Carrson laughs. “That’s what I thought.”
Sam grips my arm, and I glance up at her. She’s wide-eyed but eerily calm, like she’s watching a play or a scene from a movie she’s seen before. One where she already knows the ending.
I whirl back to Carrson in time to see him wipe the blade on Richardson’s shirt, not cutting, just cleaning it. “If you don’t want the knife…” He slides it back into his waistband. “We’ll find another way.”
“Listen to me,” Sam whispers again. “Wehaveto leave.”
I don’t budge. I’m frozen. Rooted to the spot.
Carrson unties Richardson’s hands, and, for one brief fleeting second, I have hope. I think he’s had a change of heart, that he’s come to his senses and will let his brother go free.
Which is a delusion, clearly.
Carrson, the man who a few hours ago was inside my body, who tenderly swept my hair away from my face and told me I was beautiful, grabs Richardson’s arm and in one graceful movement wrenches it backward until the joint pops. It dislocates.
Richardson screams, high-pitched, ear-piercing. He shrieks with pain.
As if that weren’t enough, Carrson takes that arm and brings it down over his bent knee. He snaps the bone the way you would a piece of wood you were going to use as kindling in a bonfire.
The apple drops from my hand with a dull thud. My mouth gapes, and my ears roar. Samantha drags me backward, her arm around my waist and her hand over my mouth like she’s worried I’ll scream or cry or yell, but I won’t.
I’m speechless.
I have one last glimpse of the room where Richardson lays writhing in a heap on the floor while the other brothers cheer, stomp, and yell obscenities at him.
Carrson stands tall and calm in the center of it all. The ringmaster of this wicked circus.
Right before we turn the corner, his gaze flicks my way. Those dark empty eyes meet mine. Then we’re in the kitchen. Sam takes my hand in hers and pulls me into the tunnel. Together we flee, back toward Rosewood Hall.
Chapter twenty-eight
Laurel
We’re only three steps into the tunnel when Sam speaks, her tone cautious, like she’s trying not to set me off. “I know you’re upset—”
“Upset?Seriously?” I whirl on her, my heart pounding. “Did you not just see what he did back there?”
“What I saw,” she replies evenly, “was a leader doing his job.”
I gasp, stunned. “That’sCarrson’s job?Torture?And you’re just…okay with that?”
She doesn’t flinch. “Richardson knew what he was doing. He knew the risks. You can’t break The Order’s rules and think you’ll get away with it. We’re not a turn-the-other-cheek kind of organization.”
I shake my head, trying to steady the tremble in my hands. “Yeah, I got that message loud and clear.” Instinctively, my hand goes to my pinkie finger. The one Samantha broke. The one that still twinges sometimes, that healed a little crooked. I got a broken finger. Richardson got a broken arm. How many body parts, how many people, does this place have to break before I finally understand how dangerous it is?
I pick up my pace, wanting to be out of this tunnel, but Sam’s hand lands on my arm, stopping me.
In the glow of the flashlight, her face is shadowed.
“Have you ever heard of Maxson?” she asks.
“Who?” I blink, thrown.
“He was the leader before Carrson, during our freshman year,” she says. “A good fighter. That’s how he kept his spot. But he was soft. Wanted to be everyone’s friend. Didn’t like confrontation, not really.”
She inhales deeply, like the memory still chokes her. “Under his rule, the skimming, the embezzling started. Money disappeared. First in the betting ring. Then the housing fund. Drugs we never approved started circulating in the halls. Girls were attacked. There were overdoses. Coverups.”
I stare at her. “What are you talking about?”
