Page 100 of Because I Killed Him
On Wednesday, while I’m icing my sore shoulder in the lavatory between classes, I overhear three of my classmates talking about it.
“Rumor has it there will be a private rooftop for VIPs only,” the first girl says, washing her hands in the sink beside me.
“I heard Headmistress Prew arranged for a temporary snow dome to be built so guests can ‘experience winter with a view,’” the second girl says.
“My boyfriend knows someone on the guest list, so I can confirm both rumors,” says the third. “But do you want to know the real cherry on top?”
The other two girls eagerly turn toward her.
The third girl lingers, savoring the moment as a Pinkie refreshes her makeup. “Scarlet du Pont,” she says at last. “She is going to perform.”
The other two girls gasp in excitement.
I massage my sore shoulder muscle, thinking the third girl’s intel is good. The jazz seductress, with smoke in her voice and fire in her heels, will indeed be flown in for a single night to croon beneath a thousand diamond lights. But that’s only part of the story. The main reason Scarlet du Pont accepted the booking is the venue, the Lotus Lounge. It’s a velvet-drenched high-roller club on the Moonshine Mile that’s becomeso notorious, even people outside the university know its name. Dickie told me that the price for entry isn’t money, but a hefty transfer of civil credits.
“We absolutelymustsecure an invitation,” the second girl declares.
“There is no way to do that without a contact in Mr. Prew’s entourage,” the first replies, smoothing her lavender drop-waist gown as if the point needs emphasis.
“I have heard Mr. Prew’s low-citizens are very kind,” the third girl says, her voice pitched loud enough to reach me. “Generous, even.”
I press the thawing ice pack harder against my shoulder, embarrassed to realize they think I can help. I would if I could. I’d invite a hundred low-citizens just to see the pissed-off look on the high-citizens’ faces.
“Apologies, ladies,” I say. “I cannot secure you an invitation, as I am not invited myself.”
All three swivel toward me, wide-eyed.
“You are not invited?” the first girl asks. “But you are in Mr. Prew’s entourage, Miss Waldsten. How is that possible?”
“I requested the evening off,” I say, fidgeting with my drop earring.
I politely excuse myself, and as I step into the hall, my shoulder starts to ache again, but I barely notice. Charlotte and I are both in Edmund’s entourage, yet neither of us made the guest list. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t sting—being overlooked like a dust ball in the corner always does. But I remind myself that Edmund and I aren’t friends; we’re business partners under contract. And in contracts, nothing comes free. Kindness is just another form of currency, and every so-called favor is a debt waiting to be collected.
That’s why I need to find the perfect birthday gift. If I can give Edmund something that pays off my ever-growing tab—for the civil credits and his protection in the Tangerine Tree—that’s a start. Better still would be to find something valuable enough to shift the balance between us, because I’m tired of every breath that I take feeling like it’s on loan. If I can give Edmund something he couldn’t get on his own, maybe, for once, the scales will tip back.
The trouble is, I don’t know what that thing is. What can someone like me give someone like him? I don’t know what he needs, let alone what he likes. The truth is, I hardly know anything about him.
I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with something that doesn’t look like I grabbed it off a sale rack at the campus strip. I even asked Dickie, but he brushed me off with a smirk, guarding his ideas like state secrets.
All I’ve got is a single clue: Edmund’s pocket watch, made by a brand called Altimor.
Thanks to Mom and Vivian, I can rattle off most luxury brands as easily as fencing footwork, but I’ve never even heard of Altimor. That means the pocket watch is either so exclusive it’s out of reach for people like me, or it’s special. An heirloom, maybe.
After class, when Edmund cuts me loose for the day, I head straight to the study in my suite. My Pinkie sets a champagne cocktail on the desk beside me as I open the internet on my Bond and search “Altimor.”
The top result leads me to a trendy website filled with luxury watches, many priced nearly as high as my hovercar. They look almost identical to Edmund’s pocket watch, each displaying the nine time zones of the Civilized World. As I study the fashion models—men and women dressed in bomber jackets, sheepskin-lined suits, and sunglasses that reflect airplane wings—I realize that Altimor is a precision toolmaker for pilots.
Suddenly, small details about Edmund start to make sense. His constant use of eye drops must be because pilots often get dry eyes at high altitudes, where the air is thin and humidity drops. His face and hands, which are a shade tanner than the rest of him, show the uneven exposure you’d get in a cockpit, with sunlight pouring through the glass.
A pilot. That’s what he is, or maybe what he’s training to be.
I lean back in my chair and sip my cocktail, smiling as I picture him soaring over campus in a flashy jet, the Prew name splashed across its side. I know exactly what to give him now. The trouble is, getting the gift will mean striking a deal with Vivian.
And deals with her never come cheap.
I waste no time calling Vivian on video. The screen shows her perched at her bedroom vanity, as if posing for a magazine shoot. The light from the makeup mirror trails over her body, tracing the curves of her chest and thelines of her toned stomach. She’s only half-dressed, wearing a green lace bra and panties that stand out against her artificially tanned skin. The only thing she keeps on is her equestrian helmet, with her rich black hair neatly pinned beneath it. She must’ve recently returned from her weekly ride with Mom.
“Hey, Lore,” Vivian says, setting her phone at an angle to keep me in view. Her tone is casual, but her brow furrows slightly, and her lips press into a distracted line. “Just give me a second.”
