Page 51 of The Knight

"I know Hass's parents are richer than sin. They have political influence. He has ways to make things like this disappear." Her hands tighten on the steering wheel as she pulls into a spot at the edge of Coleridge's parking lot. "Fuck. He'll make this disappear, won't he?"

"I don't think he'll be able to." I point towards the news van parked in the lot, and the reporter fast walking towards the arrest scene, cameraman in tow. "Look."

The news van, of course, is courtesy of Blake. His family knows how to lead the media by its nose and point cameras directly at scandals. There's a reason why the Garrisons have never had anything negative written about them in the news—and why the Lee family, out of all the Korean media moguls, manages to hide in their estates without being bothered. When you give the media what it wants, feed it a diet of red meat and fresh blood, it grows full and looks the other way when you want it to. All Blake had to do was send an email to his family's publicist, and Hass's fate was sealed.

As he's frog-marched to a squad car, hands cuffed behind him, the reporter is already on the scene. She asks for a statement from the cops, who remain tight-lipped. I look over at Georgia. "This is where we come in."

"Where we—what?"

"We have to tell the media what he did to you." The look she sends me is scathing, which is why I avoided this until now. "The charges won't stick unless there's public pressure. You saw what happened to the governor's son—he made a whole DUI go away, even with a dead body in the trunk. They're saying the family fixer killed the girl." Something I find doubtful, now that I know the Syndicate exists. "If that scandal hadn't gone public, no one would have ever known about it. The same with this one. It's hard to bury something this big."

In a small voice, she confesses, "I haven't told my parents about what's happening yet."

"Then you should probably shoot them a text, because we're about to go live." I tug on her sleeve. "C'mon—better to do it now, while it's still light out. Or do you want to be washed out on live TV?"

That gets her attention. She walks out of the car with me, and we go to the news van, where the segment producer is leaning up against the tailgate smoking. The cameraman has his camera pointed at the ground, and the on-air reporter is re-powdering her already-powdered nose. If someone doesn't talk to them soon, give them more to air, this story will disappear. I can sense it.

Sharks need chum in the water to get them going.

So I walk right up to the producer, wrinkle my nose at the cigarette smoke, and tell him, "We know why Ferdinand Von Hassell was arrested."

"Oh?" Dropping his cigarette on the ground, he steps on it, his full attention on me. "Do you really know, or do you just think you know? Because with a family this big, we've got to be sure."

"We know." Shoving her way forward, Georgia pulls a makeup remover cloth out of her bag and, in one wipe, reveals the mottled yellowing bruise on her cheek in the distinct shape of a handprint. "He did this to me. And a lot worse, too. I'm going to make sure he pays for it."

Leaning over his shoulder, the producer calls out, “Sheila! Reapply your lipstick. We've got a story." Then he looks to us, and asks, "How old are you two? I can't put little kids in the air."

"Eighteen," Georgia says, sounding annoyed. "I'm not a little kid."

"I'm seventeen." I frown. "Is that going to be a problem?"

He studies me. "We'll just show you from the neck down. You." Looking at Georgia, he takes her in, and I know what he sees: a perfect figure, a sympathetic pout, natural red hair, and a beautiful face ruined by a bruise. "That face is so dramatic. Perfect for television. What's your name, sweetheart?"

"Georgia Johnson, of the Plymouth Johnsons." I turn my head to roll my eyes where no one will see. Georgia adds, "You can talk to my publicist. A press release on all this will be going out shortly. We expect it to be news in the local papers tomorrow."

Walking up to us, the on-air reporter says flippantly, "We're not local, we're national. This story is big enough to be front page news if we play it right. Rich boy hits girlfriend, gets arrested, is found in possession of cocaine, heroine, and ecstasy? The public will eat it up. Everyone loves when a rich asshole falls."

Which means everyone will be watching this story.

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. They'll show me from the neck down. Besides, the Syndicate already knows who I am.

They came for me once. Two men tried to kill me. It can't possibly get worse than that.

Or so I tell myself.

* * *

Everything happens so quickly.

My classes become intense. Georgia and I do multiple interviews, her on the record, me as "Jane Doe." Reporters swarm the campus; Hass is suspended pending investigation, and then, when they find drugs in his room, expelled. It doesn't matter that he gets out on bail after being arrested—the school decides he's finally guilty enough to get rid of for good.

The post I make about it to Legacies gets thousands of hits. Ferdinand Von Hassell is all anyone can talk about. He's a symbol to them of what the rich have become: greedy, narcissistic, violent, and even, sometimes, above the law. The public calls for his head—and the DA promises to deliver it.

For a while, it feels like the world has settled, at least a little. My relationship with the Elites returns to what it once was: tense, distant, and mostly non-existent, save for the updates Lukas gives me on the laptop when he takes it for more encryption work. I barely look at Blake, and he doesn't even seem to try to look at me ornotlook at me one way or another.

But Holly and I are friends again. Tricia and Sasha are part of that fold, too. Even Georgia and I have a strange kind of mutual respect born out of sticking our necks out together, though she still doesn't miss an opportunity to subtly put down my clothes and hair when she gets the chance.

Chrissy doesn't really talk to me anymore, and neither does Hector. The former, I think, because I told her that I know what she did to Cole's little sister, and the latter because he can't forgive me for once being the Elite's enemy and now being something like their ally if not their friend. I tell myself neither friendship was really deep enough to matter, but the truth is that I miss them sometimes, when they're sitting at their own table and won't look my way.

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