Page 93 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Marcus Whitfield stands near the far wall, his usual smirk replaced by something tight and anxious. His father owns half the city council, and Marcus himself has never met a problem he couldn’t buy his way out of. Seeing him sweat is almost as unsettling as the emergency text.

James Lockwood hovers near the entrance, phone clutched in one manicured hand like a lifeline. His mother sits on the state supreme court, and James has been trading on that connection since prep school. The fact that he’s here, looking like he’s about to vomit, tells me everything I need to know about how serious this is.

All around the room, familiar faces wear unfamiliar expressions of fear. These boys—these men—are used to being untouchable. Used to consequences being things that happen to other people, lesser people. The sight of them reduced to panic sends something cold and sharp through my chest.

Noah stands at the center of it all, his usual commanding presence diminished by the weight of whatever news he’s carrying. When he sees me, his jaw tightens, and I can read the exhaustion in every line of his body.

“Where’s the girl?” he asks without preamble.

“Safe,” I reply, positioning myself where I can see every face in the room. “What’s the situation?”

Noah’s eyes sweep the assembled crowd before settling back on me. “The FBI contacted my father’s office this morning. They’re not buying the accidental death story anymore.”

I watch expensive shoes shuffle against concrete, watch manicured hands run through perfectly styled hair. The scent of fear-sweat begins to overpower the cologne.

“Someone talked,” Noah continues, his voice cutting through the murmur of panic that rises from the group. “They’ve questioned every fraternity member, every hockey player, every partygoer, anyone who so much as knew Jack’s name. The investigation has shifted from local police to federal.”

Marcus steps forward, his face pale beneath his tan. “They’re looking for financial connections, patterns. My dad’s already getting pressure from his business partners. People are asking questions about contributions, about favors, about why certain cases get dropped.”

The cold in my chest spreads outward, creeping through my veins like poison. This isn’t just about Jack anymore. This isn’t just about one dead rapist who got what he deserved. The Reapers have been operating for decades—money laundering through family businesses, murder for hire disguised as accidents, covering up their members’ crimes with bought judges and bribed officials.

If the investigation expands, if they start pulling threads, everyone in this room goes down. And their families with them.

“They find one connection,” says another voice from the back of the room—Timothy something, whose father runs the largest construction company in three states—”they’ll pull the whole thing apart. Everything we’ve built, everything our fathers built, it all falls.”

The murmur grows louder, fear bleeding into the voices around me. These boys have never faced real consequences for anything in their lives. The possibility of federal prison, of seeing their family empires crumble, of losing everything they’ve been handed since birth—it’s breaking them down to their core.

“Then what’s the solution?” The voice belongs to David Sun, whose family owns a chain of luxury hotels and has connections that stretch to Beijing. “Because my father made it very clear that if this goes federal, I’m on my own.”

More voices join in, a chorus of panic and blame and desperate suggestions. They’re fragmenting, turning on each other like animals backed into a corner. In moments like this, leadership either emerges or everything falls apart.

“We frame the girl,” Marcus says suddenly, his voice cutting through the chaos. “She’s the obvious suspect. We plant evidence, make it look like she planned the whole thing. She goes down, we walk away clean.”

Several heads nod around the room, desperation making them grab at any solution that doesn’t involve consequences for themselves. The idea spreads like wildfire through the group, gathering momentum with each whispered agreement.

“Frame her, and this all goes away,” someone adds. “One girl versus all of us? Easy choice.”

The cold in my chest transforms into something much hotter, much more dangerous. My vision narrows to a red-tinged tunnel as rage builds behind my ribs like a living thing. They want to sacrifice Rhea to save their own skin. They want to throw my dove to the wolves and walk away whistling.

“Blame her,” I say, my voice low and deadly calm, “and you’re all dead.”

The room goes silent. Completely, utterly silent. Even the sound of breathing seems muted as every eye in the chamber turns to me. I can feel their shock, their fear, radiating outward like heat from a furnace.

“She’s not the problem,” I continue, letting my gaze sweep across each face, making sure they understand exactly how serious I am. “The problem is we’ve gotten sloppy. Complacent. Too comfortable with our own invincibility.”

Noah steps forward, his expression unreadable. “Then what’s your solution, Thatcher? Because my father won’t protect me if this goes federal. None of our fathers will. We’re expendable if it means saving the larger organization.”

The truth of his words settles over the room like a shroud. For all their wealth and connections, for all their inherited power, they’re still just the next generation. Their fathers built this organization, and they’ll cut their own sons loose if necessary to preserve it.

But I’m not just anyone’s son. I’m a Van Doren. And Van Dorens don’t run from problems—we solve them.

“We get ahead of it,” I say, straightening to my full height, letting my presence fill the space around me. “All of us. Same story, same timeline, no contradictions. And we use our connections to bury it at the federal level.”

I begin to pace, my mind already working through the possibilities, the networks of influence and obligation that stretch from this basement to the highest levels of government.

“Agent Sarah Martinez owes my father a favor from the banking scandal in ‘98. She’s running point on financial crimes in the northeastern district.” I pause, letting that sink in. “Judge Harrison presided over the Morrison family’s tax case last year. He knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

More names flow from my memory, a catalog of corruption and compromise that spans decades. “Senator Williams has been taking contributions from Sun Industries for eight years. Congressman Bradley’s son goes to prep school on a scholarship funded by Whitfield Construction.”

---