Page 229 of Poor Little Rich Girl

I wish Daddy could be here tonight.

I stare down at my hand. Without thinking about it, I’ve reached into my purse and pulled out the circular portraits I removed from the locket to pry out the coin. The faces of the people who raised me, who taught me everything I know, stare back at me.

Strangers.

Not my parents at all.

I am Howard Malloy’s daughter. That’s the man who brutalized his own child and killed Noah’s brother.

My veins burn with his blood.

I lean over the balcony. My fingers open. The photographs flutter down into the ravenous crowd to be consumed in their writhing dance.

My past is gone. The future is uncertain and laced with bloodshed. But this moment right now belongs to me and the three men who stand by my side as I claim what’s rightfully mine.

I am home.

Claudia

After a night like that, it’s hard to go back to school on Monday and pretend to be a normal student. But I do it, because I have an image to maintain.

Mackenzie Malloy has been my disguise, but she’s also my ticket into the glitzy world of Emerald Beach. I need to cash in that ticket if I want to start building enough power to overthrow Nero and Constantine.

The criminal underworld now knows me as the most powerful woman in Emerald Beach, but to the rest of the world, I’m a spoiled heiress. A spoiled heiress can open doors and ruin lives. And I know just whose life I want to ruin first.

I watch Cleo out of the corner of my eye as she flirts with one of the guys from the track team, tossing her shiny black hair over her shoulder and handing him an invitation to the New Year’s Eve party at her clout house. I think about everything she’s done to George, and the complete randomness of Gabriel’s father selecting her for his bride. And I wonder. I wonder if I can find her weakness and twist a knife right into that black heart of hers.

When I enter history class, my heart leaps to see Ms. Drysdale at the front of the room, flicking through her notes. She meets my eyes and gives a little nod. I take a seat in the back of class and crack open my books. All around me, students gossip about the weekend’s parties and the exotic vacations they’re taking over the Christmas break. I stifle a yawn. It all seems so… wholesome.

I can’t believe I ever considered these students a threat.

Ms. Drysdale claps her hands. “Attention, class, I have an announcement to make. For your final project of the semester, you’ll be splitting into pairs to present a research project about a famous personality from our city’s history. Emerald Beach has had a fascinating past, and I know you’ll find lots of inspiration. You may choose your own partners and then we’ll go to the library—”

Gabe waves at me, but I grab George’s arm. “Partners?”

She glances at Gabriel, who sticks his tongue out at me before rushing over to harass Noah. “Definitely.”

Over my shoulder, I notice Isaac staring at us with a hopeful puppy expression. When he sees me, he turns away, leaning in close to talk to a goth girl with a triple eyebrow piercing.

George bites her lip. I know she saw him looking, too. She shuffles her books and tugs on a strand of blue hair. “Let’s get to the library before the good tables are taken.”

We collect our books and head to the library. George keeps up a steady stream of chatter about nonsense, which is her super subtle way of avoiding the topic of Isaac. We drop our books and drape our blazers over the same beanbags where I saw her and Eli scheming a few weeks ago, then head for the local history shelves to start our search.

“What do you think about someone from the film industry? I have a ton of my dad’s old memorabilia from the horror studios. I bet there are some cool stories there…” George trails off as I point to the long line of students waiting outside the film archive room. She gives a soft laugh. “Scratch that. Of course, everyone is going to be doing someone in the film industry.”

“Not everyone.” I laugh. “We won’t. And I bet Gabriel is going to do his project about himself.”

“Let’s have a look through these and see if someone jumps out.” George tugs a stack of books from the shelf. As she hands them to me, the stack tilts precariously. An avalanche of books and notepaper cascades to the floor. A glossy pamphlet flutters from the ephemera and rests against my shoe.

“Oops.” George grabs for the pamphlet, but I pluck it from the floor before she can get it.

“What’s this?” I hold it up to the light.

“Oh.” Her cheeks blush. “It’s nothing. Ms. Foster gave it to me, and I was going to throw it out but I’m so forgetful—”

I open the pamphlet. It’s for a college in England – an ivy-covered ancient monastery threatening at any moment to topple over the cliffs upon which it’s precariously perched into the violent water below. It looks like a place vampires go to get schooling in the dark arts. The students look like vampires too, all pale and brooding, gazing pensively out the windows of a medieval library or eating in candlelit dining halls.

The coursework promises rigorous studies in humanities, performance and fine arts with some of the finest scholars and practitioners in the world. Under the list of what can only be described as ‘eclectic’ subjects for an arts school, George has underlined forensics.

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