Page 14 of Cruel Riches

3

Alexis

At two o’clock,everything I wanted to take to Blackthorne was crammed into my car. Five minutes later, I was on the road, heading south to Arcadia Bay.

Sascha had helped me pack while lecturing me endlessly on campus safety, and now she was back in our apartment in a much better mood than earlier after I convinced her to download a new dating app. Before I was even five miles out of Avalon City, she messaged me saying she’d found a hot date for tonight.

I smiled, shoulders slumping as I relaxed into my seat. On a good day, Arcadia Bay was only half an hour away, but it was going to take a lot longer with all the traffic today. I figured I might as well sit back and enjoy the view to pass the time.

Several historic lighthouses sat on promontories along the way, and right near the third one was a popular beach my parents used to take Sascha and me to when we were kids. The thought of that beach made me smile as an old memory surfaced.

Back then, I idolized my father and wanted to be a journalist like he used to be before he took up the teaching position at Blackthorne, so I would sit on that beach and write reports on everything I saw and heard. Dad never treated my hobby like it was just a silly kid thing. He helped me edit my little articles, complimented my sharp eye for detail, and gave me suggestions on what to record next time we went.

When I was eight, he bought me a set of notebooks and pens that were exactly the same as the ones he used every day. I carried my notes everywhere after that, proudly reporting on everything in our neighborhood, and I even started my own monthly newspaper that I distributed to all the houses on our block.

My smile faded as I remembered what happened to my very last newspaper. I’d sent it out to everyone the day before Dad was arrested. When Mom brought us home from school the next afternoon, one of our neighbors had collected all of my pages, written ‘MURDERER’ on them in red ink and strewn them all over our front yard.

I never wrote another edition of my newspaper, not even when we changed our names and moved to a city in California where no one recognized us.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tried to think about something else. Anything else.

By now, the sun had disappeared behind gray clouds. The ocean on my left had turned a dark grayish-blue, and whitecaps were frothing on the surface. The air was growing cold and misty.

The sudden change in conditions didn’t surprise me. Even when it was pleasant and sunny earlier, I could tell we were heading for a cold snap soon. A certain scent always lingered in the air when the cold was on its way, and the deciduous trees on the right side of the road had already lost all their leaves, making them look naked and skeletal.

Fall and winter were usually quite mild on the island—just chilly temperatures, wind, dreary skies, and rain. It rarely snowed, and even when it did, it only lasted for a few days, unless you counted the mountain ranges in the northwest, which were capped with snow for at least six months of the year.

This winter was going to be bad, though. I could tell from the trees I just passed. Most of the time, they didn’t lose their leaves until October, but when a harsh winter was coming, it happened earlier. I was willing to bet that we’d have snow on the ground by November. Early December at the latest.

The last time it snowed early was ten years ago. That was when the bodies showed up in the Blackthorne quad, dripping blood over the snowy ground as they swayed on the branches.

I swallowed another lump in my throat, wishing I could push the image of those corpses out of my head. Sadly, it wasn’t easy. Not when those very same corpses had shaped my life so dramatically.

My mood improved when I turned onto the road that led up to the main entrance of Blackthorne University. The campus was gorgeous, with noble statues, quaint cobblestone paths, perfectly trimmed hedges, and towering buildings with gray stonework and arched windows.

The place oozed privilege; a little bubble existing only for those who were smart enough, talented enough, or rich enough to make it in. It was huge, too, stretching over hundreds of acres. I could probably explore the campus for two straight days and still only see half of it.

After locating my residence hall, I went to the admin office on the ground floor to collect my keys, student ID, and welcome package. I didn’t go to my new dorm after that, though. My legs were stiff after the long drive, so I wanted to walk around and stretch them for a while.

I wandered around the closest parts of the campus for a while, marveling at the stunning historical buildings. Then I headed west, toward the outer edge of the campus. A national park bordered that side, filled with lush greenery, soaring forests, lakes, streams, valleys, and hiking trails.

Beyond the last building on the western edge was a fifty-foot-long bridge that connected the campus to the biggest hiking trail in the park. Three-foot-high stone walls flanked the bridge, which was suspended over a steep wooded gradient.

When Sascha and I were kids, Dad brought us out here one weekend to show us something he’d discovered when he went exploring on one of his lunch breaks. I still remembered that day as if it were only yesterday.

‘Watch your step, girls,’ he told us as we headed off the hiking trail onto a narrow path to the left. I barely heard him, because I was already running off ahead. When I slipped on a pile of crunchy leaves and started flailing, he surged forward and grabbed my hand. ‘That’s why you need to be careful,’ he said with a gentle laugh.

When we got further down the smaller trail, he took my sister’s hand as well. Then he made us close our eyes as he slowly guided us the rest of the way.

‘Here it is,’ he finally said. ‘Our special place.’

We opened our eyes to see a gurgling stream beside a canopy of wildflowers and mossy boulders. Ancient trees guarded the area on every side, and to my seven-year-old mind, that made it seem like the perfect spot for elves and fairies to secretly live and play in.

‘It’s beautiful, Daddy!’ my sister said, leaning down to smell the flowers. ‘I love it.’

I nodded in agreement, picked up a sharp stick, and ran over to the nearest tree to carve our names into it. My sister didn’t want to do it—she thought I was being rude to the tree and hurting its feelings along with its bark—but I was determined to mark this beautiful place as ours. Besides, the tree was a tough old thing, hundreds of years old with a stout trunk, gnarled branches, enormous roots, and rough bark which had already been patterned by weather and animal activity in the past. I was sure it wouldn’t mind being our signpost.

As the fond memory played in the forefront of my mind, I crossed the bridge and searched for the path which led to the spot with the old tree, wondering if our names were still there.

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