Page 99 of Make Me Scream

If I want the world to know that Rush uses his position to fuck students, don’t call him out in public with a bad joke. Find proof. Get people to go on the record. Go to the media.

To do it right, I’ll need some help, so I call Rory.

“Where have you been?” he asks. “Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“I get it. New girlfriend. Don’t worry about it. What’s up?”

“I need your help with a thing.”

“Tonight?” Rory asks.

“Yes.”

He sighs.

“I can’t, Lane. Sorry. I’m restoring a Shelby. Client paid for expedited service, the whole deal. I can’t be out late.”

“It’s time sensitive,” I say. “Window closes in a few hours.”

“Fuck. What’s the idea?”

Here we go.

“Break into Rush’s office, copy everything on his computer, photograph any documents of-”

“Lane, let me stop you. This isn’t an art project?”

“No, but it’s important.”

Rory doesn’t answer right away, as if thinking it over. He isn’t. His answer is going to be no. It’s not that he’s against a little breaking and entering. We’ve done plenty. Stealing sensitive private information might give him pause, but he knows I’m not going to use it for identity theft or something unsavory. He’ll turn me down for one basic, but vital, reason — one he made clear to me when we started working together.

“I can’t,” he says at last. “If it was for actual art, and it could wait a day, I’d be there.”

“Sure. I understand.”

Not the outcome I hoped for, but not the end of the world.

“Is everything okay?” Rory asks. “Shouldn’t you be at a gallery for a thing?”

I guess all the news hasn’t traveled up the grapevine yet.

“Rush fired me. Blamed it on my relationship with Gwen.”

“Fuck. Wow.”

“Yeah. And she’s… I did a dumb thing tonight. She’s pissed at me, rightfully. I need to fix it.”

Hearing myself out loud, I can’t even imagine the amount of red flags this is throwing up in Rory’s head. I could talk myself out of this plan without too much effort, there’s no way he can justify participating.

“Lane, if there’s anything else I can do, I’m here man. Some kind of work of art to win her back, you know?”

That’s an interesting idea. An authentic Alistair Rat piece dedicated to her, perhaps? A public declaration of my affection — no, my contrition. An act of penance. But what if it could be traced back to me, exposing my identity?

Maybe that’s the kind of sacrifice I need to show her I mean it.

“I’ll call that Plan B,” I say. “This is about more than Gwen, though. Rush has hurt too many artists. I should have done this years ago.”

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