Page 59 of Because I Killed Him
I run my thumb over the smooth new skin. Dad warned me to keep my weapons restriction secret, and I would with anyone else, but Charlotte is different. She’s the person I trust most, more than Vivian and Hillaire, even more than Dad. If I want to rebuild things with her, I can’t lie. Back when we were closest, she always knew when I was lying, even to myself.
“What I mean is, I’m not allowed to fight,” I say.
Then I tell Charlotte everything, from the attack in the locker room to the weapons restriction that followed. Apart from my witness testimony, it’s the first time I’ve told the story aloud, and recalling it in detail is painful, as if every word cuts my tongue.
By the time I finish, Charlotte’s frown is so deep it seems to carve new lines into her face. Her lighter sits abandoned on the table, and a burnt-out cigarette hangs forgotten between her fingers. “Shit, Lore,” she says hoarsely. “Which Blue?”
“It doesn’t matter.” I get up from the window seat and pace around the sofa, hoping Charlotte won’t dig any deeper. Talking about what happened is one thing, but talking about Charles Blackwell is another. “What matters is that unless I can convince the judge to suspend the ban, I can’t touch a weapon for the next two years.”
Charlotte presses her fingers to her mouth as if fitting puzzle pieces together. “The judge who sentenced you… that wouldn’t be Judge Bradford, would it?”
“Yeah.”
She nods slowly, understanding why I wanted to help Jane. “I don’t know, Lore. Judge Bradford might want to help you, especially after what happened to his daughter, but he’s in a chokehold. If he lifts your restriction and word gets out, they’ll throw the whole damn book at him—corruption, favoritism, bending to personal politics. Anything they can use to bring him down.”
“So, what do you suggest?”
Charlotte falls silent, as if weighing options. The way her fingers tap against her knee holds the rhythm of habit, the kind you develop after having to plan your escape too many times. I think about how life must’ve been for her with Rosamund relentlessly circling.
Finally, Charlotte stands from the window seat. “I think we should mapout the Speakeasy. I’ve already looked at the blueprints, and the place might as well be its own fucking district. But if we study every room and learn the ins and outs, not even the sixth years will be able to find us.”
In other words, hide.Again.
“It’s a good idea, Char, but I’m getting tired of running. If we keep this up, maybe that’s who we are.”
“It’s not who we are,” she says firmly. “But right now, it’s who we have to pretend to be.” She grabs her lighter from the table, curling her fingers around it as if drawing strength from its weight. “Winning isn’t about fighting every battle. It’s about choosing the right ones. There’s gonna be a time for you to deal with Irene and for me to get even with Rosamund. But that time isn’t now. In the Speakeasy, wehide.”
Subject: Stag Leap Gala Attendance
Dear Miss Loredana Waldsten,
Please be advised that attendance at the Stag Leap Gala is required of all first-year students, in accordance with the longstanding traditions and standards of propriety at Grandmaster University. Accordingly, your request for a formal dismissal has been reviewed and, regrettably, denied.
You may bring private security to the event. However, I assure you that the safety of all students on the Grandmaster University campus is our utmost priority, and we take every measure to ensure a secure environment during events such as the Stag Leap Gala.
I appreciate your understanding. May you always be virtuous.
Sincerely,
Lars Wagner
Director of Student Affairs
I stare at the email with a heavy, sinking heart. It feels as if I’ve been pushed off a cliff, but there’s no rush of wind, only a horrible, crushingsilence as I wait to hit the bottom. The only way forward now is through. In two and a half days, I’ll be trapped at the Stag Leap Gala, forced into a dark, pulsating crowd with a Blue who wants me dead.
My last thread of hope is the petition I sent to Dad. He’ll forward it to Judge Bradford, and I’ll know before Sunday whether my weapons restriction can be lifted temporarily. It’s a long shot, but it’s the best I’ve got.
I still haven’t told Dad about Irene’s threat. He already knows plenty of people want our family dead. Adding Irene to the list would only push him to confront her parents, and that’s a war I can’t afford to start without proof.
So, I wait.
Charlotte and I pore over the Speakeasy’s blueprints, committing every detail to memory. As I scroll through the endless rooms, it quickly becomes clear that in a place like this, survival is a game of inches.
The Speakeasy is a seven-story lodge nestled deep in a grove of cypress trees atop rugged cliffs that drop straight into the ocean. The only way there is by hovership. The Blues have their own grand portico entrance, while the rest of us are funneled through narrow, almost-hidden side doors.
Inside the Speakeasy, each floor has a unique shape. The first floor is the Oval, the seventh is the Hexagon, and the others fall somewhere in between. On each floor, there are over a hundred rooms, each a potential threat or escape.
Charlotte and I work in the private study of my suite. We huddle over my desk, our Bonds linked so we can share screens. We have the Speakeasy’s blueprints, a map of the surrounding area, access to online forums full of insider tips, and we’re tracking the Stag Leap Gala hashtag on Quill.
