Dial Em for Murder (13 page)

So I gave it everything I had.

I would've done my best to sprint all the way to the manor house if a group of three girls clad in designer skirts, tights, and shoes hadn't blocked the path. I hesitated, unsure if I should walk this stretch of pathway or if I should cut across the grass and run ahead of them, when the girl in the middle tossed her long brown hair and skewered me with an irritated glare.

“Are you lost?” She demanded in a tone that sounded more like,
Are you demented?
The two girls on either side of her smirked their approval.

“I'm new.” I awkwardly brushed my bangs out of my eyes. “I'm Emmy.”

I was willing to play the new kid card if it would make them stop acting like I'd crawled out of a sewer before contaminating their Manolo Blahniks.

They didn't offer to give me directions or give any indication that they'd even heard me speak. Instead, their eyes raked over me in silent assessment, as if they were cataloguing my every feature for a detailed evaluation.

The tense moment was broken when the same brunette who'd spoken dismissed me with a flick of her fingers. “You're not going to last, New Girl. You should do yourself a favor and run all the way home.”

O-kay. So we weren't going to be besties anytime soon. I smiled tightly as I sidestepped around them, gritting my teeth on my unspoken retort. The last thing I needed on my first day was to get into a fight with a mean girl, especially one who looked perfectly capable of delivering a well-aimed stiletto heel to the throat.

It had taken these girls exactly four seconds to figure out I wasn't Emptor Academy material. And granted, I'd reached the exact same conclusion when Sebastian had mentioned it back in the police station, but it was still rude to say it aloud on my first day.

I refused to let them see how much it bothered me.

That it made me question what I was doing there in the first place.

So I kept my mouth shut and concentrated on running across the wet lawn in my sneakers, ignoring the catcalls and laughter from behind me. My face felt flushed from both exertion and embarrassment by the time I reached the manor house. I almost wished that I'd taken Kayla's advice and spent more time on my appearance. Glittery eyeliner would never be for me, but that didn't mean I couldn't have worn something a little more formal. Something dignified, maybe. At the very least, I could have worn the collared shirt my mom insisted would be great for college interviews instead of my shapeless gray sweatshirt.

Too late now.

I tugged out my haphazard ponytail, ruthlessly finger-combing my hair into submission before knocking on the thick hardwood door with the name
Henry M. Gilcrest
written in fancy gold-plated letters.

The occupant's rich baritone voice cut over the lilting strains of classical music coming from his office. “Come in.”

I swung open the door to reveal a balding man in a tweed suit that should've made him look weedy and bookish. But somehow it didn't. Maybe it was the self-confidence he exuded that allowed him to sit behind a massive mahogany desk without looking like he was overcompensating for something.

My mom once tried to classify different kinds of confidence with me. We decided there was the quiet confidence of moral conviction; the brash swaggering confidence of the drunk and disorderly; the slick self-assurance of a trial lawyer during cross-examination; and the absolute certainty that comes from sitting in a position of power.

President Gilcrest fit that last category to perfection, and it made me nervous. Edgy. His white-streaked hair and gray-shot beard made him resemble a wolf, and I didn't particularly want to find out if he hunted in packs or preferred to take down his prey alone. He smiled expectantly at me as the door closed with a
thud
that I felt more than heard.

“Ah, Miss Danvers. It's a pleasure to meet you.” He stood and offered me his hand in a smooth, polite handshake. His grasp contained enough pressure to hint at unplumbed reserves of strength, making me wonder if President Gilcrest personally instructed students in the Art of the Handshake.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” I lied.

“Please take a seat.” He gestured to the chairs next to his desk, but didn't wait for me to comply before continuing. “I've been looking over your transcript, Emmy. Do you mind if I call you Emmy?”

“Uh, that's fine.” It didn't take a genius to figure out that if I objected to anything, I would be labeled “difficult” and “uncooperative” and then every teacher would keep one eye firmly fixed on me.

