Page 30 of They're Watching You

Ms. Swishton is already back to ignoring me, so I stride through the palatial room lined with busts of former headmasters and headmistresses. Overhead, the ceiling is a fresco of naked gods and nymphs enacting some sort of feast.

I pass a large, glass display case containing the various accolades the academy has been awarded over the past century and a half. The shelf on the end is a memorial of sorts. Photos of teachers who passed away before my time. The administrator responsible for our world-class humanities program, whose photo also hangs in the entryway of said building. And there’s another photo I recognize: Daniel King, a student whose tragic death a couple years before I arrived has become the cautionary tale for why you should never disobey the school’s rules. Daniel and some friends decided to break curfew and go night swimming in a nearby lake while intoxicated, which didn’t go so well for Daniel, who drowned. Every year at orientation, we have a moment of silence for him.

I take the staircase up to the second floor, where the offices are. Headmistress Koehler’s door is the very last one at the end of a long hall.

My phone reads 8:10 a.m. It’s quiet up here; the headmistress is the only administrator with Sunday hours. Every door is shut, including the one I’m headed toward. I was in this building last year on the third floor, finance. I had to sign a pledge to keep my grades up and to remain in at least two of my sports in order to qualify for my scholarship. But I think the last time I was on this particular floor was back before Form I, when my dad and I took a tour of the academy.

I creak down the tile floor, taking in the name placards that I never really registered the last time I was up here. Dr. Preston Harding, Dean of Admission; Dr. Isabella Marino, Dean of Students; Ms. Matilda Banks, Rector. The names continue, but when I am five steps away from knocking on the headmistress’s door, the hallway lights shut off.

I freeze, waiting for them to turn on again. When they don’t, I wave a hand in hopes of triggering the motion sensors. Instead, my phone dings in my pocket.

Startled, I press against the wall, tugging my phone out. I squint back into the dark hall, but it tunnels into oblivion. I glance back down at the text, hoping it’s Remington, apologizing for abandoning me and telling me to wait for him.

But it’s not. It’s from an unknown number. I click on it to find a video.

When I press play, a cold hollowness rolls through my gut. The video shows Remington. Leaning over the punch bowl, pouring his hidden bottle inside.

And behind him, I’m standing, watching it all.

The scene starts to play again. Mesmerized, I stare until something off-screen catches the phone’s light. At my foot, an object gleams white on the tile floor.

Another envelope. I bend down to lift it, using my phone to illuminate the name scrawled over the front:Maren Montgomery.

I peel open the pebble-filled envelope and read the card:

Poor Alicia’s too sick to keep her spot. No one has to find out what you did to her. All you have to do is replace her.

Lure someone new into the society. As a bonus for your efforts, you’ll get a clue to Polly’s whereabouts. Bring your target to the next society meeting: 11 p.m. Tuesday, the old cathedral.

My heart performs a sickening flip. Annabellewaslying about Polly.

And now she’s given me another task. Like last night’s game never ended. The society isn’t done with me yet. Not until I’ve trapped some other helpless soul. I take two quick steps in the opposite direction to find out if whoever left this envelope is still in the hall. But the lights power on again, just as Headmistress Koehler’s door clicks open.

She stands in the doorway in a formfitting gray dress, brown hair slicked back into a bun. Flustered, I stuff the envelope into my back pocket, my heart thrumming in my chest.

“Maren,” she says, eyebrows hoisted. “Did you get lost on your way up?”

“No, Headmistress Koehler,” I squeak, scouring my brain for a way out of here. Remington was wrong about the cameras not working. Not only were they recording, but somebody is already using the footage to keep me quiet. Maybe blackmail is the way Annabelle and her friends get away with everything. “I had to stop by the ladies’ room first.”

I can’t tell her the truth about the ball anymore. Not just because of the footage. I can’t tell her because I was right about Polly. The Gamemaster’s Society does know what happened to her. If I turn against them now, those secrets may stay buried forever.

“Well, why don’t you come in? Ms. Swishton said it was urgent.” She pushes the door back, motioning to a chair at her desk.

“Actually,” I say, still without a clue as to what lie will spill out next. “I wanted to ask about counseling for the students. You know, after what happened last night. There seem to be a lot of girls in my dorm who could use someone to help talk through what they saw.”

Headmistress Koehler smiles softly, and my heart rate steadies.

After assuring me the academy will be hiring extra counselors for the next couple weeks, she sends me off to breakfast, which I desperately need.

And there’s something else I need. To remain in the Gamemaster’s good graces.

I need to keep winning.

***

The dining room smells of buttermilk pancakes, and my stomach cries out. But I push past the line to track down Remington. He’s seated with a group of football players, and I have to talk myself into interrupting their boisterous conversation.

I tap him on the shoulder, and his cheeks bloom pink when he turns to find me. Here in the midst of hundreds of students, without the cover of our masks, he’s ashamed to be seen with me. “Can I speak to you?”

---