Page 1 of Wicked Games

Prologue

Anonymous

“I’ve lived among them all my life. You can’t believe a word they say. You know that. I mean, they’re born liars.”– Juror #10, 12 Angry Men

Have you ever considered the significance of the number twelve?

It’s not just a numerical quirk. It’s a thread woven through the tapestry of time, a rare consensus across myriad cultural boundaries—the practical, mythological, and magical symbolism of that number, representing perfection and order.

Twelve principal gods ruled in the Greek pantheon, preceded by the twelve Titans. We have twelve people on a jury, twelve months in a year, twelve astrological signs in various zodiacs. It’s also important in timekeeping, music, religion, and a multitude of other subjects.

Like I said, twelve is a big deal. I could go on about it all day. But enough of the banter. Why am I telling you this?

I’m telling you because there are twelve of us here tonight, trapped inside this grand old mansion. Twelve souls with twelve haunted pasts, unwitting participants in twelve meticulously planned games. I seriously doubt we’ll make it through all of them.

Why? Well, you see, I’m sitting on a secret so big, so well-guarded, that none of the others can even fathom its existence.

Can I tell you that secret?

I am the architect of this gathering. I brought everyone here for these games, and they weren’t designed for survival. Not at all. They were crafted specifically to force every one of these nasty little liars to confess their sins and secrets before the reckoning they damn well deserve.

As the echoes of all this deception resound through the dark corridors, one truth remains certain: by the end of the week, only one of us is going to make it out of here alive.

Carey

“Take the deal, Carey. Trust me.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, glumly staring at the opposite wall. The air hung heavy with the weight of my predicament, and the faded faux-wood-paneled walls seemed to be closing in on me, squeezing the air from my lungs. I couldn’t show my fear, though. Where I came from, you never showed weakness. Not unless you wanted to get totally fucked by life.

“Carey?” The public defender—a graying man named Mr. Tellier—leaned forward. “Did you hear me?”

I frowned. “I’m not taking the deal. It isn’t right.”

He sighed wearily and drummed the end of his pen against the table. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s something off about it. I mean,wayoff,” I replied. “It’s just too good to be true. Don’t you think?”

Tellier leaned back again. “I’ll admit it’s a bit odd, and it really came out of left field, but it’s completely legitimate. I’ve checked all the details and contacted everyone involved to confirm everything,” he said. “To be honest, it’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I’m surprised you haven’t jumped right on it.”

I pursed my lips and went silent again. Clearly, he wasn’t seeing what I was seeing when I looked at the so-called ‘deal’ that had miraculously landed in my lap earlier this evening. The best boarding school on the West Coast—actually, probably the best school in the entire country—wouldn’t just offer a scholarship to a random wayward teen from a shitty backwoods town for no damn reason. Especially not when that teen was facing multiple charges that could sully the school’s pristine reputation.

Tellier’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Carey, you know why the prosecution is dragging your case out like this, right?”

“Yes.”

“Your eighteenth birthday is in two weeks,” he went on, ostensibly deciding that I didn’t actually know why the other side was dragging out my case with delay after delay. “Right now, it’s up to the discretion of the judge whether you’re tried in the juvenile court or moved up to be tried as an adult. If we keep letting them drag all of this out, you’ll become a legal adult, and then there’ll no longer be any doubt about it. You’ll be tried as an adult.”

“Would that really be so bad?”

Tellier arched a brow. “Depends. Do you think a prison sentence is bad?”

“Point taken.” I sighed and rubbed my temple. “But I still can’t take the deal.”

“Why not?”

“Because part of taking it involves me admitting guilt so I can accept the rehabilitation terms. And I’m not guilty. I can’t admit to something I didn’t do.”

“Perhaps I didn’t explain the terms clearly enough,” Tellier said, tapping on the paperwork. “If you sign the deal, you won’t have an official criminal record. It will be expunged the secondyou turn eighteen. Gone without a trace. It’ll be like none of this ever happened.”

---