Page 58 of Anarchy at Prescott High (The Havoc Boys 4)
Sara steps up behind me, putting one foot on the carpeted dais where I’m standing. I glance back at her, looking over my shoulder and realizing I have to do it, that I have to dye my hair before I attend Ophelia’s bullshit gala thing. Dye it the color of blood, Bernie.
I laugh and turn back to the mirror. If Sara’s still asking after the location of the party, then she doesn’t know a damn thing. Somebody will squeal, eventually, they always do, but it’ll be a while. A few weeks, at least, when they’re less likely to be hunted down by the other students to have their mouths sewn shut …
“I already told you: I’m not a snitch,” I repeat, looking at the black mesh against my pale thighs. Jesus fucking Christ, I look like a ghost. It’ll only get worse over the winter, too. But I do like that, the almost offensive contrast between white skin and ebony fabric. The dress is expensive, but not for the crowd Ophelia Mars runs with. It might not even be good enough, but I don’t care. I like the way it looks. It’s expensive. Good enough.
Plus, my side hurts too much to keep trying on dresses, so fuck it.
“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” Sara says, which is a good sign. She’s still ready to give me the benefit of the doubt.
“Did you look into all of the complaints against Neil?” I ask, turning around to look at her. With my hands on my hips, and the height difference from the heels and the dais, I feel like I’m looking down at a loyal subject, ordering her about. The thought makes me smile. “Because if you haven’t, then I can’t help you.”
“There’s not a single complaint against Neil Pence that wasn’t dismissed. It might come as a surprise to you, but the guilty are often the first to file complaints on law enforcement. We get them all the time.”
I ignore Sara’s ignorance and head back into the dressing room before the boys can come in and see me in this dress. I want to surprise them when I wear it for the first time. After last night, I’m feeling possessive. The last thing I want is for Sara to see the way they look at me. At best, she’ll misunderstand the hungry glint in their eyes, the way they lick their lips, the way their cocks thicken inside their pants. At worst, she’ll see that they’d do anything for me—even kill.
“Bernadette, you were never in the foster system. Tell me: how do you know Coraleigh Vincent?”
Fuck, this woman is relentless.
I turn back toward her. There’s just something about staring into a person’s eyes. The reflection of her face isn’t good enough. I need more than that.
“I feel like you already know the answer to that,” I reply carefully, testing the waters. Sara’s face remains stoic, but intense. She does know. She knows that Neil was crooked, that he was broken in ways that can never be fixed. I’m not sure when she realized it or if she always knew and was bullshitting me, but it’s right there, spelled out clear as day in her brown gaze. “Neil didn’t want anyone to know, that’s why.”
“Where is he, Bernie?” she asks me again, but this time, I catch the slightest hint of desperation in her voice. She wants this kill; she wants to bring him in. It’s become an obsession.
“She’s more than you think she is,” Kali purrs, her corpse hanging from a chandelier above me, head thrown back, mouth gaping as she cackles. Fuck me, I have a vivid imagination.
“Sara, you’re smarter than that,” I say, swiping my palm down the front of the dress. “As I’ve said before: even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.” I maintain eye contact with her for a full minute. It’s not that easy to do with anyone, let alone a near stranger. Try it. But for every second that the standoff lasts, I gain something. Eventually, it’s Sara who looks away.
“Don’t be a stranger over the winter break, okay?” she offers, turning away from me and collecting her purse. She glances back over her shoulder just once before leaving. “If you can choose any dress, get that one. It suits you.”
Her sneakers are loud as they squeak across the shiny floors, but I don’t wait to see her go, waving the salesgirl over so she can unzip and unbutton the dress. As soon as I get back into the dressing room, I slump onto the bench seat and curl my fingers around it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can’t decide if that just went really well … or horribly.
“You’re going to screw everything up,” Kali proclaims from inside the mirror. She doesn’t exist anywhere else because she isn’t fucking real. She isn’t real, and yet I’m letting her torment me all the same.
