Page 31 of They're Watching You

The other guys laugh, waggling their brows as he excuses himself, leaving his tray there like he’s about to bat me away. “Is everything okay?” I’m so over the nice guy routine. I saw Remington Cruz’s true colors this morning, when he chickened out.

But guilt writhes in my chest. Because I did the same thing, not twenty minutes ago, outside the headmistress’s office.

I had to, though, didn’t I? For Polly? Remington’s motives were as shallow as they come. He wants to stay in this stupid society so he can keep gliding through life on the back of a diamond-encrusted falcon.

“No, everything isn’t fine. I was blackmailed on the way to the headmistress’s office.”

“Blackmailed?” Remington pales.

“Yeah, that footage you thought didn’t exist? The one that proves wepoisoneda girl last night? Someone sent it to me. Do you really think someone would do that if they believed this was an accidental allergy situation?”

He stuffs his hands inside his pockets. “I hoped—I mean—” He shakes his head. “That didn’t come out right. I guess I wanted to believe it wasn’t because of me.”

Sadness swells in my throat. For a moment, when he told me the peanut allergy rumor, I was desperate to believe it too. “Last night wasn’t because of you.” Jordan Park walks slowly past me, eyes narrowed as she takes in Remington and me talking, our expressions grave. I wave and then wait until she’s out of range. “It was because of Annabelle Westerly and the rest of the society. Now they’ve trapped me into playing more of their games. If I don’t play, they’re going to leak the video.”

I don’t sayand I may lose my best friend forever. Because it was all too easy for Remington to fall into the role of society acolyte this morning. For all I know, he’s already agreed to something in exchange for his silence. I have to lure someone else into the club. Maybe he has to report any seditious behavior to Annabelle.

“What do you have to do?” He peers down at me, dark eyes concerned.

“I have to lure someone new into the club. Who knows what they’ll do to this person? I have to ask you one last time.” I pick at my fingernails. “Will you help me?” My hopes climb, despite my efforts to tame them. “Maybe if we get ahead of this by going to the headmistress or the copstogether, the society won’t be able to hold that footage over our heads.”

“Maren,” he says, biting his lower lip. “I can’t. I wish I could explain, but—”

“I think I get it,” I cut in. “You’re one of them.” I spin around, not sure if I’m ready for breakfast after all.

Remington reaches for my shoulder. “Maren, wait.” He releases me, and that tiny hope rises again like a newborn sprout. “Look, the task you got? I got one too. But mine didn’t just threaten me with the footage. They’ve offered me something too. Something I’d be a fool to refuse.”

“Like a bribe?”

He shrugs, his foot tapping on the floor like he can’t wait to ditch me. Like he just needs to make sure I’m going to shut my mouth about the dance, so he can get back to his jock friends. The society probably offered to get him a perfect score on the SATs or to make him captain of the football team.

But another thought starts to form, painting the last one black.

Maybe the society offered to cover something else up. Who is Remington Cruz, really? Could he have done something he’d pay any price to keep hidden?

Then it hits me. Ourrewardfor winning. All of this—nobody getting blamed for last night, the whole peanut allergy narrative—must be part of it. The society claimed to have their claws in every important avenue. Who’s to say that doesn’t apply to the academy itself? Being a Minor Supreme must be like…being untouchable.

No wonder everyone was so motivated to win the game last night. If you can get away with nearly murdering someone, you can get away with anything.

“I’m so confused,” I whisper. “Why go through all this trouble to ensure we stay in the society? The task, the blackmail—theypoisoneda girl, Remington.” They must’ve known I’d try to get out. Because there’s something seriously wrong with this club. And it looks like Polly might’ve been on the wrong end of their games.

“Maybe as insurance, so their secrets would stay safe.”

“More secrets? We already know they’re dangerous!”

But Remington’s gaze shifts to the football players, who are now taking their trays to the dirty stack in clump formation. I’ve lost him to the society. Not that he was ever mine to lose. He’s one of them now. I want to show him the card I found this morning in the administration building. The one that proves the society knows what happened to Polly. Maybe if he knew last night’s poisoning wasn’t the only nefarious act to come out of these so-calledgames, he’d realize it’s not worth whatever he’s after. Or whatever he wants buried.

The problem is, if I’m going to track down Polly, I have to be one of them too.

Which means I need to choose my target.

Twelve

After my post-lacrosse shower on Monday, I find Jordan seated on a suede couch in our dormitory’s common room. A heaviness presses behind my eyes. Polly and I used to spend countless hours in here, studying, listening to dorm gossip as the smell of burnt popcorn wafted in from the kitchenette.Stolen Heartswas usually playing in the background as studying turned to chatting.

Nothing plays on the TV as Jordan studies, shoulder-length hair damp around her face from her afternoon swim practice. Supposedly, she’s a champion swimmer; I’ve never been to a meet. I’ve never even been inside the Arthur Aquatic Center. Or around a pool for that matter. Not since I was nine years old and my hair got trapped inside the drain of my grandparents’ pool. Ever since that day, even the scent of chlorine makes me break out in a cold sweat. I wrote about the traumatic event and how it made me a stronger person or whatever in my Torrey-Wells admission essay.

Jordan understands. She doesn’t get resentful that I don’t watch her swim, like Polly used to when I missed her play rehearsals. Right now, Jordan looks at peace with her US history textbook. The sweet scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies replaces burnt popcorn, filling the space. I wrap my wet hair up into a bun, zip my hoodie, and sit down next to her. “Hey, Jordan. How’s it going?”

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