I look back up at Constantine’s face with his metrosexual beard and baby smooth skin. But even all that self-care can’t hide the bags under his eyes. He’s tired, and he’s frustrated, and I can tell he hates me—even if he doesn’t want to admit that to himself. He’s the good guy; he couldn’t possibly hate a teenage girl, right?
Then again, he’s just like Neil’s partner, Sara Young. Almost too good for their own good. Now, Ms. Keating, she is #goals for sure. I wish I knew how she was doing, but there’s little about it in the news and although rumors abound on the Prescott High social media circuit, that’s all they are: rumors.
“I hear you were married just before the break,” Constantine says, watching me with a completely different expression than he wore the last time we spoke. “A little young, don’t you think?”
The detective is suspicious as fuck.
Rightfully, he should be.
That doesn’t change things though.
I yawn and shrug, lifting up my hand to show off Vic’s grandmother’s ring. Vaughn cringes, yet again, but the detective barely spares him a glance. Even a goody-two-shoes like Constantine can sense how weak our principal is.
“If you had to live with my mother, you’d do anything to get out.” It’s a common enough excuse. Lots of kids at Prescott High get married, just so they can legally escape their awful families. I’m not the only person who’s gotten hitched during the school year.
“Mm,” Constantine murmurs, glancing over at one of the uniformed officers behind him. The man pulls out his phone as the detective turns back to me. “Do you mind if I record this conversation, Bernadette?” he asks, and a flash of anxiety spikes through me. I show nothing, shrugging my shoulders as if this is any other Monday. Shit, at Prescott High it kind of is.
“Sure, why not?” I say, slouching in the chair, fully aware that I’m sporting a tattoo I didn’t have the last time I was here. Oh, and a jacket that’s clearly gang-related. Doesn’t matter though. There isn’t a student at this school who doesn’t know I’m a part of Havoc. That, and I’m married to their fucking leader.
“Excellent. We’re just waiting on one more person …” Constantine begins, trailing off and then smiling as the door opens behind me. “Ah, there we go.”
“Sorry, the line for coffee was insane,” a semi-familiar voice says as Sara Young appears on my right, holding a Dutch Bros cup and looking down at me with an expression that I can’t quite seem to dissect. “Hello, Bernadette.”
“Miss Young,” I hazard, because I’m not exactly sure what I should be feeling right now. Don’t panic. Havoc knows what they’re doing. I have to trust that the guys wouldn’t lead me into a situation that I can’t get out of. I’ve had very little of that in my past—trust, that is—but I’m all in here. There is no going back.
The pretty young blonde takes a seat on the desk beside Detective Constantine—god only knows what his first name actually is. I bet it’s Joe. Yeah, it’s probably Joe. Or John. John motherfucking Doe. He’s so unassuming and average that I’d forget everything about him but for his meticulously plucked facial hair.
“How are you, Bernadette?” Sara asks, taking a sip of her coffee. It says candy cane mocha on the side, reminding me that it is, in fact, December now. Jesus. What a Christmas this is going to be.
“I’m fine,” I say, adjusting myself in the chair so that I can put my boots up on the desk next to Constantine. He looks at my feet like they’re poisoned but says nothing. I cross my ankles together and smile. Bet it looks wicked, with my particular shade of lipstick. This one is called Bad Blood. How … ironic.
My initial reaction is to say something snarky like, a little tired from my honeymoon, if you know what I mean. But that sort of shit won’t work on Sara Young. Actually, it’ll take away from the persona I’m trying to build with her, the one where I’m a girl trapped in a gang, desperate for escape.
I switch gears.
“Look, my husband isn’t going to be thrilled about my being dragged in here first thing in the morning.” I look into Sara’s doe-like brown eyes and try to put some pleading into my face, a lick of fear, of desperation. “So can we get this over with? I’m missing the only class of the day that I actually like.”
English with Mr. Darkwood, and my ex-bestie, Kali. Seeing the look on her face this morning was priceless. She’ll know, of course, that the last person Neil was with was me. Will she nark? I have no fucking clue to be honest. She likes to play the victim, but she also knows the rules of Prescott High: snitches get stitches, motherfucker.
