We don’t even finish lunch.
The bell rings and the cafeteria erupts, but the three of us stand up like it was planned. No eye contact with anyone. No jokes. No bravado.
Phones go straight into our backpacks by the exit doors.
Xavier’s first. Power off. Zip. Tristan follows, jaw tight, movements sharp like he’s angry at the device itself. Mine’s last.I hesitate—then shove it in deep and zip the bag hard, like I’m sealing something away.
Outside, November hits us full force.
Cold, biting wind off the water. Gray sky pressed low like it’s trying to crush the campus into the ground. Leaves skitter across the quad, dead and brittle, scraping over stone like they’re trying to get away from something too.
We walk past the benches, past the students laughing and filming and living, and head toward the far edge of campus where the cameras don’t bother reaching.
The old oak tree stands there stripped bare, branches like black veins against the sky.
We stop.
No one sits. It’s too cold for that.
Tristan shoves his hands into his coat pockets and stares out at nothing. Xavier rocks back on his heels, breath fogging. I cross my arms, feeling the wind cut straight through my jacket.
This weather fits.
This conversation deserves it.
Tristan exhales first. Not dramatic. Just tired.
“So,” he says. “We screwed this up.”
The wind howls through the branches overhead. No one rushes to argue.
Xavier nods once. “We were trying to help.”
“I know,” Tristan snaps, then reins it in. “That’s the problem.”
I look down at the ground, at the dirt packed hard from cold and footsteps. “Say it. All of it.”
Tristan glances at me, then away. When he speaks again, it’s the lawyer voice he hates—controlled, precise, ugly.
“In our rush to protect Jade, we took evidence into our own hands. Receipts. Conversations with Bianca’s and Nadia’s hired help. We didn’t let the police do their jobs.”
“And we spooked them,” Xavier adds quietly.
My jaw tightens. “Meaning?”
“Meaning someone talked,” Tristan says. “And because the police didn’t collect the receipts themselves—because three prep school boys with money and influence touched them first—the evidence is compromised.”
The word lands heavy.
Compromised.
“So criminal court’s out,” I say.
“Not completely,” he answers. “But weakened. The receipts aren’t admissible now. Chain of custody’s broken. We can still push civil suits. Depositions. Pressure.”
“But Jade wanted charges,” I say.
“She wanted accountability,” Tristan says. “Real consequences.”
