Page 109 of Vicious Saint
“In case you dumbasses forgot, I was with you last night.”
“Exactly my point, Arch. You went home after the party. So how the fuck are you in trouble and who started the fire?”
“It hasn’t even been confirmed that anyone did.”
It takes everything in me not to karate chop his throat.
“Fine. I’ll humor you, bestie. All speculation. Now tell me why your parents are pissed.”
“For the same reason you are—they don’t believe me when I say I don’t know what fucking happened.”
Guilt may be a slow eating parasite—but mine sure is the fastest.
Bex must be feeling the same because she says, “Sorry, Arch.”
I apologize too, bringing him in for a hug, surprised when I find it harder to reach around him.
“Geez, man. You bulking up?”
“Maybe a little.” He smirks, and I release him to stand.
“Alright…I’ll let this fire shit go for now because I got bigger psychos to fry, but you better spill the tea if you find out anything else.”
Bex dances her fingers together. “Or maybe we can investigate ourselves.”
“Yeah, well, count me out.” Archer holds up his palms. “The parentals got me on a tight leash now that I’ve been pegged as the family liar.”
“What about your grandfather?”
“His is even tighter.”
Oh, please. The guy is so old he can barely hold a conversation.
It’s not time for insults, though.
“I guess that means a slumber party is out of the question?”
“Yeah, uh, sorry Hen. I’m not looking to sign a death warrant right alongside you.”
12
Saint
I’ve endured two weeks of pure torture in the form of heavy drugs, self-reflection, shrinks, group meetings, and even a few sessions of hypnosis to get to where the fuck I am right now.
Parked in the lot of Riverside, twirling my phone in my hand as I watch police and firefighters going in and out of the dorms.
When I finally got my phone back from the discharge station, I turned it on to find a slew of alerts from local media. Apparently, a fire was started two nights ago, and the female dorms are closed until further notice. I shouldn’t be amused by the news, but knowing what it means has me basking in satisfaction.
My little Jimi Hendrix has nowhere to go except for home. Which has now officially become the Lavell Mansion courtesy of her mother.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall of those tantrums.
Whoever torched the joint chose wisely—because if I had to play nice for weeks to get discharged early, only to get stuck listening to my dad bitch, moan, and beg me to go to church,I’d be hunting down and murdering the motherfucker before the day struck noon.
Even a padded room at Holy Trinity is better than listening to him pray for my soul on repeat for the next week.
I managed to stay off Dad’s grid when I picked up my Rover in our private garage, a task I anticipated to be the hardest given the surveillance he’s got surrounding every inch of it.