“Where have you been, Bernadette?” Sara asks casually, her blond hair twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her black button-down is pressed, her badge nice and shiny over her left breast. She’s the picture-perfect police officer, and I’m the ideal delinquent. This should be interesting.
“On my honeymoon, in Newport,” I say, shrugging again and sliding my phone from my pocket. The two officers allow me to look at it, as if they think I’m stupid enough to type something incriminating into my group chat with the guys. Instead, I pull up a series of photos that Vic and I took of ourselves on the beach. I skip past the one where we’re looking into one another’s eyes—it’s too obvious that we’re in love—and select one where his hand is on the back of my head, cradling me protectively. To the wrong set of eyes, it might look as if he’s holding me there.
I pass the phone over. Constantine barely glances at it, but Sara stares at it like she’s reading between the lines. Good. Very good. She gives the phone back to me, but I just select another photo, one of me and Heather building a sandcastle. I show them this, too.
“We’ve been trying to reach you since Saturday,” Constantine says, clearly annoyed with me as I continue to browse through the photos and smile. I even laugh at one of Callum, pirouetting in the waves like a tattooed angel. My disinterest with the investigation is serving its purpose; I’m pissing the detective off. “Bernadette, can you please put your phone away?”
“Sorry, what?” I ask, slipping my phone in my pocket and looking between the two of them. “I had my phone set to Do Not Disturb. It was my honeymoon and my break. I wasn’t about to mess it up with a bunch of shady-ass social media posts from girls who are jealous about me and Vic.” The words almost hurt coming out of my mouth, but it has to be done. I flick my eyes to Sara Young and see her pursing her lips. Constantine will read my statement as, I’m just another shallow teenage idiot who’s too attached to their phone and their shitty boyfriend. Sara will—hopefully—read it as, please help me, my phone was off because my husband is controlling. “I heard about Neil missing this morning though. Not surprised. He’s been cheating on my mom for years.”
I let my arms rest casually in my lap as I wait for either Sara or Constantine to continue the conversation.
“The GPS tracking on your stepfather’s cruiser went dark just after he left the house on Friday,” Constantine says, crossing his legs in his dark blue jeans that he probably got from the Gap. “We’re trying to understand why he—or someone else—would want to hide his location from the station.”
I snort and shake my long, blond hair out. The tips are vibrant and neon, freshly dyed for the wedding and fierce as fuck. I feel pretty today, and for once, I’m okay with that. In the past, pretty has been poison. Once, when I was fifteen, I stood in the bathroom in front of the mirror with an X-Acto knife and considered cutting myself. What if I scarred every inch of me, until I was no longer the conventional picture of pretty? What if I cut my breasts and my belly and my face? Would men stop hunting me then? Would the monsters in the dark leave me alone?
But that’s not how the world works, and I knew it then as sure as I know it now.
The scars would not stop the hunt. I would have to become the huntress, instead of the prey.
“Trying to understand?” I echo, cocking my head to one side. “He did that because he’s cheating on Pamela. She’s a crazy bitch. I wouldn’t put it past her to sw
eet-talk someone at the precinct to find out Neil’s location. Case closed.”
“Why do you think Neil was unfaithful, Bernadette?” Sara asks softly, sipping her sugar-sweet mocha again. “Did you ever catch him with someone? Overhear a phone call? Read a text?”
“He got a girl pregnant,” I snap back and then cringe. Of course, it wasn’t an accident, but I’m also not about to squeal—even about Kali and the Thing. “But what do I know? I just hear shit around the school. Neil liked to have sex with teenage girls.” I look away again, like even saying that phrase is too painful. To be fair, it really is.
“What girls?” Constantine asks, peering at me keenly. Sara puts an arm on his shoulder and shakes her head. The way he looks back at her, I can tell he doesn’t appreciate the touch.
“Bernadette,” she says softly, like I’m a deer who might bolt if she raises her voice. “You don’t have to protect Neil anymore.” I just stare back at her, like I have no clue what she’s talking about. “Breonna Keating woke up today and was able to answer some questions.”
