Page 232 of Because I Killed Him
A rough exhale scrapes out of me, half disbelief, half confusion, and thelonger I dwell on it, the deeper it grows. Edmund stood on that piste and shouldered the shame himself rather than kill William. The pardon won’t ruin his name—Vincent’s death bought him enough grace for that—but the Blue Fraternity won’t forgive it. Grandmaster Lily might even put William down herself to scrub out the last of the stain.
But Edmund… it doesn’t fit.
I press my palms over my eyes until the darkness behind my lids turns red. Again and again, I see him last night, identifying bodies on the Sailing Strip, his face split with panic, his voice shredding itself on my name.
If it wasn’t Edmund behind the sabotage, draining my civil credits until I was three away from execution, then who was it? And more importantly, why?
I suck in a breath that tastes of stale sofa fabric and Charlotte’s perfume, trying to ease my tension, but it doesn’t help. There’s too much I don’t understand, too many questions buried like landmines beneath my feet. For the first time, I wonder if digging up every answer is worth it. Maybe knowing will only bring more pain and loss, more of me gone for good.
“Miss Waldsten,” my Pinkie calls.
The robot emerges from my bedroom, holding a small black box.
“Your father contacted me this morning,” the robot says. “Given the recent events, he strongly advises you to wear your shield at all times.”
I nod, my throat still raw from inhaling too much smoke last night.
While the Pinkie secures the shield to my chest, I open my message inbox and feel a stab of guilt at the number of missed calls from my parents. I’m about to return Dad’s call when something else catches my eye: Vivian has called, too. Not just once, but eighteen times.
A chill of dark foreboding settles over me as I dial her number. She’s never called me this many times without texting to explain why. When she picks up, I whisper, “Vivian?”
All I hear in response is sobbing, momentarily broken by words tangled in hysteria.Harry. Coppers. Harry. Gone.
“Vivian, please slow down. I can’t understand you. What happened?”
Then, when the truth bursts through her wailing, another fault line splits open beneath my feet. I don’t realize I’ve shouted until Charlotte jerks up from the table, her coffee cup shattering on the floor.
“Harrison was arrested.”
I’ve seen many tragedies in my life, but none as devastating as the fall of a man who is good, who strives valiantly, and who, when he can bear no more, stumbles beneath the weight of his burdens and yields to defeat.
RAFE HARDY, CHIEF OF PRESIDENTIAL SECURITY
CHAPTER 57
Charlotte and I are halfway across the Green Dormitory parking garage when the reality of Harrison’s arrest catches up with me. My knees buckle, wobbling for an instant, before I straighten and press on. I should’ve expected the Blues to demand his head. Even though Harrison ordered the Greens to stand down and charged the Blues alone, the Coppers will still likely charge him with insurrection. They’ll pin every ounce of blood on him, drop a guillotine blade on his neck, and call it justice.
By the time I slide into the hovercar, Charlotte is already in the passenger seat, shouting for me to drive. I’m shaking so hard that I fumble the startup twice before she shoves my hand aside and does it herself. The power core drones as we lift out of the garage, and the sudden acceleration slams us back into our seats. Charlotte grabs my belt and yanks it across my chest, snapping it into place.
“Track Harrison Somerset,” she orders the hovercar’s AI assistant, already tapping the holographic dashboard to pull up the live Grandmaster University map.
The map shows that Harrison is logged out.
My hands loosen around the control stick as I realize I don’t even know where I’m headed. I’m just carving a random, vicious line through the empty campus’s aerial lanes.
Charlotte grabs my wrist mid-turn. “Lore—stop. We need a plan. Who would know where they’re taking Harry?”
I hesitate, wiping sweat from my neck as I run through every name I know. One comes to mind from so long ago I almost forgot he existed: Sergeant Croft. The Copper I met in the Speakeasy, the one who returned my shield after I lent it to him when most others would’ve hawked it on the black market.
I open my Bond contacts, select Croft’s name, and connect him through the dashboard speaker so Charlotte can hear. He answers on the third ring, confusion clear in his voice.
“Hello?”
“Arthur. It’s Loredana.”
A brief pause. Then, “Miss Waldsten? I shouldn’t be talking on duty—”
“Harrison Somerset. They arrested him. He’s my sister’s fiancé. Do you know where they’re holding him? Please, Arthur—”
