Page 63 of The Knight

"I..." Looking down the hallway, I suddenly feel queasy. "I need the bathroom too."

Frowning, he peers out and confirms that the way is clear, the bailiff still standing there. "Fine, but make it quick."

Nodding, I fast walk down the hall towards the bathrooms, the need to pee—orsomething—overwhelming. My stomach is in knots, my bladder overly full, and every nerve in my entire body feels fried and on edge. I can't stop thinking about that night in the storm, when the two men kidnapped me and chloroformed me, and I almost joined my brother six feet under.

It could have gone so much worse.

Things still could go terribly.

And I never found out why Hass "found" me in that trunk. This whole time, I've been hoping the investigation would turn up something on those men, but if it did, no one bothered to reach out to me. I know they were just cogs in the machine, but they're cogs I want destroyed—along with Hass.

Maybe real life is like this. You don't find the answers to every question, or get a nice little bow tying everything together at the end of the story. Life goes on anyway, and we tell ourselves that it doesn't matter, even when it does.

The mistake, I realize, is that I put finding answers in someone else's hands. This whole time I was doing things wrong. I should be cracking open the files on Silas's hard drive myself, hunting down leads and finding where the trail ends like Nancy Drew, instead of leaving it to people who don't care about my brother's killers the way I do.

Grabbing the restroom door in slick hands, I sigh when I discover it's been locked. Of course—Georgia wouldn't want to share her space with anyone else. But suddenly I need nothing more in the world than to pee, and I can't wait. Jiggling my foot, I glance over at the men's restroom and ease the door open.

The coast is clear. Sliding inside, I quickly do what I came here for and stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. There are shadows under my eyes, born of nights spent lying awake, worrying about today, thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

My brother died trying to expose the truth.

I won't have honored his memory unless I finish the job.

After today, I vow to myself, I won't rest easy even if Hass is put in prison. I'll make sure that whatever evidence Silas compiled makes it to see the light of day—nevermind the risk or how many ways Cole tries to warn me off of it. The Syndicate needs to go down, and they'll never see it coming from a teenage girl like me, born in Wayborne under a stormy sky.

Licking my lips, I grab my cheap off-brand concealer out of my purse and dab some under my eyes. Then I head out of the bathroom—and pause.

The lock on the women's room has been broken. It's subtle, the wood of the door still intact, but a little sliver of light eases its way out that wasn't there before.

Glancing at the end of the hallway, I see no sign of the bailiff, and my pulse races.

The smart thing to do would be to walk away.

But I didn't come this far, fight this hard, to turn tail and run. If Georgia is in trouble, I have to do something. Hands shaking, I pull the keychain pepper spray Wally gave me out of my purse, and slowly push the door open.

On the stark white tile floor of the bathroom, beautiful red hair soaks in a pool of blood.

I don't give myself time to think. Running into the bathroom, I turn and raise the pepper spray—there's no one there. Pushing open the stall doors, I find them both empty. Blindly, I call for help, hoping that whoever comes will be on the right side. Then I turn to face Georgia and swallow at her pale skin and closed eyes.

Getting down on my knees, I reach out with trembling fingers and press my touch against her neck. There's warmth there, but no blood surging in her veins to meet me. No pulse anywhere that I can find. Cold all over, I put a flat palm against her chest, and don't feel her ribs rise with breath.

When I pull my hand away, it comes back sticky. The red of the dress she wore to the courtroom is soaking with blood.

I call out for help again, barely able to tell what words I'm saying, uncertain what will happen when someone comes. Then I straighten up, trembling, blindly stumbling to the sink to wash the blood off my hands—

The mirror is covered in writing.

YOU TOOK HIM FROM ME.

I stare at the crumbling lines drawn in red lipstick, stomach dropping as I take it all in. Photos are taped to the mirror—photos of Tanner laughing, taken from a distance, as if with a long lens like the one I took to the private airport. There are somehow pictures of me with him in the library. Then more photos, ones of Georgia with him, but in all of them her face is scratched up and covered in black Xs.

A tube of red lipstick rolls towards me on the counter, as if hastily left there.

It's cheap off-brand stuff. The kind a girl like Georgia Johnson wouldn't ever touch.

Adrenaline fills me, and I know suddenly that the danger has just begun. But before I can escape the trap that's come for me, can get out of this terrible predicament, the help I called for comes.

It takes one look at the scene for the bailiff to shout for me to put my hands up. I do, lips sealed tight, mind working overtime to figure out who did this—and if the very same man who's sliding handcuffs around my wrist was involved.

---