Page 119 of Come Back to Me

Not necessarily in that order.

Instead…

“Tee, will you come with us to Our Lady of Sorrows?” Marty asks. “We’re only a short trip away and seems a shame to waste gas driving back and forth.”

“It’s fine. I can take you to the Seven Cs,” I interrupt.

The citizens of goddamn small towns, I swear. They don’t give a shit about protocol.

“No. Don’t bother. I’m good in the back seat. Do what you need to do.”

Her presence means Marty and I can’t talk about what’s going on at the boarding school, but it works out for the best, actually, because my mind is racing and the last thing I want to discuss is some dumb, rich brat selling weed to other dumb, rich brats.

Maybe it’s transference, but it’s so easy to believe that Clyde, who did only God knows what to Marcy Armstrong, whomowed down Marcy’s mother earlier this year to stop her from blackmailing him, would go to the effort of taking his older brother out too.

The older brother who had inherited everything—lock, stock, and barrel.

Because Clyde would have been a millionaire a hundred times over thanks to the trust funds in place for other children, just as Callan, Cole, and myself gained when we became adults, but it’s the eldest who inherits the billions. And for a man like Clyde, only billions would suffice.

Jackass.

The ride to the school flies by. I’m so out of it that before it registers, I’m pulling into the parking lot for the faculty admin block of Old Lady of Sorrows.

Which is when I remember what I told Bast.

Cursing myself for forgetting, I hit the number for Ravenly & Daughters. “Hey, Freja. This is Cody Korhonen. Can you send some tires out to the Frobishers, please? All theirs have been slashed?—”

“Wait,allof them?”

“Yeah. Long story. Anyway, you may need to do a couple trips. Put it on the 7Cs’ account. Whatever it costs.”

“Sure thing, Cody.”

“Speak later, Freja. Thanks.”

Ending the call, and ignoring Tee’s watchful eyes, I get out of the car and direct mostly at the roof, “Won’t be long, Tee.”

“No worries.”

Stepping into the faculty block is a throwback I didn’t need today. It’s a long time since I’ve been here—even then, it was because my high school competed against the boarding school, so we rarely gained access to this part of the campus…

Apart from that one time I got into a fight with Miles Faulkner. What an assholehewas.

Opposite the principal’s office, a boy is slouched in a seat, popping gum.

I’ve always hated the pricks that attend this school. Time never changes the nepo babies that make up the bulk of the student body. The brats just wear different preppy clothes and have modern haircuts.

Behind him, there’s artwork from some of the classes, and there’s a take onThe Scream, but it’s a hyperreal version. Somehow, I can feel the sorrow and despair more in this one. Could be because of the day I’m having or could be because this little shit doesn’t look at all apologetic for being caught dealing drugs.

Did I mention I hate kids?

His head tipped to the side once when he heard our booted footsteps, but he waits until we’re a few feet away to drawl, “You can’t talk to me without a lawyer present.”

A cool tone snipes, “That’s fine, Mr. Fairweather, seeing as yours is here.”

Turning to find the principal glowering at the boy, disapproval etched into her expression, I grace her with more attention than usual because she’s surprisingly young to be in this position. Not only that, but her face isn’t one I recognize, which means she mustn’t come into Pigeon Creek often. I might be a fool for the woman sitting in the back of my squad car, but I have eyes—I’d remember a beauty like this one.

To us, Dr. Enfield murmurs, “You can use my office. That’s where his attorney is waiting.” To the kid, she barks, “Now, Mr. Fairweather.”

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