Page 90 of Wicche Hunt

I felt a jolt of recognition. “That’s it. Where did you find it?”

“It had been thrown in the school pool,” Hernández explained, “which was actually a great hiding place. You couldn’t see it down there. Thankfully, a girl had lost a very expensive ring and was running her hands along the bottom, trying to find it. She found a heavy glass award instead.”

“It’s already been fingerprinted, right?” I asked.

Both detectives nodded.

I picked up the plastic bag, put it in my lap, and slipped off a glove.

“My father will kill me. You said you could get me an A on that paper. I paid you for that A. Now, not only did I get an F—an F!—but the dean is going to fail me for the whole semester? Harvard is going to rescind their acceptance.” The teen paces the small room, his pale face flushed with anger and fear. He wears the uniform of a Cypress Academy student, though his tie is loose at his neck and his blond hair disheveled from being yanked at.

A man stands in the shadows, arms crossed, leaning against the wall and watching the frantic boy. “I’ll take care of it.”

“How? How can you take care of it? The report’s been submitted. The dean already knows.” He pulls at his hair again and then stops. “Plagiarized? I could have plagiarized the paper myself. I paid you three thousand dollars to get me an A so I can make up the assignment and get my diploma. What. The. Fuck?”

“As I’ve now said multiple times, I’ll take care of it.”

The teen resumes his pacing. “You can’t. People know. The dean is calling my father in the morning. He’s already furious he had to contribute to the building fund to get them to let me walk at graduation with my class. I have to pass this class with an A. The only reason Harvard is waiting for this grade, that they haven’t rescinded my acceptance yet, is because my family has attended Harvard for generations. My family’s name is on the damn pool,” the teen whines, causing the man to smirk, not that the teen notices in his agitation. “And I’m sure Father had to make another donation for this too.” He wipes at his face. “Now it’s all fucked up because that damn teacher had to be such a hardass.”

“The best thing you can do is go back to your room and act naturally,” the man says. “Relax. Nothing bad has happened. You’ll pass the class. You’ll get your diploma. You’ll attend Harvard in the fall. Leave it to me.”

“I already left it to you once and now I’m fucked.”

He steps out of the shadows. “Enough. I said I’d take care of it, and I will. You don’t see that teacher scurrying around causing problems anymore, do you?”

“Ms. Lopez? She was out sick today,” the teen says, confusion clear on his face.

“It’s quite a bit more permanent than that.”

The teen takes a step back. “What?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I’ll persuade the dean or, if that proves too difficult, I’ll have the headmaster overrule him. You come from a good family that has always supported this school. He won’t allow one paper to ruin your future. Or his Ivy League stats. Go now. I have work to do.”

The teen walks to the door, the rage he was feeling just moments before is subsumed by fear. What happened to Ms. Lopez? What has Dorian done?

THIRTY-FIVE

And So It Begins…

The image goes dark and then…

The dean tumbles down the stairs, the noise so loud it must wake the students still on campus for the summer session. He readies a story, sure someone will open a door and find him, but nothing happens. For the space of five precious seconds, nothing moves or makes a sound.

Still gripping the bloody block of glass, he quickly retreats down the hall to his room. They gave him the same room he had as a student when he returned to observe. That was what he told the headmaster, in any case. The ridiculous man believed that he was considering a teaching career. Lord. As if he’d ever stoop so low.

He did well at university but failed to embark on a career after graduating. His father set him up on a few interviews: One to clerk for a judge, hoping to spark an interest in the law, another for a wealth management firm, and still a third at his own medical practice. As if he wants to spend his days under his father’s scrutiny.

He takes the block of glass to the bathroom sink, cleaning it as well as his own hands. Should he return it to the table? Yes. That seems the most sensible. He dries it off and then carries it in a towel to the door. When he opens it, he finds the new housemaster leaving his own room in running shorts and a t-shirt.

“Good morning. Up early as well, I see.” The man is in his early thirties and is fit and happy. How odd in a housemaster. “Are you getting in a workout before school too?”

Dorian looks down at his Oxford shirt, trousers, and loafers before staring at the man haughtily. “No.” He keeps the hand holding the award behind the wall, out of sight.

There’s an awkward silence before the man finally says, “Okay, I’m going to hit the track.”

Dorian watches the man, who thankfully jogs to the other end of the corridor and the far staircase, the one closest to the track. He waits a moment and just as he’s about to return the award, another door opens and a girl starts knocking at the room next door.

Dorian closes the door and considers his options. He loves the weight of the glass in his hand, the potential power. He can’t wait to tell Brandon what he’s done. He’s right. There’s something so satisfying, so savage, about blunt force trauma. Brandon had that experience with the Civics teacher. Now he knows too.

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