by Lucy Auburn
I wish, more than anything, that Silas were here to see me race towards the finish line. I make a promise to myself: that I'll visit his grave over spring break, and for the first time ever since he died, talk to him at his headstone.
It's something I've avoided doing, because visiting his grave means admitting that he'll always be in it, for the rest of time. But grief, like any open wound, cannot bleed forever. The body cauterizes the blood even when the heart isn't ready to move on. I still ache for him, wish for him, and curse those who killed him, but I no longer believe that revenge is impossible.
Any day now, Hass will make a deal for his freedom, and he'll have to give up the men who killed Silas. The DA knows he has knowledge of vast criminal operations. They've caught the little fish; the big ones will follow. It's just a matter of time.
So as I finish up my last test the Friday before spring break, a bounce in my steps, I smile to see that Wally has sent me a photo of Old Bess, his truck. He's going to drive up early tomorrow morning and pick me up from Coleridge so I can spend all week with my mom, who set up a sleeper sofa in the living room of her apartment just for me.
It won't be like things were before—nothing will ever be the same. But slowly, as we lick our wounds, we're learning how to be a family again. Just the two of us. I'm looking forward to this week away from Coleridge more than anything, because I know that when I return Hass's court date will pop up, and there's a good chance I'll have to testify against him.
If I'm lucky, the judge will let me do that inside a closed room. Otherwise... otherwise, I'm not sure what I'll do, because the truth is, I fear for my life if Hass and the Syndicate ever realize I'm helping to put him away. The rage inside me last semester almost consumed me completely, but I'd give anything for it now, just to give me the wild courage of a girl who doesn't care if she lives or dies.
As I head towards Rosalind Hall, I spot a familiar pair of green-hazel eyes, looking pointedly in my direction. Sighing, I try to pretend like I haven't seen Cole and swerve past him, but he's not having any of it. He picks up the pace and cuts me off on the sidewalk, turning to face me, walking backwards without blinking—or apparently worrying that anyone will run into him.
"What do you want?"
"Why do I have to want something? Maybe I just enjoy your presence." I scowl at him, and he chuckles, the sound of it somehow light and dark at the same time. "Ah, yes, that's the face that I enjoy talking to so much. The face screwed up in hatred and irritation."
"Seriously." Sighing, I stop, and he stops too. "Tell me what you want before you impale yourself on the wrought iron fence behind you."
"I was going to sidestep it," he says mildly, but then he gets serious. Looking back and forth, he checks to make sure that the path is clear, then take a step forward and lowers his voice to talk to me. "You can't go home for spring break. Not yet."
I frown at him, irritation rising inside me. "You're not the boss of me. Last I checked I don't have to ask your permission." I try to sidestep him and go through the gates towards Rosalind Hall, but he grabs my arm and holds me just tight enough to keep me still without squeezing to the point of discomfort. "What is it? Are you worried that once I've had a taste of home again, I won't want to come back and be forced to see your bright face every day? Because I gotta tell you, Cole Masterson doesn't factor into my decisions."
He sighs, starting to say something, only to pause as someone walks past us. The student, one I don't recognize, gives us a significant look. I inwardly curse at the realization that this will only add fuel to the fire that I have some weird obsessive crush on Cole, and have been stalking him all year. Nevermind that he's the one who follows me around campus—the thought that it could be the other way around never occurs to them.
Once the lookie-loo is gone, sure to spread gossip about us being together all around school, Cole leans in close to tell me, "They know your identity."
"Who?"
"The Syn... the men who Hass works for, who your brother works for." I stare at him, aware he almost spilled the secret to me. Apparently Blake never mentioned that part of our ruinous encounter. "If you go home, you'll be putting not just yourself at risk, but your family too. You have to stay here—under security. Where they'll keep a close eye on you."
Swallowing bitterly, I observe, "I'm sure you're going home."
