about something as trivial as a dead stepdaughter. “W-what if he doesn’t?”

“According to the article in the Saturday Correspondent, he paid that amount to clear your name after the Bourneville kidnapping that never was.”

I gulped. “That was to prevent a scandal for himself.”

With a chuckle, the man turned his head to the side a fraction. “What kind of stepfather wouldn’t pay the ransom of a seventeen-year-old girl? The longer we keep you here, the more injured and debauched you’ll become. I’ll issue daily pictures to the press, showing your degradation over time. Rudolph Trommel will not allow the world to know him as a heartless bastard.”

My blood turned cold. He’d just given me an important clue. He probably wasn’t as affected by the leaks as Mr. Carbuncle but had used it as an excuse to let the janitor attack me. This opened up the possibility of culprits to anyone associated with Charlotte or Elder House. A million-pound ransom had universal appeal, and anyone with a bit of ingenuity could have lured me to the fake party.

But one word stuck in my memory like a skewer.

“Debauched?” I rasped.

“You saw Carbuncle. He can’t wait to get his hands on your pretty flesh.”

Chills spread across the surface of my skin, and I curled my knees into my chest. “H-have you sent the first ransom note?”

“We’ll upload it and a few photos as soon as your bruises turn purple.”

I stared down at the ropes encasing my wrists and grimaced at the sheer number of undecipherable knots. They weren’t taking any chances. Someone must have told Mr. Carbuncle and the mystery man that I had once freed myself from duct tape.

Mr. Carbuncle returned with an opened can of Diet Coke and placed it by my feet. “Your water’s in there. Drink.”

Holding up my bound wrists, I said, “I can’t pick it up.”

“I thought I told you not to bind her arms too tightly,” said the man from the doorway.

“She’s faking.” Mr. Carbuncle stepped closer and cupped his crotch. “Pick it up or I’ll give you something else to drink.”

Before I could scramble down to reach the can, Mr. Carbuncle nudged it with the tip of his boot along the floor to my hip. I stretched out my fingers, picked up the half-empty can, and pretended to drink. Neither of them had asked me any questions yet, and they didn’t seem to like each other much. But if I could get them to argue, maybe I could find an opening and escape.

“Go on then,” said the janitor. “Talk.”

I coughed a few times and gathered my thoughts. “That day the police raided your lodge, we found bank statements with monthly payments from the Saturday Correspondent.”

“Those were planted,” spat Mr. Carbuncle. “By you, most likely.”

“No.” I shook my head. Clearly, the janitor was in denial about having succumbed to blackmail, as he had put the incriminating evidence in the filing cabinet himself. “They were real enough to convince the people in the room. But there were a few checks written out to you that you didn’t cash, which proves you might have been involved with the paper against your will.”