Page 80 of Burn Like An Angel

Two working phones.

We’re in business.

While the phones reboot, I pull up the search engine on my second computer. Ripley and Lennox were itching to join me, even though she can barely walk. The least I can do is report back with news.

I quickly tap inHarrowdean Manorthen watch the breaking news stories populate. We holed up for two nights, until the food ran out. That’s long enough for word to spread.

As I suspected, the official story is vague in the extreme. Details are sparse enough to satisfy the public’s demands for action but conceal the truth about how the riot came to an unceremonious end.

Deadly riot at psychiatric institute ends in violence.

Hostages rescued, multiple casualties reported.

Sir Bancroft II to make a public statement as criminal investigation gathers speed.

Scoffing under my breath, I scan through the final story. The silver-haired son of a bitch will soon charm the media. Healways does. Even with the evidence pouring out of Blackwood, it took Harrowdean revolting to get the world talking this much.

Yet he’s still a free man.

And there’s still no justice.

The mention of Warner’s employer, Sabre Security, catches my eye. I don’t expect a full breakdown of an active criminal investigation, but these Sabre people seem to be kicking their feet.

There’s some crap about cooperating witnesses from Blackwood but nothing more. It’s infuriating. Why do we accept the existence of evil so quickly but discount the truth just as fast when it stares us in the face?

Because it’s uncomfortable.

It’s a mark of failure as humans.

We treat the truth with contempt when it doesn’t tell us what we want to hear. It’s far easier to turn the other cheek, to pretend like suffering doesn’t exist all around us. We keep scrolling, drinking down the easy to stomach content we’re drip fed instead.

At the bottom of the article, there’s a number for a tip hotline. I type it into the first now-unlocked phone then study the half-empty cafe while waiting for the line to connect.

“Sabre Security,” a perky voice chirps. “You’ve reached Operation Nightshade’s tip line. Tara speaking.”

“Tell them to print the truth,” I whisper angrily. “Some of us don’t have time for your investigation to gather speed.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Who am I speaking to?”

“And tell your idiot boss to look beneath Kingsman dorms.”

“Sir, if I can just?—”

“Each institute has a Zimbardo wing. You need to tear them all apart.”

Loaded silence. I’ve got her attention.

“Priory Lane. Blackwood Institute. Harrowdean Manor,” I lay them out, one by one. “All gone. You have the evidence you need to shut the remaining institutes down before Bancroft decides to clean house.”

A scrabble on the other end makes me pause before hanging up. They’re probably tracking the call. No matter, I’ll be gone soon enough.

“This is Theodore Young,” a new voice announces. “Your call has been escalated to me. Tell me, what might we find beneath Kingsman dorms?”

“Ask the pink-haired bitch who tortured my friend. She knows all about it.”

The sudden intake of breath is curious. I have no clue who the woman that saved Ripley and Lennox is, only that she works for the prestigious security firm. We only have jagged pieces of a much larger puzzle.

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