I wet my lips as two competing emotions split me in half from the inside out. Elation, that Ms. Keating is alive and well-enough to talk. And anxiety, because I have no idea what sort of story she might have told.
“She’s nice enough,” I begin, almost like I’m hesitating at revealing such a thing. “Guess she told you who hit her then, huh?”
“We’d like to ask you for your version of events,” Constantine continues, glancing over at Principal Vaughn. He’s so damn useless, pale and spineless and pathetic. He doesn’t even have enough conviction to stand up for his own side. He can switch loyalties in a heartbeat. “Why don’t you tell us what happened on Friday?”
“You mean when Neil came to the school, pistol-whipped Ms. Keating, called me a cunt and her the n-word?” I ask, and Sara and Constantine exchange a look. “Why are you asking me about that if you already know what happened?”
“According to Ms. Keating, your stepfather informed you that you were to be taken to the station at the direction of the VGTF, led by … Forrest Burr. Is that right?” Forrest Burr. Brittany Burr’s daddy. Constantine doesn’t give me time to answer, just plows on like the cis-white-straight-male asshole he probably is. “Because there is no official—or even unofficial documentation—showing that the VGTF or any of its officers had requested you to be brought in.”
“Are you … asking me a question? Or telling me what I’m supposed to think?” I ask, crinkling up my brow. Pretty sure this isn’t above board. Don’t I need a lawyer or a parent/guardian here for this type of questioning? Well, I guess I’m emancipated, so can I have my hubby here instead? I almost grin at the thought. “Neil told us both that—me and Keating. But that wasn’t it at all. He just wanted to get me out of the school so he could threaten me with a good time.” I roll my eyes. “My stepdad was fucking one of my classmates, found out I knew about it, and went into a rage. I don’t know what to tell you, but he’s been unstable for years. Check your records and you’ll see that both my sister and I tried to inform DHS about him.” I say nothing about Vaughn and his failures as a principal and a human being. Why bother? He’s better as a pawn in Havoc’s hands.
“What happened after you left the school?” Sara asks, her face troubled and dark. This is probably rocking her world right now, finding out that her partner wasn’t just a cop but a criminal.
“He took me outside in cuffs, threw me around a little, and then put his gun to my head.” I sigh and rub both of my hands over my face. “Neil is going to freak when he finds out I’ve talked to you.”
“We need to know where he is, Bernadette,” Sara pushes, scooting forward on the desk just a bit. Constantine doesn’t want her here, obviously, but he stays stoic, still staring at me like he thinks I’m the bad guy. Right, I’m the bad guy when he knows from a credible source that Neil went batshit and beat a school administrator into a coma.
“If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you,” I say, which is partially true. The if part is the only lie. I know exactly where Neil is, which is where he belongs. Six feet under and suffering. I hope it was scary, tucked into that bloodred satin lining while he gasped for air and fumbled with the oxygen tank.
The boys told Neil they were offering him a kindness. But that kindness was not the oxygen tank. The kindness was the knife. The tank and the snacks, those were another form of torture, one that Neil had to choose for himself.
Daymares of him coming back to get me, covered in dirt and rotting, flicker across my vision, but I banish them. People don’t dig themselves out of graves in real life, only in the movies. Besides, even though I didn’t ask, I bet the boys sent some of our crew to watch the site after we left.
“Why not?” Sara asks softly. I drop my hands to my lap and look up and into her eyes. She’s falling for my shit, but there’s something else in her gaze, something that scares me. Sara Young is on a quest for justice, and she isn’t going to stop until she finds what she’s looking for.
I wonder if we haven’t made a mistake by underestimating her.
“Because he’ll kill me like he did my sister,” I snap, letting that very real, very righteous anger wash over me. I shove up from my chair and storm out of the room, ignoring Constantine’s voice when he calls out to me.
As soon as I get out that door, I run into Billie Charter.
We freeze in the middle of the hallway, facing off against one another.
I smile.
It’s a hideous expression on my face, I’m sure.
“My brother is going to ruin you,” Billie sneers, flipping her teal and black hair like she’s somehow missed the metaphorical crown sitting on my head. Must still be salty about that time at camp when I beat her ass into the ground.
