Page 84 of The Pawn

"Hello," I tell her, as a cool nose presses itself against my thigh, sniffing the skin just beneath the edge of my skirt. "I know I smell like meat, but I don't have any on me. I left it back there."

She looks up at me, eyes wide and curious. I keep my hands behind me, fingers curled around the chain link fence, which is at least ten feet high and topped with barbed wire.

They just had to put four fully grown predators on the same campus as rich teenage girls and boys.

I should be worried about passing my finals and going home to my mother's one bedroom apartment for the holidays, not escaping a predator's clutches.

But the wolf just sniffs me intently, decides I'm boring, turns around and walks away. She finds what her sibling and two sons have found already: the meat I left behind, which appears to be to their liking. Grabbing onto one of the large hunks of what I suspect is roast beef stolen from the dining hall kitchen, she merrily plays a game of tug of war with her offspring until the meat has been sufficiently torn into chunks.

As the adrenaline in me subsides, and I realize I'm not about to be similarly torn to shreds, I slide down the fence and pull my knees towards me, shivering in the dark.

Time passes without distinction, and I drift off more than once despite the cold and discomfort. I only know it's morning by the slide of the sun on the horizon, announcing dawn. Minutes pass, and I hear footsteps heading towards the gate, followed by an exclamation.

The groundskeeper has found me, and he'll want answers, as will the rest of the administration.

All I have is the note I found inside the gag, which I searched through when watching the wolves nap got boring.

It reads simply,"You don't belong here. It would be better for everyone if you left Coleridge forever."

I'm not sure that I entirely disagree.

Chapter 45

By the time I make it back to my room, followed by intense questioning from the administration and campus security, I'm wrung out and feel hopeless inside.

The post, of course, published while I was in the wolves' enclosure.

While I can go back and edit it, or delete it entirely, I can't erase it from the internet. I can't take back what I've done, or change anything. It's out there—no matter what.

I've committed exactly the sin I came here to correct.

I accused the wrong boy of committing a terrible, unthinkable crime.

After a small moment of reflection, I pull the post down, replacing it with a simple note of apology and clarification that not all the information published was correct, and a request not to spread it any further.

But I know it's useless.

These things, once begun, spiral out of control.

My only hope is that this time, because Lukas DuPont is what my brother wasn't—a rich, privileged, innocent boy—the world won't crucify him the same way it crucified Silas.

In the meantime, I have to figure out what to do about the haughtily named Ferdinand Von Hassell, including what I saw him do to Georgia yesterday.

It's all too much for me to know how to handle. After a moment of reflection, I send an email to the last Legacies admin, who I hope will be able to respond. Then I close the laptop, crawl into bed, and fall asleep dreaming of the distant howls of wolves.

* * *

By the next day, everyone is talking about the blog again—and how fucked up it is that a wrong post came out. The administration informs me that security camera footage of the attack on me was sent to the local police, but no identifying angles were found. I tell them that I heard Georgia's voice, but no one seems to care. I see her in the halls with Hass later, and my skin crawls. Lukas isn't in our shared English class.

A day after that, when the full retraction of the story goes live—complete with help from the blog's last admin—it doesn't reach as many people as the first, false story did. I made sure not to mention Ferdinand Von Hassell, rich and privileged, in the blog. I only made allusions to the fact that more than one person matching the perpetrator's description has the same ankle tattoo.

Lukas is back in class, but he looks pale and withdrawn, and we don't get a chance to talk—not that I know what I could say to him without revealing myself.

Cole still isn't on campus. A full week of classes go by without a sign of him. I spot Holly walking down the hallways arm-in-arm with a boy named Jacob Granger whose parents own a tech company that makes, among other things, facial recognition software and virtual reality devices. She doesn't meet my eyes, but when I receive my last paycheck from the Rosalinds, I cash the full amount and slide it under her door in an envelope that includes yet another apology note.

More time passes. Chrissy is still tight-lipped and awkward around me. Sasha and Tricia have gotten close in a way that seems to verge on romance, their giggles turned distinctly flirtatious.

I get an email from Mariana Marks, to Legacies, that makes me cry. She blames the blog's inaccurate post for a number of death threats and renewed harassment she's received. Her uncle, Dean Simmons, wants her to withdraw from Coleridge, but she refuses—she's going to fight and stay. I don't know what to say to her, but I wind up spending a whole sleepless night thinking about her words over and over again.

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