“Emptor Academy has a rather unconventional learning environment. We believe in preparing our students for real-world challenges instead of standardized tests. So while I'm sure your,” he glanced down at his computer screen, “Introduction to United States History class was quite introductory, we will be expecting more from you here.”

I forced my cheek muscles to stay locked in a pleasant smile.

“I'm sure I can handle it.” I met his eyes and tried to fake some confidence of my own. Tried to pretend that in the midst of everything else, I could totally handle adding more schoolwork to my schedule.

Because if I
didn't
convince him, I'd be tossed back into the role of killer-bait.

“And while I love your enthusiasm, I think we should have weekly meetings while you're getting up to speed.” President Gilcrest lifted a hand to silence any protest. “We wouldn't want you to become overwhelmed, Emmy. It's quite common for people to find Emptor Academy an acquired taste. Let's give your palate time to adjust.”

I wanted to ask him for more detail about this mysterious “we,” but I wasn't sure how best to phrase it. Was there somebody else pulling the strings for me to be here—someone with the last name of St. James, perhaps—or did he just enjoy pretending to be part of the royal family?

Instead of calling him on it, I nodded agreeably. “Sure. Weekly meetings. I'm looking forward to it.”

President Gilcrest's bark of laughter reverberated around the room. “A word of advice? Don't play poker with any of the students here.” Then he reached out and handed me a metal key that was strung on a plain black lanyard and a printed course schedule. “This is the key to your bedroom door. Try not to lose it.”

There was a sense of finality in his voice that should have prepared me for his dismissal, but it still took me by surprise. “It was a pleasure, Emmy.”

It made no sense. According to Kayla, he was supposed to grill me about my academic dreams and ambitions. I felt oddly cheated by his bland,
it was a pleasure
. I bet that was his signature phrase for everything that he didn't enjoy.
Thanks for the prostate exam, doctor. It was a pleasure.

“Don't you want to know more about who I am? Why I'm here? What I'm hoping to get out of Emptor Academy?” I blurted out before I'd made it halfway across the room. President Gilcrest glanced up from his computer, looking faintly amused at my outburst but not particularly surprised.

“Every Emptor Academy student learns that there is
always
a caveat.” I caught only the barest flash of white teeth as he smiled. “Put more simply, there is an exception to every rule. Frederick St. James took quite an interest in you.”

My whole body stiffened at the casual way he was referring to a dead man, as if the two men had been enjoying a rousing game of backgammon just before I'd walked in to interrupt them.

“So y-you knew him?” I asked, tripping over my own tongue in the process. “Were you close? Did he mention me? Was he—”

President Gilcrest silenced me by raising a single white eyebrow. “Anybody who claims to know Frederick St. James is grossly mistaken. He was a private man who gave little of himself to others. He mentioned your name in conversation only once, last week, and all he said was that he thought you could benefit from our tutelage.”

I shoved my hands into my sweatshirt so that President Gilcrest wouldn't see them shaking. “Did he say
why
?”

“No, he didn't.” President Gilcrest shifted forward. “Would you care to offer an explanation?”

I shook my head, hating the smug gleam in his eyes that told me I was already living up to his low expectations. He didn't believe I was smart enough to say anything worth hearing.

“That's what I thought. Normally a new student would not be admitted without a full background check and an even more thorough vetting process, but Mr. St. James was an exceptional man with exceptional judgement. It remains to be seen if you will become the exception to that particular rule. Now kindly shut the door on your way out.”

I spent the majority of my Theory of Economics class trying to stay awake.

No easy feat. The teacher, Mr. Bangsley, looked like Elmer Fudd in a baggy suit but spoke with a slow, soothing cadence that tugged me toward sleep. I also had absolutely nothing to contribute. The girl who had glared at me earlier, Peyton McSomething, tucked back a strand of her glossy brown hair, exposing one shimmering diamond chandelier earring before she launched into a detailed account of her growing stock portfolio.

