Page 4 of Cruel Shame

“You’re hurting my wrist,” Myra shrieked.

Orlando leaned forward, putting even more weight on her arm. “Let go of the gun.”

“It’s an air pistol,” she said.

My mouth dropped open. “What?”

Tears gathered in the corners of Myra’s eyes. “I wasn’t ever going to kill you. It was just a joke.”

Nausea crawled up the back of my throat as our struggle on the ground returned with alarming accuracy. At one point, I had stared down the barrel of that gun. “If that hit me at point-blank range, you would have blown off my head.”

Myra’s mouth went slack, and she stopped struggling. The stupid cow had probably thought she’d been handling something as harmless as a paint gun, but even those caused serious injuries up close.

Shaking my head, I walked across the room to where I had dropped my phone, dialed nine-nine-nine, and waited for the operator to pass me onto the police.

“What are you doing?” Myra shrieked.

“What do you think?” I snapped.

“You can’t waste their time over a prank.” Her gaze darted to the door, where a small crowd of younger students had gathered.

As a large amount of the girls had left with Mrs. Campbell, it was mostly younger boys in their short pants, staring open-mouthed at the carnage of blood and broken glass. None of them dared to enter, so I didn’t scream at them to bugger off.

Orlando turned to me, his eyes softening. “You’re probably going to need stitches for all those lacerations.”

The woman on the other end of the line took down my details and agreed to send an ambulance along with the police. I glanced around my room and sighed at the broken window, muddy footprints on the white bedspread, and all that glass. This was the second time it had been infiltrated, and no amount of cleaning or air-freshening would get rid of the taint of fear and blood. And Elizabeth had trashed my room in Mr. Burgh’s house.

A lump formed in my throat. Who the hell did a girl need to kill for some peace? Elizabeth, most likely, but that wretched coke fiend had powerful family members who protected her even more fiercely than Billy Hancock’s Rottweilers.

“Step away, children,” said Mr. Burgh’s voice from deep within the hall.

I turned to find him stepping through my doorway, his face slack with grief. At that moment, he looked like an old man about to lose everything. His gaze traveled down my form, taking in the bleeding cuts. After closing his eyes and exhaling a long breath, he turned to Myra, who still hadn’t let go of the gun.

Fury flashed in his eyes, but he hardened his features and turned to the door, where Miss Harper from Home Economics tried to usher the younger students back to the main building.

“Miss Highmore,” he said to Myra, “You were supposed to be waiting for your parents in the sanctuary.”

“Orlando’s breaking my wrist.” Her face twisted. “Tell him to get off!”

“Who gave you the gun?” Mr. Burgh barely spared Orlando a glance.

Myra huffed. “It’s an air pist—”

“Who gave it to you?” Mr. Burgh barked, startling both Orlando and me with the force of his words.

Her lips trembled. “I won’t tell.”

Only one person I knew could reach the academy so quickly, had access to guns, and had enough of a motive to frame me for Elizabeth’s misdeeds. I asked, “Did you call Elizabeth’s mother, too?”

“Lady Liddell didn’t give me the pistol.” Myra’s voice rose several octaves, confirming my suspicions.

I stepped back and tore my gaze away from the other girl’s tear-streaked face. “What did she promise you in exchange for murdering me?”

“She wouldn’t—”

“Lady Liddell must have known I wouldn’t confess, and she probably guessed you’d end up firing that gun.”

“It’s an air pistol,” Myra whispered, not sounding so sure.