Mumbling around the mouthful, I say, “Let’s grab the notes and get out of here.”
Sam nods, and we start toward the back staircase.
We’re halfway down the hall when I hear it.
Carrson’s voice.
I’d know it anywhere, that deep, Southern drawl. Even hear it in my dreams these days. It’s coming from the dining room, where I once danced with him and kissed him for the first time. Like a siren song, it calls to me. Without my thinking, my feet turn, moving in that direction, toward him.
Behind me, Sam whisper shouts, “Hey, Laurel.Wait. Where are you going?”
I don’t stop.
“Just want to see what’s happening,” I murmur over my shoulder, as I tiptoe forward.
Now that I’m closer, I note the sharp edge to Carrson’s tone, how he projects his voice loud and clear, like he’s giving a presentation or a lecture.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” His voice rings out, commanding.
I’m at the arched stone doorway now. I’m in luck, the door is ajar, enough for me to see inside. I lean toward the opening, then freeze as I hear it, another sound.
A man crying.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Sam’s reached me now. She whispers, “Maybe we shouldn’tlook.”
Too late.
I’m already peering through the crack.
***
I can see only a portion of the dining hall, but it’s enough.
Carrson stands in the center of the room, a shaft of ruby-tinted light from a stained-glass window washing over him. The red glow clings to his skin, eerie and surreal. It reminds me of the first night I met him, when he was coated inactualblood.
Behind him, against the far wall, are his fraternity brothers, about twenty of them. It’s almost unnatural how still they stand, how silently they watch.
Kneeling before Carrson, with his hands tied in front of him, is another brother. I’ve met him briefly, seen him around, but don’t know him.
“Richardson,” Sam breathes, naming him. She’s beside me now, peeking through the same narrow crack in the doorway. I shift to crouch lower so we both have a view.
“Well?” Carrson demands. “How do you explain this?” He holds up a stack of paper high over his head and then just…lets go. The pages flutter down like confetti at a funeral. Slow, weightless, wrong.
I suck in a breath as my stomach lurches in recognition.
Neon orange paper. Neat handwriting in the margins. Addition. Subtraction.
Myhandwriting.
This is the paper Carrson asked me to look at several weeks ago. I didn’t think much about it at the time, and now I wonder how I could’ve been so goddamn stupid.
“You cheated me,” Carrson says, pacing in front of Richardson. His tone is calm, disappointed. “Stole from The Order.”
Richardson’s sobs are loud and ugly. His shoulders shake. Snot drips from his nose in thick ropes. He stares at the floor by Carrson’s feet, like he’s about to lick Carrson’s boot.
Carrson stops. Crouches. Grabs him by the hair and jerks his face up until they’re eye to eye.