"My father would have my hide if I didn't." Cole cocks his head, letting my words sink in. "Or did you think that spring break with the Mastersons was some kind of picnic? Because I can guarantee that my mother has never put cold cuts or a cheap bottle of wine in a wicker basket, or sat on a blanket on a field of grass, in her entire life. I'll be going home to get additional tutoring in business and finance so I can take over the family empire, not so my family can hug me and make me hot chocolate."
"Riveting. I feel so bad for you," I deadpan. "So I'm supposed to be trapped here on campus because I'm in danger, but you won't even tell me who's threatening me? What a load of shit. I'm not twiddling my thumbs here alone for a whole weeks." I yank my arm out of his hand, glaring daggers up at him. "Unless you can tell me what the danger is, I'm going home, and I'm not asking your permission."
"Fine." He throws his hands up, annoyance in his voice. "You're in danger from a criminal operation full of rich assholes and politicians who cover each other's dirty work up and do favors to consolidate power. They call themselves the Syndicate, which I think is absolutely fucking stupid. They might as well twirl their mustaches."
"You and your friends are called the Elites," I point out, voice dripping with the irony of it. "I don't think you have a leg to stand on."
"I didn't pick that name." Cole frowns at me. "So are you staying here or not? Because I told you the truth, not that it'll do you any good to know the specifics. The people who are after you will kill you whether you can put a name to them or not."
"If they're so rich and powerful, why would I be safe here? The security here isn't that great."
"Because they have rules. They don't kill their own, or anywhere near witnesses from their tribe. And like it or not, as long as you're here at Coleridge, you're insulated because you're surrounded by us. So you have to stay here. At least until Hass is sentenced, hopefully fucking guilty, at which point they'll kick him out permanently, because members of the Syndicate aren't supposed to get caught."
I consider what he's saying, filing that info about Hass away in the back of my head. "If I stay here alone, it'll be as good as going home. They'll kill me if there are no witnesses around to object."
Saying those words—that there's a threat to my life—really hits home what I'm facing. This is big, way bigger than me, and I don't know what to do about that.
"You won't be alone," Cole says, brightening a bit now that I've given in to his strength of will. "The Rosalinds will be here, and some of the boys from Hadley and Lawrence too. Oh—and DuPont. His parents are out traveling Europe on business, so he decided to stay back and study." He shakes his head, making a disgusted noise. "Sometimes he's a stick in the mud."
Lukas will be here. I don't know why, but that calms me considerably. Something about his blue eyes has always made me feel safe and secure, even when we were standing on the opposite side of a line drawn in the sand. Even though I don't understand why he stays friends with the other three, who are so different from him.
"I'll stay," I tell Cole, already planning what I'm going to tell my mom. "But it's the last time I do something you tell me. After this is all over—"
"You'll ride off into the sunset and never see us again. Right, right. We're all looking forward to it. Just try not to get eviscerated in the meantime."
I roll my eyes, then watch him turn on his heel and walk away, done with me completely now that he's gotten what he wanted. As he strolls down the path towards Hadley Hall, I can't help but notice the way people react to them: girls sway closer, boys dodge out of the way, and even the trees seem to twist their branches around to follow his p
assing.
The whole world bends to Cole Masterson's whims.
Including, apparently, me.
Chapter 22
There's nothing like a New England campus in spring, emptied of all the teachers and pressure of class, the air fresh and light, the sun drying up the last of winter's passing. Getting up the second morning of spring break, I throw off the covers, pull on relaxed clothing—no uniforms all week—and stroll towards the dining hall without a care in the world.
Somewhere down the path, Holly is no doubt jogging in her athletic wear, hair pulled up in a tight ponytail at the crown of her head. She broke up with her boyfriend recently; apparently Leo Cooper couldn't take the pressure of visiting her family's Chelsea home and having his picture splashed across the social pages. Holly has been mourning in the way only she would, by dusting herself off and going out jogging every morning before the sun rises.
