Page 56 of Because I Killed Him
I open one of the video clips, and right away, the music hits me with a bitter wave of nostalgia. It’s a saxophone-heavy jazz tune that Charlotte and I used to tap dance to at the Midnight Martini club. During those wild, carefree nights, she laughed more than she talked and moved across the dance floor as if the whole world were still hers to win. Now I can’t stop comparing that girl to the one with the hollowed-out face and the sad, empty eyes.
After what happened in the blue first-year carriage, it’s clear something terrible went down between Charlotte, Edmund, and Jack. If she needs space, I’ll give it to her, but if she’s planning to cut me off again, I’d rather know now. It’ll hurt less to sever the tie early. Living without her over the past two years wasn’t easy, and letting her go again won’t be either. But torn scabs heal faster than fresh wounds. I’ve lost her before, and if I have to, I can do it again.
I just don’t want to.
The clock ticks late into the night, and I keep scrolling through the feed, partly out of curiosity and partly because I want to live vicariously through the footage. Down, down, down I go until a blurry photograph of Edmund and Irene at the Jazz & Juleps party catches my eye. The couple stands on a winding stretch of beach as fireworks burst overhead. Irene’s eyes are narrowed in anger, and her hand is pressed against Edmund’s chest.Edmund, a head taller than she is, stares down at her with his hands clasped behind his back. His chin is raised, his mouth set in a hard, unyielding line, and his eyes burn hotter than when he challenged Charlotte to the shot duel.
Aside from the photo, the post contains only a link. When I tap the link, I’m directed to a website styled like an old black-and-white newspaper, complete with ink portraits above each post. Across the top, in bold, dramatic lettering, the title reads, TATTLETALE: THE MOST RELIABLE SOURCE FOR GRANDMASTER UNIVERSITY NEWS.
A Pinkie serves me a glass of red Imperial as I scroll through the stories, my curiosity mounting with every sip. Despite calling itself news, Tattletale reads more like a gossip rag covering university scandals. One story claims the campus Coppers have requested backup to investigate a potential Heretic network at Grandmaster. Another says the Blue Representatives are digging into President Reeve’s past, desperate to find dirt to blackmail him into changing his stance on the Bliss Prohibition Act. Given the nature of the claims, I’m not surprised the publisher stays anonymous—and I’m almost positive it’s a Blue. A low-citizen could never get away with publishing this.
Scrolling further down, I find the story about Edmund and Irene titled, SNOW ON THE BEACH?
High-citizen society collectively swooned upon first hearing of the romance between golden boy Edmund Prew and the dazzling big-game huntress Irene Hussey: two impossibly glamorous young Blues from families steeped in influence, power, and pedigree. Why, it seemed as if fate itself had conspired to entwine their hearts. But oh, how swiftly the shine has dulled.
A mere four months after their engagement was announced, the gilded couple was spotted—brace yourselves—quarreling at none other than the Jazz & Juleps bash. The cause of the spat remains shrouded in mystery, though my most trusted sources say all is not well behind the couple’s diamond-studded doors. Some insist Mr. Prew and Miss Hussey harbor a deliciously poisonous disdain for one another, while others claim their romance has always been more tempest than tranquility.
If such rumors prove true, one cannot help but ask: What still binds Mr. Prew and Miss Hussey together? Love? Pride? Or something infinitely more scandalous? Rest assured, my dear readers, the Tattler shall not relent until the final veil is drawn back… and when it is, you shall know every glittering, sordid detail.
I set down my wine glass, with the distinct impression that Tattletale might not be cheap gossip after all. If Edmund and Irene’s relationship truly is circling the drain, it would explain why he didn’t throw me out of the blue first-year carriage to be slaughtered by the Copper.
The thought makes me realize I’ve broken one of Dad’s cardinal rules:Never assume someone’s motives, no matter how straightforward they might seem.
“Your mom and I have been married for twenty years, and I’m still running blind about her motives half the time,” Dad told me.
When the clock strikes midnight, I roll off the sofa and drag myself to bed. My head barely hits the feather pillow before I slip into a shallow, restless sleep, and I dream once again of the attack in the locker room.
This time, Charles kills me.
During a tap dancing class, Charlotte and I knew a girl named Lucy Willoughby, whose mother had been executed for being a Heretic. When the news spread, no one wanted to be her friend. For months, I walked past her during breaks, always feeling I should sit with her, but I never did. I followed my peers’ example and shunned Lucy until the course ended. Then she quit tap, and I never saw her again.
In some ways, this feels like my punishment for that. The dining hall bustles with life, a tide of motion and noise, yet I sit apart, sealed off behind my wall of Pinkies. Usually, I don’t mind being alone, but being forced into it makes me hate it.
The first-year dining hall curves in a wide circle beneath a high-domed ceiling with stained-glass cupola windows. Holographic menus float above each table, glowing with options that vanish the instant a student places an order. At the center, a black-and-white kitchen runs like clockwork, withPinkies in pleated hats preparing food while others glide between tables, carrying trays of artistically arranged drinks.
I slump back in my chair, wondering where Charlotte is and whether she feels as boxed out as I do. My Bond drones softly as I log in to the Grandmaster University map, and a 3D, real-time rendering of the campus appears. Between 7:00 a.m. and 7:00 p.m. on weekdays, all professors and students must log their locations. Despite the campus’s vast size, the system ensures we can always find each other. Names and avatars shift across the map, color-coded by blood type, and I scan for Charlotte.
Her avatar flickers on the far side of the dining hall. I glance over and spot her in person, sitting across from a handsome Green. He leans in, smiling charmingly as he lights her cigarette, but she barely reacts. She sits angled away from him, nodding absently as she smokes, her plate of white truffle pasta untouched.
I push halfway out of my seat, ready to approach her, when a text from Dickie lights up my Bond.
“It’s a bust, broad,”he writes.
I know he’s talking about Irene.“She turned down the meeting?”
“Worse. She left me on read.”
“How’s that worse?”
“She knows Ed threw you a bone on the train. Now, because I asked her to meet with you, she thinks Ed, Jack, and I are siding against her.”
I recall the photo from the Jazz & Juleps party, where Edmund and Irene looked ready to throw hands. Were they fighting about me?
“Why did Edmund cut us a deal in the first place?”I ask.“Why didn’t he just kick us out?”
“Can’t say,”Dickie replies.“Ed’s been tight-lipped lately. But forget about meeting with Irene. And while you’re at it, lose my number. If she wasn’t out for blood before, she is now, and I’m done sticking my neck out.”
A Pinkie waiter arrives with my lunch and hands the tray to my Pinkie bodyguards. As I watch the robots test the food for poison, heat flashes across my face. This can’t go on. I can’t sit here day after day, counting down the seconds of my life, waiting for someone to slip past my defenses. I have to fight back. Maybe I can petition Judge Bradford to temporarilylift my weapons restriction. Officially, he has to consider a “clear and immediate danger” exception. He lost his daughter over the Bliss ban, so he can’t possibly be on the high-citizens’ side.