“What should Peyton keep in mind, everyone?”

He paused to let every student in the room chorus, “If it looks too good to be true, get out.”

I already wanted to get out—out of the school, out of the state, out of my
life
—and as far as I could tell there was nothing particularly good about any of it. An old man had been obsessed with me a week before his murder. A communications expert would need to spin the crap out of that in order for me to find it comforting. It was all so twisted
.
Especially the part about how certain Frederick St. James was that I would benefit from the tutelage here. I mean, sure, it sort of made sense. He never would have enrolled his own grandson at Emptor Academy if he didn't believe in the quality of the education. He probably thought
everyone
could benefit from a thorough working knowledge of the stock market.

That didn't explain why he had singled
me
out.

That whole conversation involved a level of forethought and planning that the old man who'd stolen my drink hadn't possessed. He hadn't even remembered my
name
for the bulk of that interaction, let alone his opinion on a public versus a private education.

My foot tapped with nervous energy, and I instinctively began plotting another romance novel. Ben once suggested I try counting backward when I got fidgety, but my mind strayed too quickly from the numbers. So even though I told myself
not
to let my imagination go and envision Nasir as Middle Eastern royalty incapable of love ever since banishing Audr . . . ina from his life, I clung to the familiar crutch.

The playboy billionaire prince had chosen to banish quick-witted Audrina from his country—and his heart—forever.

But why? There had to be a reason for their rift. Something juicy. A love child? I instantly rejected the idea. No, what this story needed was a villain. Somebody intent on destroying all the progress Audrina was making in Khazibekustanzia with Prince Nas . . . ek. Somebody who had the ear of the star-crossed prince.

Okay, so the evil advisor Sebastard wanted to tear Prince Nasek and Audrina apart because he bore a secret grudge that would be revealed dramatically about ten pages away from the happily ever after.

I propped my chin in the palm of my hand as I considered the possibilities. Romantic jealousy made a fair amount of sense. Prince Nasek
was
an attractive man with thick black hair, smooth dark skin, and laughing eyes that had sparkled whenever he'd looked at Audrey—crap—
Audrina
, except I couldn't picture Sebastard playing for that team. Okay, I
could
imagine it, but I didn't think there was a basis for it in real life.

Then again, this was fiction after all.

A slow grin began spreading across my face as the story began coming together. Plotting was always my favorite part of the writing process because
I
was the one in control. No man ever overstayed his welcome in my storylines.

“Something amusing you, Emmy?”

Well, that was one way to wipe the smile off my face.

My head jerked up, as I instantly tried to deflect Mr. Bangsley's question.

“Uh, n-no. No. All good here,” I stuttered, then turned to the silent girl next to me. “You good?” I didn't wait for her to answer. “Yep, we're good.”

“Do you have any investment ideas you'd like to share?”

My mind went blank.

I glanced down at the doodles I'd drawn in my notebook. “Not so much.”

Peyton raised her voice to be heard above the snickers of amusement at my expense. “Isn't the whole point of this to have
real
investors, create
real
portfolios, and make
real
money, Greg?”

I wondered if Peyton could get away with
anything
. If anyone had ever set a boundary that she couldn't bulldoze. Not that it was any of my business. The opinions of a spoiled little debutante were beneath my attention. I was going to take the moral high ground, grit my teeth, and smile through whatever taunt she intended to send my way next.

So I was caught off guard when I heard myself snarl, “You, Peyton, are an enormous pain-in-the—”

“Emmy!” Mr. Bangsley interrupted. “You should go take a walk. Get familiar with the grounds.”

Get yourself under control.

I had no trouble understanding the subtext. My heart was pounding as I scooped up my backpack and moved toward the door. It was fine. Totally fine. Getting booted out of my first class was a perfectly acceptable way to start at a new school. This would in no way alter my future here.

Except, oh wait, apparently every one of these rich kids could buy my apartment building and evict my mom with their weekly allowance money.