Page 136 of Kingmakers, Year Three

So I’m not entirely surprised when a brawny groundskeeper seizes me by the arm and begins to drag me in the direction of the Prison Tower.

I suppose I wouldn’t have been surprised either way. This is something I’ve dreaded every day since I chucked Rocco off that wall. Since I even started planning it.

I did my best to cover my tracks—but I always knew this particular skeleton in my closet was clawing at the door, desperate to get out.

I feel a numb, floating sensation as the groundskeeper pulls me across the endless expanse of lawn that separates the Keep from that dark, lonely tower.

I should be terrified. But I’m not thinking about myself. The thing worrying me most is the knowledge that Dean failing to show up after class means they must have him, too.

Sure enough, as the groundskeeper shoves me inside a small, dark room on the ground floor of the tower, I immediately spot Dean chained up in the center of the cramped space, on his knees with his arms up in the shape of a Y.

“Dean!” I cry, wrenching out of the groundskeeper’s grasp and running over to him. I throw my arms around his shoulders as if I could shield him from harm. Quickly, before anyone can yank me away, he murmurs in my ear, “Don’t admit to anything, Cat—not one fucking thing!”

Now the full force of fear hits me, and my legs begin to shake. I feel very small in this tiny space, and horribly confined. The rings and shackles on the walls aren’t helping. Worst of all is the fact that I’m trapped in here with three of my least-favorite people: The Chancellor, Professor Penmark, and Lola Fischer.

Lola looks torn between gleeful satisfaction and a strange, sick nervousness. I know she put this in motion. Now she’s learning the difference between a plan and reality.

I learned the same thing the day I became a murderer. Nothing prepares you for fresh blood on your hands.

“Cat Romero,” the Chancellor says without preamble. “Did you kill Rocco Prince?”

I look at Dean’s face—pale and as determined as I’ve ever seen it. He gives one minute shake of his head.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Can you tell me what you were doing the day he died?”

“It was the final challenge in theQuartum Bellum,”I say carefully. “My team was already eliminated. At breakfast, I cut my arm accidentally. I went to the infirmary. Dr. Cross stitched the wound. We talked for a while—I helped him change the sheets on the bed. Then Dean arrived at the infirmary—his shoulder had been dislocated in the challenge. I helped Dr. Cross to reset it. Afterward, Dean and I walked back to the field together, and I sat with my roommate Rakel to watch the remainder of the event.”

In the days after Rocco’s death, I repeated this alibi to myself over and over so I’d be able to lie smoothly. But it’s been several months since I rehearsed. I stumble over my sentences.

Apparently the Chancellor already checked on my movements that day. He counters at once:

“I called Dr. Cross. He told me it’s possible that he fell asleep for a time while you were in the infirmary.”

It takes everything I have not to wince.

Dr. Cross didn’t fall asleep—I drugged him.

I don’t think he knows that, and I doubt he knows he was supposed to be my alibi. He probably answered the Chancellor’s questions blithely, not knowing that my life was in his hands.

“His head might have nodded for a moment,” I say. “But he was never asleep.”

The Chancellor watches me closely, his eyes like two black scarab beetles, crawling and biting over my skin. I know he’ll catch the slightest hint of a lie.

I use Professor Penmark’s interrogation advice while the man himself stands only a few feet away from me, smiling in his horrible way: I try not to fidget too much or too little, to give too many or too few details. I will maintain my baseline behavior no matter what.

“Lola’s lying!” Dean shouts abruptly. “She hates Cat, she’s jealous of her! She’s just trying to get her in trouble.”

“I heard her!” Lola cries. “I heard her admit what she did!”

Fuck.I knew I heard something moving behind me the day I called Zoe and spilled the whole history of me and Dean. God that was so fucking stupid! How could I have been so careless?

“She’s making it up! She doesn’t have any proof!” Dean says.

“Then what about this?” Lola cries, yanking my sketchbook out of her backpack.

“Show it to me,” the Chancellor says.

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