The truth is, she doesn't seem that broken up. I think I know the reason for that: she never really loved Leo.
Not like she loved Cole.
And Cole, for all his glaring flaws, loved her too. Maybe that's why he's been more of an ass ever since they broke up. Without her calming presence like a balm in his life, he's all rough edges and flares of temper. I didn't used to get their relationship before, but now that I'm back in Holly's good graces, I at least understand it from his side.
No one can light up a room like Holly Schneider. And there's no girl in the world that makes you feel as if you could be a better person, just for her, if only to make her proud.
He must have really loved her.
He'll probably never be the guy he was with her again.
Shaking the thought off, I pad towards the dining hall in my slippers, reveling in the ability to walk this stately, stuck-up, old and moneyed campus without a care in the world or stuffy rules to keep me in line. Hardly anyone stays here for spring break—even Holly will be flying out to Paris for a few days soon—which means no line for the breakfast buffet, which has been moved out of the residence halls and into the Coleridge Center to consolidate things while there are so few of us to feed.
Glancing around at the faces at breakfast, I see only one familiar to me: Lukas DuPont himself, head bent over a familiar laptop screen. I reluctantly let him have it overnight, making him swear he'd take it absolutely everywhere with him and never let it out of sight. Apparently he listened, because he's got a plate of bacon, eggs, and toast beside him even as his fingers fly over the keyboard.
I grab my own favorite—a bagel with bacon, cheese, and eggs—before I join him at his table, sliding a tray across from him and watching as he slowly reacts to my presence. "You were really into whatever you were doing there. Playing Minecraft?"
"Actually," he says, his body practically vibrating with excitement, "I think I finally cracked it."
That gets my attention, and I find myself putting breakfast down so I can lean forward and stare at the screen. "What was it, some kind of absurd password?"
"I used all the information you gave me about your brother to try to figure out how he would encrypt something this important. And eventually I realized we were going about things the wrong way. I was trying to enter through the front door, you see, or break down the back. But the whole time he had tunnels underground to lead us right to where everything was. It was ingenious of him."
I stare at Lukas. "Can you explain that with fewer metaphors? But also don't make it confusing."
"Right of course. Uh... basically, I noticed this old text-based game on your brother's computer. It didn't seem to fit the style of the other games he's downloaded and played, so I booted it up, and as it turns out, the game has a back door into the hard drive partition. It unlocks it."
"Wow." My hands shake, and I fold them together to keep them still. "How?"
"At first it was like a maze. Then I realized he's hacked the game and customized it. Instead of being set in a fictional city, it was set in Wayborne. I just had to use a little map of your town, and walk the character to your house. Once I did, I tried all the rooms, and the one that unlocked the partition is, I'm pretty sure, your brother's room."
"Show me?"
He does, turning the screen so I can see as he walks a tiny text-based character through the front door of a simplistic version of my house. The character goes up the stairs, and the screen erases the image, then builds the upstairs. It's just like I remember it from before the tornado turned our lives upside down: my room, Silas's room, the long hallway, and our shared bathroom. Lukas nudges the character into the room on the left, which makes the game quit and a window with the contents of the hard drive partition pop up.
"It wasn't his room." I have to pinch my hand to concentrate on the present, and keep myself from crying about the past. "Silas programmed the back door to be through my bedroom."
"Ah. I wonder why."
"He knew." Meeting Lukas's sympathetic blue eyes, I do my best to stay steady and calm, despite everything. "He must've known how risky it was to dig into... into the people he was working for. So he left me a message, just in case something happened to him. I should've realized it sooner, but I was so stuck on believing that I didn't know him. I forgot how well he knew me."
Of course my beloved twin brother, who protected me and kept me from seeing the worst, darkest parts of our lives, would have programmed the partition full of secrets to open only if I was the one trying to crack it. I was so busy trying to figure him out that I forgot I already knew him as well as any person can know another.
