Page 65 of They're Watching You

“Who is it?” comes a muffled voice. “I’ve already called security.”

My heart sinks, and I punch Remington in the arm. “It’s Maren Montgomery, ma’am. From the other day at your office?” Remington opens his mouth, but I silence him with a look. “And Remington Cruz. Please, may we come in?”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“We know. It’s an emergency. Someone—two people will die if we don’t speak to you.”

No response. Sweat beads on my forehead. “I’m waiting for security.”

“We don’t have time, Headmistress,” Remington calls. “It’s about Annabelle Westerly. We have proof that she and her secret society are keeping Polly St. James and Jane Blanchet prisoner. They’re hurt, and the society has threatened to kill them in a matter of hours.”

“If this is a prank, you’re making a grave mistake. Annabelle Westerly is one of Torrey-Well’s finest students.”

Remington growls under his breath. “And she locked us up in the dungeon beneath the school! We can show you the proof—proof that we’ve already emailed to everyone we know.” His voice is strained. “But you have to open the door.”

The seconds tick by, my palms stickier with each one. Our headmistress—the person whose entire life is supposedly wrapped up in her school and her students—isn’t going to listen to us. But finally, there’s a click and a turn of the knob, and the door pushes open. “Show me,” she says, extending a pale, open palm.

Frantically, I dig through my pack to produce the camera. I give it to her, and the door shuts in our faces, the bolt sounding again.

I close my eyes and inhale the pine scent of the forest bordering the cottage. When I open my eyes again, Remington is sitting on the porch, head in his hands. I lower beside him, timidly touching his back.

“It’s too incredible,” he says without looking up.

“It is,” I agree. “But it’s the truth. She can’t ignore the time-stamped video. And even if she does, we have a backup plan. We’ll show the authorities.”

“Thank you,” he says, “for being in this with me. Despite everything Annabelle’s done to drive a wedge between us.”

I shrug. “Thankyou, for having a screwdriver back there.”

He laughs weakly. I rest my tired head on his shoulder, and after a moment, he straightens, wrapping an arm around me. It’s a small comfort that does little to stop my mind from spinning with worry. The headmistress has had plenty of time to watch the video. What’s taking so long?

Before I can repeat the question aloud, the bolt clicks behind us, followed by the creak of the door.

“Come in,” Headmistress Koehler says. “I—I…” I turn to find her ashen face staring through the doorframe. She steps back, and we follow her inside, where she looks us over. She reaches out, taking my hand in hers and wincing. “You’re like ice.” She motions to a floral couch. “I’ll get some blankets and tea. I canceled my call for campus security and contacted the proper channels instead. They’ll be here momentarily to take your statements. And they’ll be bringing Annabelle down to the station for questioning.”

“She has Gavin Holt too, ma’am,” I say. “He was taken somewhere else when she locked us up.”

“How can one girl do all of this?” Headmistress Koehler asks, looking timid and frail, so unlike the confident woman who sits at her administrative desk during the day.

“She has the society under her control,” Remington answers. “Teachers too. They all do her bidding.”

Headmistress Koehler takes a deep, silent breath and wanders to the hearth. “Does this have something to do with your coming to my office the other day, Maren?” She strikes a match and bends to light the fireplace.

“Yes, ma’am, I was going to tell you that Annabelle was responsible for Alicia Jones. But then the society threatened to pin Alicia’s illness on me. I panicked. I’m sorry.”

The flames roar to life, and the headmistress stands, turning to face us. “We’re going to make this right,” she says, nodding to herself. “Here, warm yourselves until the tea is ready.”

She exits the room in a zomebielike state, and Remington and I waste no time moving to crouch by the fireplace.

“It’s going to be okay,” Remington says, rubbing my hands. For the first time in days, some tightly coiled part of me loosens.

She’s going to help get the others back.

“I’m going to find the bathroom,” I say, squeezing his hand. They don’t exactly have functioning toilets in the catacombs. I start in the direction of the whistling kettle to ask where to go, but I spot a door down the hall and decide to help myself. I pad down the hallway, clicking on the light to find a powder room decorated in white lily everything—wallpaper, lily-scented candle, even a toilet-seat cover with a giant flower embroidered on it.

My eyes are half-shut when I finish up, washing my hands and splashing some water on my face. I leave, heading back down the hall, past a large bookshelf stuffed with an eclectic mix of scholarly tomes, academic journals, and gardening magazines. I stop, sifting through the reading material; apparently, Headmistress Koehler takes her gardening more seriously than we ever knew. Stuffed between a few issues ofCountry Gardens, though, is a paperback copy of Homer’sThe Iliad. Like the one in Polly’s things. I lift it, riffling through a few pages, refamiliarizing myself with the epic poem. Inside this copy, there are a few annotations.

I flip some more pages, noticing one line has been repeated in the margins, every few books of the poem:Fate is in the gods’ hands.

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