winding street and then headed into the house.
My dad’s voice rang out when I was halfway up the stairs. “Nice try, Kate.” He flipped on the hall light, illuminating his disappointed face—a combination of wrinkly forehead mixed with narrowed eyes, his chin lowered slightly.
“Oh, sorry. Did you want to talk?” My dad had majorly cut back his hours at the law firm after my involvement in uncovering the truth this past fall. Apparently, underground sword fights raised a few red flags. Although, I wasn’t entirely sure if my dad’s recent interest in my life was because he was genuinely worried about me or if my mom had somehow guilted him into it. Probably a combination of both.
“You know you can invite Liam in every once in a while instead of steaming up the windows of his car every night.”
He did not just say that. I kept walking up the stairs. “Noted.”
“Is that Kate?” My mom’s voice sounded distant. She was probably already in bed. Her life was made up of work and sleep, rinse and repeat.
“Yes, Beth, she’s home,” he called up the stairs. Lowering his voice, he said, “Did Mrs. Allen see you two necking?” My dad looked furtively up the stairs as I tried to hide the fact that his use of the word “necking” had triggered my gag reflex. “Your mother will kill me if Mrs. Allen calls again.”
I chose to let a fake vomiting noise serve as my response. I was pretty sure my dad mumbled something about respect and figuring out how to breed a culture of fear in our home, but I couldn’t be entirely sure, because I’d already slammed the door to my room. Daddy-daughter conversation could wait. The slip of paper burning a hole in my palm, however, could not.
I sat down at my computer and immediately pulled up Amicus. Pemberly Brown would be buzzing about whatever had happened tonight at Obsideo.
I scrolled through some new messages—one from Maddie asking if I had plans for tomorrow, one from my super-annoying lab partner, Ben, and a couple from Seth hypothesizing that perhaps I was allergic to MSG. Apparently, his dad was and always had to run to the bathroom after eating Chinese food. Pretty much TMI defined.
But the last message made my breath catch, my pulse quicken a beat after.
Taylor’s name was foreign on my message page. It looked out of place beside Seth’s and outright foreboding next to the subject line, which read, “We Need to Talk.” I couldn’t click fast enough. But when I did and the message expanded, the body of the message was entirely blank except for Taylor’s signature—her name typed in pink cursive. A familiar feeling took root at the base of my stomach, wrapping tightly around my insides like ivy. Fear.
Something was wrong, really wrong, if she was sending me emails. I thought of the fortune I’d gotten at the restaurant and couldn’t suppress the tiny shiver of déjà vu that tickled the back of my neck. I closed her message and clicked on the All-School tab. The page was littered with mini-conversations about Obsideo, and they all revolved around one event: the scream.
I heard a first-year was raped.
I saw someone wearing a mask.
Has anyone talked to Alyssa Jacobs?
Someone told me it was a fourth-year prank.
I heard a gunshot as everyone ran away.
Who’s talked to Alistair?
A bunch of us are missing money! Check your purses.
Bethany, message me if you see this.
Most of the messages were the usual combination of nonsense and drama found on Amicus, but the last message stuck out like a scholarship student at the “cool” table. Taylor never posted on All-School. In fact, she almost never posted anything on Amicus at all. As PB’s reigning queen bee, she tended to keep her distance from the commoners. While everyone else posted details of what they ate for lunch or random pix of their friends, Taylor had offered nothing except for her plea to Bethany.
I clicked on the link to Bethany’s page, and again my head began buzzing. Apparently
My dad’s voice rang out when I was halfway up the stairs. “Nice try, Kate.” He flipped on the hall light, illuminating his disappointed face—a combination of wrinkly forehead mixed with narrowed eyes, his chin lowered slightly.
“Oh, sorry. Did you want to talk?” My dad had majorly cut back his hours at the law firm after my involvement in uncovering the truth this past fall. Apparently, underground sword fights raised a few red flags. Although, I wasn’t entirely sure if my dad’s recent interest in my life was because he was genuinely worried about me or if my mom had somehow guilted him into it. Probably a combination of both.
“You know you can invite Liam in every once in a while instead of steaming up the windows of his car every night.”
He did not just say that. I kept walking up the stairs. “Noted.”
“Is that Kate?” My mom’s voice sounded distant. She was probably already in bed. Her life was made up of work and sleep, rinse and repeat.
“Yes, Beth, she’s home,” he called up the stairs. Lowering his voice, he said, “Did Mrs. Allen see you two necking?” My dad looked furtively up the stairs as I tried to hide the fact that his use of the word “necking” had triggered my gag reflex. “Your mother will kill me if Mrs. Allen calls again.”
I chose to let a fake vomiting noise serve as my response. I was pretty sure my dad mumbled something about respect and figuring out how to breed a culture of fear in our home, but I couldn’t be entirely sure, because I’d already slammed the door to my room. Daddy-daughter conversation could wait. The slip of paper burning a hole in my palm, however, could not.
I sat down at my computer and immediately pulled up Amicus. Pemberly Brown would be buzzing about whatever had happened tonight at Obsideo.
I scrolled through some new messages—one from Maddie asking if I had plans for tomorrow, one from my super-annoying lab partner, Ben, and a couple from Seth hypothesizing that perhaps I was allergic to MSG. Apparently, his dad was and always had to run to the bathroom after eating Chinese food. Pretty much TMI defined.
But the last message made my breath catch, my pulse quicken a beat after.
Taylor’s name was foreign on my message page. It looked out of place beside Seth’s and outright foreboding next to the subject line, which read, “We Need to Talk.” I couldn’t click fast enough. But when I did and the message expanded, the body of the message was entirely blank except for Taylor’s signature—her name typed in pink cursive. A familiar feeling took root at the base of my stomach, wrapping tightly around my insides like ivy. Fear.
Something was wrong, really wrong, if she was sending me emails. I thought of the fortune I’d gotten at the restaurant and couldn’t suppress the tiny shiver of déjà vu that tickled the back of my neck. I closed her message and clicked on the All-School tab. The page was littered with mini-conversations about Obsideo, and they all revolved around one event: the scream.
I heard a first-year was raped.
I saw someone wearing a mask.
Has anyone talked to Alyssa Jacobs?
Someone told me it was a fourth-year prank.
I heard a gunshot as everyone ran away.
Who’s talked to Alistair?
A bunch of us are missing money! Check your purses.
Bethany, message me if you see this.
Most of the messages were the usual combination of nonsense and drama found on Amicus, but the last message stuck out like a scholarship student at the “cool” table. Taylor never posted on All-School. In fact, she almost never posted anything on Amicus at all. As PB’s reigning queen bee, she tended to keep her distance from the commoners. While everyone else posted details of what they ate for lunch or random pix of their friends, Taylor had offered nothing except for her plea to Bethany.
I clicked on the link to Bethany’s page, and again my head began buzzing. Apparently
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