Page 66 of They're Watching You

At the end of the book, sketched on the blank last page in red ink is a checkered game board. But the pieces aren’t knights, queens, and rooks; they’re people. Some drip tears, some blood. Only one stands victorious, sword raised above his head.

The words from King Lear boomerang back into my head:they kill us for their sport.

I push the book back into place, but something else catches my eye. The book beside it on the shelf:Hero Worship and Transcending the Body. I remember the title from my Google search. An icy chill, worse than anything I experienced down in the catacombs, wracks my body now.

The author of the book is Alexander Wells.

As in Torrey-Wells Academy.

The annotations. The patron god Pelops. The eyes in the catacombs. The society members are clearly disciples. Acolytes in need of a sacrifice. My mind spins, full of too many questions.

But two things are certain: Headmistress Koehler is one of them. And Remington and I have to get out of here.

I slide the book back inside the rack and tiptoe back into the hall. When I reach the living room, Remington and the headmistress are seated, nursing steaming cups of tea. “Maren,” the headmistress says, lifting a handmade quilt. I force a smile as I take it, and she gestures toward a third porcelain cup.

“Thanks, ma’am.” I add some milk to the tea, wondering how to get Remington alone so I can tell him not to take another sip. “I’m so sorry to trouble you,” I say, placing a sugar cube into the cup with a tiny set of silver tongs, “but I don’t think I can drink this on an empty stomach. Do you have any crackers?”

“Oh.” Headmistress Koehler’s head falls back. “How stupid of me. Of course, you’re hungry. I left the cookies on the kitchen counter. I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” I say as she gets up and scurries from the room. I rush toward Remington on the couch, but there’s a knock on the front door.

Headmistress Koehler stops at the edge of the room, twisting back around. “Ah, here we are.” She plods over to unbolt the door.

My nerves prickle. Is this cop at the door really on our side?

I reach back to make sure Remington is still there, because I don’t know what’s real anymore. He takes my hand, wrapping his fingers, warm from the fire, around mine. It’s going to be okay. The authorities are here because we have to help them with the investigation. Even if the headmistress is part of this, she has to be worried about the video.

The headmistress tugs the door open and moves to the side. A figure shifts in the blackness of the doorway. Slowly, a foot crosses the threshold, and there in the well-lit foyer of the cottage stands Annabelle Westerly.

Her smile is sharp enough to carve stone.

Twenty-Five

I try to swallow, but a lump is lodged in my throat. My mouth is too dry.

“What did you do?” Remington shouts at Headmistress Koehler. He stands, hurling himself between Annabelle and me. “You brought herhere? Did you even call the cops?”

Annabelle shuts the door behind her and begins to unbutton her coat with the careless grace of someone joining a dinner party.

“Of course,” the headmistress says. “I had to tell them that if a certain video surfaces, I have strong suspicions that two of my students are the ones behind the camera.”

I slump down onto the couch. “The headmistress is part of it.” My vision blurs, the haze of the fire coating everything in the room. I’m too tired. I need to sleep. “She’s in the society.”

Remington spins around, clutching his temples. He strides toward Headmistress Koehler, teeth gritted. “YouknewAnnabelle was holding students prisoner beneath the school? You’ve been covering for her?”

Polly’s going to die. Jane and Gavin too. We’re all going to die. We know too much about this twisted academy.

Annabelle drapes her coat over a piano bench and nears Remington. She reaches out to touch him, but he shakes her off.

Her head draws back. “Remi,” she says, making a pouty face. “That’s not how you behaved the last time we were together. You know, earlier tonight? During the meeting.” She grins coyly, running a finger over her bottom lip. “You seemed to like my hands on you, if I recall.”

“She’s lying, Maren. She’s trying to turn us against each other again.”

Annabelle laughs. “Oh dear,” she says, looking at me. “You thought he was winning all these challenges based on merit, didn’t you?”

“Shut up,” I snap. She just wants me worked up. Still, I cringe at the thought of them together, and I can’t help but wonder if there was more than that one time from the photos.

She walks past Remington, taking a seat across from me on a mauve velvet wingback chair. “We’ll need a few minutes, Headmistress Koehler,” she says, waving a hand in dismissal.

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