"There are folders inside the partition." Looking at the screen, I devour every letter, every word. "One named 'June 27th,' while the rest are called... 'The Cook, The Thief, The Master, The Apprentice,' and... 'Brenna.' Why did he name a folder after me?"
"Let's find out." Lukas double clicks the folder, but an error window pops up, announcing that the folder is password protected. "Wow. Your brother was thorough."
"Or paranoid." Frustration mounts inside me. "We're so close that I can taste it. But it doesn't even matter if I can't open up this folder."
"Any idea what the password might be? He named it after you."
"I have no idea. Scratch that, I have a few ideas. Way too many to count. I'm just not sure if I want to know what's in here." Taking over the laptop trackpad, I scroll through the window and count a dozen folders total, none of them specific except for the one with the date and the one with the name. "All of these are in code. I'm sure they're all password protected too."
"Let's find out." One by one Lukas double clicks all the icons, and every one of them throws up the same window. He shrugs at me. "It was worth a try."
"I can't believe him." I huff out a sigh of frustration. "If I'd known this was what Silas was up to, I would've looked over his shoulder while he was on his laptop more often."
"It's not that bad. If he had twelve passwords, they all had to be memorable. He might've even written them down somewhere—do you have any notebooks of his?"
"No." Miserable, I tell him, "If he had any, the tornado would've destroyed them."
"Well then, we'll just have to figure it out the old fashioned way. Don't worry." Lukas shoots me a surprisingly optimistic smile. "We'll figure it out eventually. Just give it some time."
That's the thing I'm worried about.
There isn't much time to spend.
My spring break is lost to a fever of trying to crack the password to the Brenna folder.
I take a shot at a few of the others, knowing that some of them, at least, are named in honor of the movie The Cook, The Thief, His Wife & Her Lover. It was one of Silas's favorite movies, even though it was produced long before we were born. Cook could be a code name for someone who makes drugs, and Master is probably whoever is in charge of the Syndicate. But many of the folders—The Dog, The Rebel, The Boss—seem repetitive or strange.
What I want to know is why he named a folder after me and kept it with all of this information on the men who he was a
pparently digging into. Every day I wake up and type passwords into the window until my stomach grumbles; every night I tug my comforter over my head to shield the screen from keeping Holly up, and then later just to keep me warm, as I wrack my head trying to figure out new passwords that could crack it.
The break is almost over when it hits me, while I'm out for a walk, the laptop on my back safely in my backpack. I should've realized it before, but I was too busy looking for the obvious, trying everything from my birthday to my astrology sign to the nickname Mom gave me when I was a toddler, Knee-High.
But it wasn't any of those, because the folder isn't about me. It's a message to me. Which means that my brother would've used a password that related to our relationship. Not some obscure fact about me that anyone could figure out or guess, but instead something only I would know, because we were the only two people who knew it.
Jogging over to one of the outdoor picnic tables in the quad, I swing the backpack off my shoulders and pull the laptop out with trembling hands. It's a good thing no one is here to see me, because I'm shaking from head to toe, full of nervous anxiety as well as an incredible amount of excitement—and more than a little dread.
I hope that whatever is in this folder, it's something I want to see.
My fingers shake so hard as I type out the password that I have to delete it twice and start over again. But once I get it in right, the password window clears, and the folder opens wide, for my eyes only.
FLAMEBUGS.
It was a word I came up with for fireflies when we were both eleven. My tongue tied, my brain spaced, and I couldn't remember any of their nicknames: lightning bugs, fireflies, even glow worms. So I blurted out the first thing I could think of, Silas laughed for minutes, and ever after that we called them flamebugs—but only when it was just the two of us around, catching them in our cupped palms.
I didn't even name the painting I made of the two of us after our nickname. It felt too much like a secret. I haven't said that word since he died—and even before he did, we'd long outgrown our era of catching bright, glowing bugs in our hands and watching them light up our skin, letting them go against each other's arms and laughing at the tickling they caused.