The principal took over the microphone next for a motivational speech about exams and excellence—and subtle threatsabout zero tolerance for substance abuse or prank wars. No police lurked by. Maybe they’d left.
Andrew realized he was still pinning Thomas’s hand to the seat, his fingers with their web of delicate scars resting over Thomas’s charcoal-smudged knuckles.
He snatched his hand away.
Thomas didn’t look at him, just folded his arms and slouched deeper.
Andrew had to get Thomas and Dove to make up… but later. He was too tired right now. Summer at his father’s Australian house had left him thinned, and the flight back to America was always brutal, jet lag leaving his eyes bruised. He fantasized about dissolving into his blankets back in the dorm while Thomas went off on a rant about how math was offensive, or how he belonged to the forest like some sort of fae child who planned to run away to the trees and never look back.
By the time assembly let out and the halls flooded with students headed for class, Thomas looked gray from choking back his own secrets. It didn’t help that the principal made a beeline for them.
“Pretty sure she’ll walk past,” Thomas said.
She did not.
“Hello, gentlemen,” Principal Grant said. “I hope you’re both well. Mr. Perrault, you had a safe flight? And Mr. Rye, I see you’ve neglected your blazer. Good thing you have time to rectify that before class. But first, I must borrow you for a moment.”
The cops hadn’t left, Andrew now saw. They stood at the stairwell leading up to the faculty offices. Students flowed around them, whispering behind cupped hands.
“I didn’t do anything,” Thomas said, too high-pitched.
Concern softened the principal’s face, and that was more terrifying than a reprimand. “Unfortunately, this is about your parents. Those officers need to ask a few questions.”
Andrew glanced at Thomas, but the other boy’s face had gone blank. Did he seem smaller than usual? Messier? His auburn hair stuck out in unkempt tufts.
Then there was that blood on his sleeve.
Principal Grant turned for the stairs, but Thomas stood frozen.
Andrew unbuttoned his blazer. “Take this.”Cover the stain, he didn’t add.
Thomas tugged it on, the sleeves a little long on him. “Come with me?”
The principal had made it to the stairs and cast him a stern look. “You may catch up to your friends in class, Mr. Rye. Come.”
Thomas trudged up the stairs, the cops at his heels. A gallows march.
Andrew’s chest tightened, and he felt light-headed all of a sudden. Returning to Wickwood and Thomas was meant to make everything better. Nothing should be unraveling this fast.
Andrew couldn’t follow, but—
Damn it. He had to.
He waited a few moments, chewing the inside of his cheek, and then ducked up the stairs. The faculty floor was forbidden without a permission slip, but Thomas had whisperedCome with me, so nothing else mattered.
Andrew slipped soundlessly down halls of antique burgundy carpets and dark mahogany doors set against chestnutwallpaper. Priceless art covered the walls in gilded frames. It was hard not to feel smothered by the decadence of this place.
He put his ear to the principal’s closed door and tried not to breathe.
Muffled voices. The thump of feet on carpet. Andrew knew two leather armchairs sat before the principal’s intimidating desk, and behind it were ceiling-high bookshelves stacked with classics and antiques. It didn’t sound like anyone had bothered to sit.
“… explain the situation to you, son.”
“My name is Detective Stephanie Bell. Why don’t you take a seat?”
“I’m fine.” That was Thomas, his fury tightly laced.
“First off, can you tell us when you arrived at school?” Bell’s voice sounded chill and efficient, a frost that would unapologetically burn anything new and green.
