MILA 2.0: Redemption (15 page)

He stared off into the distance. Maybe searching for an answer in the star-salted sky.

“But now?” I prodded, after the silence deepened.

He sighed. “Now I just don’t know. I see you, and I realize . . . there’s a chance Nicole was right.”

His statement wasn’t a blazing endorsement of acceptance, no “I claim you as my daughter!” shout to the world. What it was was honest and heartfelt. Maybe he was suggesting a tiny chance at a different relationship in the future, if we could just get through the now.

As I stood beside him in a comfortable silence, I felt a slight thaw. He was offering a chance for a new normal.

And for now, that was enough.

A
t first sight, Montford looked exactly as it did in the brochures. Statuesque, expansive, all gray stone and green grass. The kind of place wealthy parents wanted to send their kids. A fence lined the perimeter, tall and imposing, as if to highlight the school’s exclusivity.

“Here goes nothing,” Samuel said, before he opened the front passenger door.

We left Lucas in the van, as there was no good way to explain his presence. Holland would definitely know who he was, and others here might, too. I caught sight of my face in the side mirror and tried not to do a double take at the last-minute changes Lucas had added to my appearance this morning.

Daniel led us toward the elaborate iron gates in the fence.
A call box blinked up at us. Daniel hit a few buttons, let a secretary know who we were. Overhead, there was a faint buzzing. Video camera. I kept my head turned from the lens, trying to look natural. A moment later, a buzzer sounded, and the gates swung open.

Abby whistled. “Guess they don’t want you cutting school here.”

“Or they want outsiders minding their own business,” Daniel said. Here at Montford, we would call him Mr. Baker.

I held my breath as I walked through the gate, a little-girl ritual that I must have dredged from Sarah’s memory. I released it when, several feet later, no telltale beep or flare or flashing light pinged me with the unwelcome news that I had two hours left. Two hours.

The sweep of green grass was even more impressive on this side of the fence. I wondered how many landscapers worked to make it look so perfect. Nothing about this place screamed ominous or threatening. Imposing was another story.

I tried to imagine what this place looked like to the recipients of the Watson Grant. Then I tried to imagine Sarah’s reaction when she’d first arrived on campus. Had she been excited? Nervous? Had her first impressions been like mine?

As if I could suddenly look into her mind, I was flooded
with remembered excitement. The sweeping grounds; the majestic buildings; the sense of possibility.

Compared to my old high school, this was paradise.

I twirled in a happy circle. A perfect day was in store, full of new friends, new classes, and a new me.

It was amazing here—Chloe would die. I was so dragging her butt up here for a weekend sleepover.

The fragment of Sarah’s life slid away, but her emotion lingered. Here I was, full circle. This could be the place where everything changed. Hunter might not have faith in me, but I could fix that. Show him that I could be trustworthy again, that I wasn’t that girl back at Quinn’s. Where would that leave Lucas? I couldn’t worry about that now.

As I watched Hunter walk slightly ahead, I stifled a surge of annoyance. Before we’d left the RV, he’d made Lucas try to prove that my bomb wasn’t activated yet. Like I would hide something that huge.

I sighed. I shouldn’t be so impatient. I mean, one day, one place, I might get into range of a trigger. Would Montford be that place? Only time would tell. And worrying about it wouldn’t change a thing.

Stone and concrete cut a dignified path through the lawn, and we walked behind Daniel like a flock of baby birds following their mother.

From behind me, Samuel gave a low whistle. “What happens if I take a liking to this Montford place and want to
extend my stay? Can you arrange that too? Oof.”

Abby must have elbowed him. “I think you’re confusing boarding school with the Residence Inn. You have to work to stay here.”

Daniel glowered over his shoulder. Everyone quieted as we approached a large brick building, a cross between a fortress and a fairy-tale castle. He pushed a button and the doors whooshed open. We entered an oversized hallway featuring original art and love seats with fancy curved wooden feet. The pictures showed different parts of the campus. Apart from that, the area looked more like the entryway of an elegant house, or even a museum, than a school. We hadn’t met the students yet, but we already knew they were incredibly privileged.

Dean Parsons’s office was as oversized as the campus. Another claw-footed love seat resided against one wall, while two tasteful stuffed chairs sat in the middle of the room. Behind a massive desk, a woman with a neat blond bob and rectangular rimmed glasses peered up from her laptop with a professional smile.

