Page 76 of An Academy for Liars

“No…I can access the files of professors too.”

“Then why is Dante’s restricted, specifically?”

“Why don’t you just ask him yourself?” said Sawyer, exasperated. “The two of you are close. I can’t imagine he’d refuse you.”

“Then you have a flawed idea of who he is and how much I matter to him.”

“My condolences,” he said flatly and without a hint of sympathy.

Lennon narrowed her eyes. “You know something. Don’t you?”

The flush on Sawyer’s cheeks deepened from red to an almost ashen purple. He didn’t look at her but didn’t deny anything either. “I’m not doing this with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because his file basically doesn’t exist.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Sawyer. “I only found out because Claude came in asking questions a few days after Ben’s death. He kept demanding Dante’s file, and I was worried he’d lose it if I didn’t hand it over. So I offered to look for it—just to appease him, keep him quiet. But when I found Dante’s file there was next to nothing in it. Just a slip of paper that said the contents were redacted.”

“Did Claude ever say why he wanted it in the first place?”

“He was drunk and, honestly, less than lucid, so I’m not entirely sure what he was after. But he was determined, and he became furious when I couldn’t find it. I even tried to ask the other librarians if they knew why his file was redacted, and they didn’t have a clue. Or if they did, they wouldn’t tell me. All I gathered was that the redacted files are kept in the vice-chancellor’s private library. She’s the only one who has access to them.”

Something twisted deep in Lennon’s stomach. Feeling sick, Lennon nodded and tucked Claude’s address into the pocket of her trousers. “Thanks for all of this. I’ll tell Claude you said hi when I see him—”

“Not so fast,” said Sawyer. “If you’re going to see Claude, I’m coming with you.”

There was awildfire burning somewhere up in Canada, and New York was in the process of being smothered under a blanket of smoke when Lennon and Sawyer stepped off the elevator and into the large, windowed living room of a penthouse in New York, Claude’s most recent residence, according to his file in the archives. The view should’ve been stunning, but the jaundiced pall obscured what should have been a sweeping skyline.

The penthouse itself seemed empty and mostly quiet, apart from the sound of water running. They followed that sound across the living room, down a long hallway, and into a large primary bedroom. There was a bath en suite, its door just ajar, and it was there that Lennon and Sawyer found Claude, fully clothed and chest-deep in a steaming bathtub, smoking.

“Rough day?” Lennon asked.

Claude’s gaze shifted to hers, half-lidded and lackadaisical. He didn’t seem remotely surprised to see them. But, Lennon noted, he didn’t seem drunk either.

“No worse than yours,” said Claude and gestured to Lennon’s bloody nose by wiping at his own. Lennon hadn’t even realized she was bleeding. The act of calling the gate had drained her more than she’d realized. “There’s gauze in the first aid kit beneath the sinks. Try not to bleed on the bath mats. My mom will have a fucking fit.”

Lennon retrieved the first aid kit, rolling several squares of gauze into tight cylinders, which she stuffed up her nostrils to staunch the flow.

“This is your mom’s place?” Sawyer asked, as Lennon struggled to stop bleeding.

Claude stared up at the bulbous skylight overhead, which allowed for a hole-punch cut of the flat, yellow sky. “Sort of. It’s been in the family for years, but to be honest, it’s less ours than Drayton’s.”

“Wait,” said Sawyer, looking stunned. “Yourmomknows about Drayton?”

“She’s alumni,” he said. “Most of my family is, actually. You’re looking at the great-great-great-great-grandson of one of Drayton’s first boys.” Claude wiggled his fingers for theatrical effect.

It made sense to Lennon that Claude was Drayton royalty. He had that Old South accent and, for that matter, an air of audacity, a kind of confidence that could only ever come from true privilege. She wondered if that was why he’d been able to keep his memories of Drayton despite being expelled.

“So the apartment is a nepotism perk?” said Lennon dryly, trying to sound less intrigued than she really was.

“No,” said Claude. “The apartment is ten million dollars of deadweight that’s going to keep me rooted here in New York, blackmailing stockbrokers with the intimate details of their own fucked-up personal lives until the school decides to find me some other gainful means of employment.”

“That’s a harsh way to describe a penthouse overlooking Central Park and job security,” said Sawyer, but it came out strained and forced the way jokes often do when you’re desperate for them to land.

Claude didn’t laugh. He nudged the faucet with his foot and managed to cut the water off after a few false tries. He ignored Sawyer and looked to Lennon again. “You know, I’m surprised he let you come here at all. Dante, I mean.”

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