Page 16 of Cruel Riches

Unfortunately, a lot of the books were affected by water damage during our move off the island. Mom had packed them all into cardboard boxes, and there was a rain-induced leak in one of the trucks that carried our stuff from Washington to California, so many of the books lost every trace of ink within them or had the pages stuck together.

Some of it was salvageable, though, so when I looked through the notebooks, I was able to glean several major pieces of information.

Firstly, Dad had been investigating some sort of conspiracy on the island, which he believed to be centered in Arcadia Bay. Secondly, he thought it was extremely dangerous. If his investigation was ever discovered by the involved parties, he knew they would do anything to destroy him. He referred to these people as the ‘Golden Circle’, though his notes failed to say why. Either that or the explanation was buried in one of the waterlogged books that were no longer readable.

Dad didn’t seem to know any names; only that there were twelve matriarchs or patriarchs from twelve families with vast power and wealth who were responsible for the conspiracy. Unfortunately, that didn’t narrow it down much, because there were hundreds of super-rich and powerful families on this island, and most of them lived in or around Arcadia Bay.

That was basically all I could get from the notes, aside from a few random things that I hadn’t been able to figure out yet. One was a page that simply said ‘IL?’ in large capital letters, which I took as a possible reference to Illinois, or perhaps someone’s initials.

Another page had a drawing of a circle with a dot in the center and twelve dots around the edge, which seemed like a crude image of a clock. I figured it represented the Golden Circle with its twelve main members, but most of the text beneath the drawing had been smeared and faded into blue patches from droplets of water, so I couldn’t know for sure. All I could make out was one word, followed by a few question marks. Bodies???

As I recalled the notes, a surge of adrenaline ran through my body, and I rose to my feet and turned around to look at the bubbling stream behind me. “I’m back, Dad,” I said out loud, lifting my chin. “I’m doing what you asked.”

That was the main reason I moved back to Avalon with my sister. Now that I was older and had a different name, I could live here and blend in with everyone else while I worked on my investigation into Dad’s case.

Even my Blackthorne enrolment was part of my journey toward justice. I always wanted to be a journalist, but there was a specific reason I wanted to study at this exact college. For one, it offered a world-class education in investigative journalism, which would give me the tools and ability to uncover information that may have been out of reach in the past. Also, because Dad used to teach at the college, I’d be able to make connections with his old friends and colleagues, which would hopefully give me more insight into the events of ten years ago. Some of those people—or even just one of them—might know something useful that they never told anyone back in 2009 because they didn’t think it was relevant. Anything could help. Even something small.

Feeling renewed and energized, I headed back over to the campus and grabbed some bags from my car. My assigned dorm was on the top floor of the Redstone residence hall, which was one of many student housing buildings on the campus.

When I got to the top of the stairs, I rounded the corner and smacked into a chest as solid as a wall.

“Sorry,” I murmured, taking a step back. I lifted my chin to see who I’d bumped into and was instantly struck by two stormy blue eyes.

Familiar eyes.

Oh, shit.

It was Nate Lockwood.

Nate was tall and muscle-bound. Gorgeous, too, with an angular jaw, full lips, and dark hair cut short around the sides and long on the top. Right now, his perfect mouth was twisted into a sneer, and his mesmerizing blue eyes were staring down at me with obvious disdain flickering in them.

I wasn’t surprised. Nate and I had a short but checkered history.

When I moved back to the island for answers, part of my initial investigation technique involved breaking into the homes of Arcadia Bay’s wealthiest families in the hope of finding something—anything—that could link them to my father or the Golden Circle he spoke of.

Illegal? Of course. Necessary? I thought so, yes.

The Lockwoods were one of the island’s oldest and most powerful families, so their property was one of the first I sneaked onto to poke around. Rich people were notoriously stingy, and the security measures they had were usually easy enough to get around. The Lockwood mansion was no different. I made it inside one rainy night five weeks ago, and then I made my way up to Francis Lockwood’s study on the fourth floor.

Francis was Nate’s father. He was killed in a car accident several years ago, but I had a feeling that he might be one of the people my father referred to in his old notes. When I rifled through his study in the mansion that night, I found a 2009 diary which had Dad’s name in it, along with his home and office address.

A few minutes after I found that diary, Nate came into the study and caught me. I managed to get away from him, but I dropped my phone and didn’t realize until it was too late.

At the time, I thought I was totally screwed, but instead of calling the police, Nate tracked me down and contacted me with an offer—a dinner date in return for my phone. No cops.

I went along with it, desperate to stay out of trouble, but Nate never showed up to our date. He simply gave my phone to the restaurant hostess to pass on to me, and then he left me sitting there like an idiot for an hour, all alone. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

Until now.

He stared down at me, crossing his arms over his chest. “Alexis,” he said stiffly.

“Uh… hey,” I said, taking a slight step back to put some more space between us. “What are you doing here?”

“Just dropping off a gift for a friend who lives up here,” he replied, eyes still flashing with irritation at the sight of me. There was a hint of amusement in the curve of his lips, though, which confused me but also gave me hope. Maybe he didn’t totally hate my guts.

“Oh, cool,” I said. My cheeks had grown hot, and I prayed that I wasn’t visibly turning red. “I’m moving in here. Starting my degree on Monday.”

His lips tightened. “You shouldn’t.”

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