“Vaughn—”

“They can’t know.” I cut into his words, handing him pen. I fucking love contracts. Paper scared the shit out of rich people, much more than a gun. “Just read it, sign it, and I’ll tell you what’s up.”

A part of me was sure he was going to stand up, rip the contract to shreds, and throw it in my face. I released a breath when he actually signed it. Then he sat back and asked me what was up, and I told him about Harry blackmailing me about Mom.

I left out the other, really tiny part about killing him—semantics and shit.

“And this plan of yours, are we sure it’s going to work?” He frowned.

“I’m not unsure.” I smirked.

Uncle Jaime closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He wasn’t happy. My trust fund wasn’t anything to laugh at. Eight figures. The kind of shit most people would never even fantasize about having. And I needed every single penny.

“Am I going to regret this?” He rubbed at his cheekbone, his index finger hovering over the screen of his phone. To make this sort of transaction, you had to drag your ass to your actual banker, but Jaime was that banker, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

I could feel the saliva pooling in my mouth.

Do it, old man. Release the fucking money.

“You’re going to thank me by the time it’s all over,” I said calmly, standing and pretending I wasn’t eager for him to just transfer the money into my account.

“I’ve done this dance before, son, and shit can go real bad real fast. Keep me posted?”

“Bet on it, Uncle Jaime,” I lied.

I walked away without saying goodbye.

I got back to Carlisle Castle by foot. There were no buses to and from the castle, and I preferred it that way. It meant most students bailed or fucked off during the weekends, because the place was secluded and dead. And that meant fewer assholes to stand in my way.

It was an uphill journey, and I spent it sending The Fixer a long-ass encrypted email about my progress in the Fairhurst matter. I’d avoided the painter like the plague, but wasn’t necessarily happy about it. I wanted to put shit in motion, but not before Mom was completely out of the woods. Taunting him now would raise a red flag. I needed to play it smart.

After hitting the send button, I looked up. I was on the edge of downtown Carlisle Village, about to cross the street to a road bracketed by a thick wood, which led to the bridge that would take me to Carlisle Prep.

There was a little chocolaterie at the end of that road. The display window and doorframe were colored the same shade of frog green, and there were Christmas lights and little bullshit smiling china dolls dressed like medieval whores scattered among the confiseries biscuits, a tower of brownies, and fruit pastilles.

I stopped, staring at the candy. I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but I knew someone who made her dentist very happy and very rich. Someone who’d appreciate a slice of that brownie very fucking much.

Someone whose pants I wanted to get into eventually.

I shook my head, glanced at the entry door, and crossed the street.

Don’t change for a pussy.

About the time I’d gotten used to seeing summer session students around, they left and the school year at Carlisle Prep started with a bang. I’d forgotten just how busy it got here—the hallways always teeming with people, chatter everywhere, shoulders brushing. And with the students, came the fall. The leaves turned yellow and orange, and then fell from the trees completely, leaving them naked and exposed.

Like the leaves, a part of me wanted to jump ship. But I clung on, even when I felt crispy and brittle and curling at the edges, just like them.

In an odd juxtaposition, Pope spent weeks eagerly anticipating my birthday. I was pleased by this—particularly considering what I’d asked him for—but it was strange since the occasion had merited hardly a greeting card from anyone around me last year.

He seemed determined to erase that experience.

When the day finally arrived, I was awakened by my bedroom door, which flew open and slapped against the wall.

Pope barged in wearing a birthday hat, casually blowing a party whistle in my face.

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Lenny,” he sang, holding two full shot glasses and keeping a fancy liquor bottle tucked under his arm.

I squinted at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It wasn’t even eight yet.

After a dramatic pause, he finished. “Ha-aaaa-ppy birthday to you.”

He fell next to me on the mattress, handing me one of the shot glasses. We clicked them, mumbled cheers, and sent the stinging liquid down our throats.

“Mornin’,” I greeted groggily, “in case someone forgot…”

“Is it really, though? Everything’s relative, Lenny. Especially time. It’s five o’clock somewhere.” He poured himself another shot, motioning with the bottle to my empty glass.

I shook my head, sitting up. “In Sydney, actually. It’s five o’clock there.”

I was a bit of a nerd. I’d always been thirsty for information. It worked to my benefit, for the most part. For instance, yesterday I’d worked on my piece and debated how to sculpt a shredded heart. I wanted it to pour out of the statue’s chest, like lava slithering from an active volcano. Thankfully, I’d been hitting the daytime classes when I was bored to gather more inspiration, and I’d stumbled upon a papier-mâché technique Alma demonstrated in one of the senior classes. Paper was fragile, wrinkly, thin; I’d marched to the newsagent’s across the bridge as soon as class was dismissed and purchased a stack of newspapers and glue.

The heart turned out deliciously dark. The paper exploded from the statue’s muscular chest like fireworks, bursting with color and motion.

Rafferty elbowed my ribs, anchoring me back to the present. “How’re we spending the day?”

“Working.” I snorted. “You’re pressed for time to finish your painting, and I’ve hit my stride, too.”

“Fuck my painting. It’s not every day my best mate turns eighteen. Let’s get pissed downtown.”

“On a weekday?” I blinked at him. “Before noon?”

He snapped his fingers, pointing at me. “There’s no better time than the present. Also, no queue at the bar.”

“Also, no bar, because it’s eight in the morning.” I laughed.

He rolled his eyes, giving me a light shove. My head fell back to the pillow.

“All right.” I pretended to sigh, feigning exasperation. “I guess we could go for a few pints and fish and chips. And…chocolate. Lots of chocolate.”

“You need more chocolate like the royals need more skeletons in their closet.” Pope jumped up to his feet, strolling to my drafting table and cocking his head. “Who’s the admirer?”

“Huh?” I looked up, stretching in my bed.

There was a huge basket containing a mountain of individually wrapped brownies on the table and a white teddy bear with a red ribbon next to it. My mouth watered immediately.

“That would be Poppy.” I swallowed the excess saliva, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “You know she sends me chocolate all the time. God knows you’re good at demolishing it with me.”