“Too late,” I whisper, giving her the nastiest, shadiest sneer I can muster. “Just remember this moment when I’m cutting your face open as repayment.” I tap a finger against the edge of my lips and keep walking as Principal Vaughn opens the door to Ms. Keating’s office and ushers Billie inside.
When I slip into my English class, Mr. Darkwood is droning on and on about how Shakespeare and his writing were actually political during his time, blah, blah, blah. Kali immediately turns around to look at me, eyes red-rimmed, lips pursed. Bet she was counting on seeing Neil sometime in the last ten days.
I remember that I filed away a note in the back of my brain: ask Mitch if he knows Kali is cheating on him. Bet he doesn’t. Bet Kali didn’t think she’d see me alive ever again after that Friday.
I keep smiling at her as I slide into my seat and she shivers like I’ve just creeped her the fuck out. Good. Maybe she can sense how done I am with her crap? Shit, how done I am with everyone’s crap.
For a long time, I tried to be the good guy. I tried so fucking hard. Then I was stomped into the ground for that trust, that belief. Not anymore. Nobody wanted to hear my side of the story, nobody cared. So I became somebody. Now somebody does care. I’ll protect Heather and Ms. Keating and girls like Alyssa Hart.
“What are you looking at?” Kali finally snaps, interrupting Mr. Darkwood’s lecture. Oh, and also, she’s the one who’s craning her neck around to look at me.
“Cry 'Havoc!,' and let slip the dogs of war!” I yell, cupping my hands around my mouth before I let out a wild-sounding howl. It takes a second, but four other students in the class do the same, cupping their hands around their mouths and howling.
Less than a minute later, I can hear the call echoing down the hallways, until the entire school is engulfed in the sounds of Havoc.
Callum is howling on the front steps of the school when I come down the hall after my last class of the day. In just a few seconds, dozens of other students call back to him. He turns to me with a flashy grin, gold afternoon sunshine making him look like a fucking kid for a minute. The sight throws me off, I won’t lie.
“I hear you came up with this genius,” Cal says as I pause beside him. He doesn’t seem at all c
oncerned about our day, filled with cops and detectives and prying young women named Sara Young. She’s the one I’m most afraid of here. Callum tucks his blue-painted fingernails into the front pocket of his sleeveless hoodie. It’s black with a bright-white skeleton pattern. The only color in his clothes at all is a small red heart printed over his real one. “So simple, but easy to freak people out with.”
“You’re so creepy,” I tease, taking up the group mantle of picking on Cal for his weirdness. He was kinda preppy before all of this, you know? “But also, what’s the plan today and why don’t I ever know it in advance?”
“Well, for one,” Callum teases, taking a sly step toward me, both hands still shoved deep into his pocket. He leans in so close that I can smell his bubblegum. It’s blue and it’s coated his tongue, turning that pretty pink mouth into something morbid. “You never check the group chat.”
“Yes, I do!” I snap back, yanking my phone out and seeing Victor’s last message. After class, get the girls, hit the garage. I look up to find Cal smirking at me. “Not fair, that text is from three minutes ago.”
“Sure it is, but that’s how Vic always makes his plans. Last minute. Text or bitching—his only two methods of delivery.” I give Cal a look and he chuckles. When he laughs, his eyes crinkle. I love that about him.
“Do you have dance today?” I ask and he gives a very small, very slight shake of his head. When he leans in toward me, I can smell that sharp, bright scent of his, like talc and aftershave and soap.
“Not today,” Callum breathes against the side of my neck like he might kiss me, but stands up at the last second so he can nod at Hael instead. Cal grabs a handful of brightly colored Skittles from his pocket, spits his gum into the trash can, and then shoves the candy in his mouth. “You look happy today.”
“Well,” Hael crows, grinning so big his face looks like it might fall off. “I’m stilling riding the high of finding out that I’m not tied to Brittany fucking Burr for eighteen years.” He laughs again and then pauses when several junior girls waltz by, flipping their hair and letting their short skirts flutter in the breeze.
Mayhem at Prescott High Page 14