Page 223 of The Forbidden Note

“I’ve already set up an interview at the prison. With or without me, you can meet the inmate—”

“Those are just words. You can put me off for ages if I wait for that.”

“Go on then.” He folds his arms over his chest.

“I want Harris gone.”

He arches an eyebrow.

“I want him out of Redwood. I want all his power stripped. I want all the billionaires and governors and rich folks he was relying on to treat him like a pariah.”

“I can make that happen.”

“All I want is for you to clear the way for me.”

“If it’s Harris you want, you can have him.” Jarod Cross frowns. Hard. “But I wouldn’t advise you to mention anything that you can’t back up with evidence. If you do that, then we have a deal.”

* * *

When my step-father agreed to help me blow the whistle on Harris, I accepted his offer thinking I was getting the upper hand. It felt like poetic justice to use Jarod Cross to advance my own crusade.

Last night, I was blinded by my thirst for vengeance.

It was that same feeling that gripped me when I was in that treehouse with The Kings. And yet, when I was taking the help of a gang of teenagers, it felt less insidious than it does now.

A car drives up to my impromptu press conference, tires squealing and spitting rocks.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” a voice shrieks.

I glance to the side. Harris is jogging toward the security guards. I doubt he’ll get far. The scary guys kept the Redwood Prep security guards from kicking me off the sidewalk earlier. And now they’ll prevent Harris from getting to me.

The reporters, who all turned out to see a piece of Redwood crumble, smile gleefully as the principal makes a fuss.

I watch it all with a sinking premonition.

Jarod called those reporters.

Everything, the livestream, the security—they were orchestrated by his hand.

It was easy.

Almost… too easy.

The sun glints against the sweat on Harris’s bald head and his eyes are two angry slits in his chubby face. It’s early in the morning, but already, a few kids are walking to school. Harris shoves them aside, launching toward the sidewalk.

I stiffen, my fingers digging into the wood of the podium.

The moment Harris gets close, the guards step in his way.

Cameras start flashing.

“Mr. Harris, what do you have to say about the allegations of financial fraud?”

“Were you aware that funds were being siphoned into your ex-wife’s bank account?”

“How long have you been stealing from Redwood?”

Harris doesn’t answer. His eyes, filled with volatile rage, remain on me.

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