“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Vic clarifies, his hand sliding up and under my skirt so that he can stroke the silky inside of my thigh. That’s when the shiver turns into a quaking heat that I know I’ll have to slake before the day is out. We haven’t been fucking nearly enough. Granted, we survived a school shooting, a miscarriage, and enrollment at a school for people who think cat poop makes a delicious hot beverage, but I don’t intend on finishing out my senior year as a nun.

“I’m okay with it,” I say, glancing over at him. “Donald isn’t worth our time. Did you see the look on his face? You neutered him.” My mouth twitches and I find that I’m having trouble keeping the grin off my face. “Physically and emotionally. Besides, the last thing we need to do is put a body in the ground when we’re so close to having all the others swept under the rug as a result of the GMP.”

“Police Girl incoming,” Aaron murmurs as Cal’s blue eyes target Sara Young through the window, and I sigh.

I’m not surprised to see her here, to be honest: she’s been trying to get ahold of me since Friday.

I stand up before she can approach our table, meeting her halfway across the café with my arms crossed over my chest.

“I have to say, you look lovely in that uniform,” she tells me as Constantine peruses the menu on the wall above the counter.

“Kopi luwak,” he says, whistling sharply. “Thirty-five dollars a cup? For cat shit?”

My mouth twitches, and I try not to hate him just a tad less than I did a minute prior.

“Thanks. What do you want?” I ask as Sara glances over my shoulder and lifts a hand in greeting to the boys, her mouth stretched tight. She readjusts her attention over to me.

“Do you want to talk about why you went to Portland and visited a club owned by the GMP? Oh, and also, the racetrack thing, could you stop doing that? We’ve traced your routes, so we know all about your shortcuts and your secrets.” Sara turns her head from side to side in time with those two words—shortcuts and secrets—in a way that reminds me of the mother I used to wish I had. One who was kind, but who also cared enough to be concerned if it looked like I was faltering or flagging in life.

If Ms. Keating and Sara Young had been my parents, I’d be a whole different person than I am right now.

“I don’t hate you anymore,” I tell her, and she lifts a brow, dressed in a casual suit with a loose silken blouse underneath, very FBI of her. “Just thought you should know that. Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about. My friend Vera was supposed to work a party and then got freaked-out at the last second. She called us for a ride, but by the time we got there, she had some guy picking her up.” I roll my eyes, and I don’t care if Sara believes me or not. It’s a good enough story and kind of close to the truth, too.

“How did you get into Oak Valley Prep?” she asks, like she’s fascinated by me at the same time she simultaneously wishes for me to be both good and also evil, just so she can be right and bust my ass. “Your grades at Prescott High were atrocious—although I have to say, that Ms. Keating only ever has wonderful things to say about you.”

“How is Ms. Keating by the way?” I ask, shifting slightly and catching a brief glance of my reflection in one of the large windows that looks out onto the oak-lined street. I don’t look like me right now, like Bernadette Savannah Blackbird. Shit, I could almost pass for one of those rich, spoiled assholes in my short, pleated skirt and jacket. “I can tell you matter-of-factly: the bald-headed, middle-aged dude that works as the VP for Oak Valley doesn’t have one-tenth of her charisma or her integrity.”

“Breonna Keating is doing just fine,” Sara says, still smiling at me as café patrons stream around us and Constantine orders an espresso at the counter. “Did you know that she risked her life to save some of your peers? Instead of locking herself in her office as per the school’s active shooter protocol, she braved the hallway, took a shot to the arm, and rounded up all the kids who were cutting class or smoking. She got them offsite and made the first call to the police.”

A soft laugh escapes my throat, and I shake my head. Fuck me. Breonna is one in a goddamn million, isn’t she?

“And also, nice change of subject, but I’d really love to know how you and your boys managed to take half of Oak Valley’s scholarship spots for displaced Prescott students. Oscar Montauk, I can see since he was on track to be the valedictorian.” Sara exhales and crosses her arms over her chest, mimicking my pose. “And Victor Channing, good grades, connections via his mother …” And here she trails off in just such a way that I know she’s no fan of Ophelia Mars. “But the rest of you? No offense, Bernie, but I know a trick when I see one.”

My turn to sigh. Also, to decide how much information to give her without falling into snitch territory. I decide that children being purchased by pedophiles supersedes the snitch rule entirely.

“I won’t go into details with you, but like, two of the schoolboard members have husbands who tried to buy kids to abuse. We found out about it and blackmailed them. Does that help your neat little world make a bit more sense?”

Sara just stares at me for so long that I wonder if I haven’t made a mistake, if she isn’t going to take this information and use it to finally nail our asses to the proverbial cross.

“I just want you to know that your mother has now been officially charged with your sister’s murder,” Sara says, her smile grim, her expression dark. She reaches out a hand and rests it comfortingly on my shoulder. When I don’t immediately throw her off, she gives a small squeeze. My pulse races, the sloshing of blood in my head so loud and so deafening that I almost miss the next thing that leaves Sara Young’s mouth. “And … I want to apologize to you.”

“Apologize?” I ask, that one word cutting through the pain and horror of her previous statement in a way that nothing else could. Constantine takes a seat at a table nearby, within earshot but far enough away that it feels like my conversation with Sara is private. “About what?”

“About … the plea deal,” she says, sighing and dropping her hand to her side. “About asking you to testify.” I’m still staring at her like she’s grown horns, but Sara’s smile never falters. She sweeps a loose piece of blond hair back from her forehead and takes a deep breath. “I’m sure you’ve heard by now about Ivy Hightower.”

Ivy.

Shit.

I’d almost forgotten about Ivy … almost. Then again, you never really do forget the sight of your boyfriend coming in the house after getting his ass kicked by the former chief of police turned local VGTF lackey and telling you about the dead girl on your other boyfriend’s front lawn.

“I’ve been a little busy today, to tell you the truth. First day at a new school and all that. Why?”

Sara sighs again and moves toward the counter, gesturing me to follow. I glance briefly over my shoulder to see all five letters of Havoc watching me intently. It’s comforting to know that in the event of a crisis, I’d have all of them at my back, ready to kill for me, ready to die for me.

I wonder if they know that I’d die for them, too?