“Mr. Baker, from the Classical Charter School?”

Daniel nodded.

“We’re delighted to have you and your students here for a visit. The dean is waiting for you.”

As Daniel thanked her, I wondered. Either the dean was exceedingly prompt, or they had someone monitoring that video camera at the gate.

A lean man with a sparse sprinkling of brown-and-gray hair popped his head out of the adjoining room. “There you are!” Dean Parsons stepped to the side and swept an arm back, inviting us in. His suit was gray with faint navy pinstripes. His white shirt underneath appeared starched. No trace of wear on his smooth black leather shoes. Clean nails, smooth shave. Brown eyes.

Caucasian male, approximately 6 ft., 1 in.

Approximate weight: 180 lbs.

Age: Late 50s.

After shaking Daniel’s hand, the dean ushered us into the room, which had an elegant long table surrounded by antique chairs. At four places, there were glossy blue folders embossed with the school seal. One for each of us prospective students.

To keep things simple, Daniel had insisted on names that didn’t vary too far from our real ones. Samuel was now Simon; Abby was Annie. Hunter was Hank. And me? I kept Mara. By starting with the same first letter, Daniel had figured it would be easier to cover up any mistakes.

“Have a seat,” Dean Parsons said, waving a hand toward the folders. We settled into the chairs that corresponded with our names, while he and Daniel sat at opposite ends of the table.

“Mr. Baker, would you like to introduce me to your students?”

Daniel cleared his throat, probably giving himself time
for a mental review. “Sure. Next to me is Simon McCormick, then Hank Lang, Annie Thomas. Last but not least, my daughter. Mara Baker.”

I knew that I caught and stored all the pleasantries and introductory speeches that followed, but my body felt paralyzed by one word. Like a glitch, it kept replaying, over and over again, shocking me each time.

Daughter. Daniel had introduced me as daughter—and I’d heard a note of pride in his voice.

The dean said, “So nice to meet you all. You’ll see I’ve provided each of you with a prospective-student folder, full of information about the school. Faculty, sports, extracurriculars, even the food . . . everything you need to know about us is in there.”

He eased himself onto the edge of his chair and folded his hands on the table. “Now, tell me a little bit about yourselves and what makes you interested in Montford.”

Gamely, we recited the facts we had learned about our fraudulent selves. Abby asked about dance classes, and Samuel requested a tour of the squash courts. Even Hunter pretended he wanted to know if he could take three years of calculus here. The dean looked intently at all of us, like a trick he had practiced, but I had the sense he was thinking about something else. If only my android abilities extended to mind reading.

Exactly twenty minutes later, the secretary told him he was needed in another meeting. Almost as if it was planned.

“Well, I think that was a successful chat, don’t you?” the dean said, smiling smoothly. “But I’m sure you’re all eager to get started on the tour.”

As the leader at Montford, he was bound to know something about the Watson Grant. Unfortunately, it was too dangerous to show too much interest in the one thing we really wanted to know.

As we exited the room, Daniel fell into step beside the dean. “Before we go, I had a question to ask you. I know there are probably all kinds of hoops to jump through, but would it be possible for my students to sit in on classes this week?”

The dean checked his phone as he responded. “If you leave your applications with me, I’ll start the ball rolling,” he said absently. Judging from his tone, it could take weeks or years to set up these visits.

Daniel produced the applications from his briefcase, along with the signed parental consent forms. Forged, of course. He presented them to the dean, who arched a brow.

“We so appreciate applicants who are prepared,” he said. For the first time, he really seemed to notice us . . . and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “I’ll have my team look these over and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” If anything, his smile was even smoother than before.

While the dean walked down the hall, I placed my hand over the doorknob he’d touched earlier.

Fingerprint scan: Activated.

Complete.

I could cross-reference the dean’s prints for any criminal activity, and I’d always know when he was within thirty feet. Actually, my scan was currently alerting me that a different match was nearby. One of the students, whose prints I’d picked up from their files.

He stepped toward us, casual-cool in relaxed khakis, a maroon long-sleeved polo, and a quilted navy vest. Under dark hair gelled into a casual tousle, a pair of sly eyes gleamed.

