Page 54 of Brazen Criminals

RJ’s eyes light up and he pulls out his phone, immediately diving into research mode.

Walker taps the arm of the couch. “We could sabotage his grades.”

RJ doesn’t look up. “I do have access to the medical school grading system too.”

Too, as in, everyone already knows he has access to the regular grading system. This is crazy. “I think he’d notice. He’s too neurotic to get bad grades.”

Jansen sits up suddenly and yelps, “I forgot!”

I twist to look at him, but he’s on his feet, unable to sit still. “Last night I found something, and I was going to tell you guys, but I totally forgot. While RJ’s worm did its thing, I did a once-over on the apartment. Bryce has been stealing other people’s exams. Or maybe he’s been selling exams? Either way, he has a big pile of papers with different names on them all for the same classes.”

Jansen’s smile is back full force, and I hate that I’m going to have to burst his bubble. “He’s not stealing them—he’s studying them,” I say.

“What?” Jansen asks.

I shrug, forgetting about my crappy shoulder, and hiss at the pain. I shake my head, gasp for breath, and try again. “Bryce wants to be the best in every class. If he finds out someone got a better grade than he did, he’ll ask for a copy of their work to figure out what they did better. If they won’t give him the work, he’ll buy it off them.”

Four sets of eyes stare at me like I’ve sprouted a hand from of my forehead. “What?” I ask.

“You dated that guy?” Trips asks, one eyebrow almost reaching his hairline.

“Well, yeah. He worked hard for what he wanted.”

Trips looks like he wants to knock me upside the head.

“It seemed like a good thing at the time,” I grumble.

“But he didn’t just want to get an A, like a normal overachiever. He wanted to be the best. He wanted perfection,” Walker says.

“Yeah, he did.” He demanded perfection in everything, demanded perfection from me. I don’t say that, though. The guys are already looking at me like I was an idiot for not realizing that Bryce was obsessive before now. They don’t need any extra ammunition. “Either way, those papers aren’t a sign of cheating. It’s just Bryce being Bryce.”

Jansen flops back down on the couch. “Well damn. I thought I had it. Cheating would have booted him from med school, right?” he asks RJ.

RJ’s nodding. “Cheating would be a red flag, but if it was a one-time thing and he addressed it head-on and showed remorse, he’d still have a chance. What we really need is a felony.” RJ looks up from his phone, the answers on the screen in front of him.

We sit in silence.

“RJ, what exactly counts as a felony?” Walker asks.

“Well, the things you expect, like murder and manslaughter. Four DUIs in ten years is a felony, criminal sexual assault, some drug crimes, burglary, aggravated assault, theft of more than $1000—so I guess we’re all felons. I mean, except you, Clara. And maybe you, Walker. But I can’t imagine art forgery is a misdemeanor.”

RJ taps on his phone, apparently taking a minute to verify that all the guys are felons. Because I live in a house full of felons. And I just applied to the FBI internship program. Yikes. I sure hope they don’t ask about my roommates on a polygraph during the interview. I’d not only fail to get the job but would probably be arrested on the spot.

I shake my head, trying to think clearly about it.

Jansen paces around the room, unable to sit any longer. “Let’s start with the easier ones. Drinking and drugs. Would either be a good vice for Bryce?” He glances at me.

“No. He drinks a little every once in a while, but never in excess, and he will Uber if he’s had more than one drink. I don’t think he’s ever even smoked weed, so no drugs, either.”

Trips whispers a quiet “fucking false paragon,” but doesn’t join the conversation.

“Next up, would he ever steal anything? Preferably with a gun?” Jansen tries.

“He’s very focused on rules, so stealing would be a no-go. Heisfrom a hunting family, so he has some rifles, but no handguns.”

“So that leaves assault,” Jansen looks awkwardly at the floor, all the nervous energy draining out from him. “Um, did he ever, you know, hurt you before last night?” he asks, not looking me in the eye.

My shoulder throbs, reminding me exactly what he did. At least the nail marks have scabbed over. Before, he’d been curt, demanding, keeping me all to himself, but he’d never hurt me like last night. If he had, I’d like to think I’d have gotten out of there sooner. I don’t know that I would have, but illusions are helpful sometimes. “No—this is the first time he’s hurt me physically.”

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