Fingerprint: Match.

Image: Match.

J. D. Rothschild.

One of the winners of the Watson Grant.

“This is J.D., one of Montford’s best and brightest. This one’s going to put our financial planner out of a job if he doesn’t step up to the plate,” the dean said with a wink at J.D.

J.D.’s grin grew wider. Like a shark spotting blood in the water.

“He’ll be your guide today, and happy to answer any of your questions.”

J.D. shook Daniel’s hand with an ingratiating grin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” He gave the rest of us a casual wave. “Ready?”

He led us through the elegant hallway and then outside. “Here are our academic buildings,” he began, pointing. “Our buildings are arranged by subject—we have math and sciences, language arts, history and social science, and electives. There are covered walkways between them, to protect students from the elements.”

Anyone could tell he’d given this tour many times before.

From this view, the campus was even more stunning. More of the beautiful, historic-looking gray stone buildings arranged to form a semicircle, with the administrative building—where we were—as the lowest point. Like spokes on a bike, charming brick paths linked each of the buildings to a central quad, where an immense bronze sculpture composed of zigzagged lines sprayed water into a fountain.

I imagined when classes were out, students flocked to the central area, perching on the lip of the fountain and chatting. Actually, I didn’t need to imagine. I’d done it . . . as Sarah.

I soaked up the sun, trying to relax in the few minutes I had until my next class. My fingers trailed a lazy path through the water until I spied the cute boy from my English class. I straightened abruptly.

“Are my teeth clean,” I said, baring them to—

J.D.’s voice stole the memory away. “Don’t let the cat out of the bag, but Montford just procured a donation to enclose the walkways completely.” He pointed at the curved
structure overhead that connected the building we’d exited to the one that was a short distance—

Distance: 52 ft.

—away. “I heard it cost about a million flat.”

Samuel rolled his eyes but Hunter jogged forward to walk beside J.D. “Do they get to pick where their money goes, or can the school just toss it at any boring thing they want?”

“Depends if you’re willing to pay for the privilege of picking.”

Hunter snorted. “Well, if I picked, I wouldn’t go with walkway covers. I’d do a new sports arena.”

J.D. eyed Hunter with a spark of interest. “You play sports?”

Hunter shrugged. “A few.” After noting that J.D. was on the soccer team, we’d added that to Hunter’s fake records.

“Sweet,” J.D. said. “Our soccer team could use a new midfielder.”

He led us into the next building. More dark wood and arched ceilings and brilliant crystal chandeliers. Compared to Clearwater, Montford could have been the White House. “Our language arts building, where our students are introduced to the greats from literature. Don’t be surprised if you see kids quoting from plays and books in the hallways, or engaged in vigorous debates in the classroom. Here at Montford, we encourage discussion,” he said.

Hunter rolled his eyes, making J.D. grin. “Hey, man, I don’t write the speech. I just deliver it.”

“I like the academics, but that has to be quite some pressure on the students. What’s your transfer ratio like?” Daniel asked, edging closer to Sarah’s story.

“Oh, low. Very low. Less than five percent, on average. Few students can pass up the opportunity of a Montford education.”

Under five percent? Then why Sarah?

The math building smelled a little different than the others. There was the faint aroma of wood polish, yes, but also the smell of chalk dust. The flooring was a little less pristine from the daily beating by hordes of students who didn’t bother to wipe their feet after being outside. The affect here was old money, not new money. But still money. A lot of it.

While Samuel quizzed J.D. about student life, I pretended to watch the classes in progress behind clear windows. All the while, I was searching those windows for fingerprints. Especially fingerprints that matched up with my database.

My first hits came in the next building.

Scan complete: Identity confirmed.

Ben LaCosta.

100% accuracy.

Sharon Alexander.

100% accuracy.

Ben appeared to be leading his class, demonstrating
complex equations via laptop projector. Sharon sat near the far wall, chin in hand, looking like she was about to doze off. All the kids wore a variation of the same uniform: khaki pants or skirts on the bottom, and collared, polo-style shirts on the top.

J.D. rambled on about prestigious families who had attended in the past, pointing out things they’d donated along the way—a set of laptops, new microscopes for the biology lab. In one case, an entire wing of a building.