Page 15 of Riot Reunion
“Who is it?” Carrie’s husky voice calls out from the living room.
Sighing, I take the cell phone to Carrie, where she’s sprawled out on the couch looking languid, as if her bones have turned to liquid. She’s so fucking beautiful—goddamn, her nipples are still piqued through the thin fabric of her shirt. The sight is all the more torturous because there’s no way I’m getting laid anymore. It’s as if her terrifying guardian has some sort of sixth sense now that we’re in his city. There’s no way in hell he’ll let us fuck while we’re in the same zip code. Carrie’s eyes round out when she sees Michael’s name emblazoned across the screen. Suddenly, she’s very alert, very wide-eyed, sitting upright, hands moving quickly as she fumbles with the phone in her haste to answer the call.
“Everything okay?” she asks. No hello. None of the pleasantries other people might bother with when picking up a call. I can’t hear what’s said on the other end of the line, but from the deep creases that form between Carrie’s brows, it seems as though my suspicions were right. “What, right now?” she says.
I can just about make out deep, muted male rumbling.
Carrie’s eyes flit up to me; her gaze locks with mine, and a steel knot forms in the pit of my stomach. Why do I get the feeling that I’m not going to like whatever comes out of her mouth next…
“Yeah, I’m surehewon’t mind, butI’mnot very comfortable with you asking him to—” She stops, huffing, frustration visibly bubbling out of her when Michael cuts her off. “No. I’m not babying hi—No, he can’t hear you. No, he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty,” she says incredulously, rolling her eyes. “Of course, he’ll help you.I’mthe one who doesn’t like the idea of him leaving ri—" She growls. “It’s the middle of the night. Plus, we’ve just landed. We’re both jetlagged and—”
“Give me the phone, Carrie.”
She looks up, her eyes full of some unknown emotion. It looks like a combination of defiance and fear. “No.”
“Why not? Sounds like Michael’s asking for my help.”
“He is. But—”
“Then what’s the problem? You said it yourself. He’s a restauranteur now. Whatever he needs can’t bethatbad.”
When Carrie defended her guardian’s murky business dealings back on the plane, I’m sure she didn’t think I would be roped into them mere hours later. She flushes, color rising to her cheeks; she looks infuriated, but what can she do?
I smile softly, holding out my hand. “Come on. You want me to get on with Michael, and right now he’s asking for my help. It’ll be all right, love. I’ll be back before you know it.”
Reluctantly, she passes me her cell. She hates that this is happening—I see that written all over her face—but there’s no way around this. Michael is just as important to Carrie as I am. In a different way, of course, but he matters to her. What he thinks of me matters to her, and Michael will forever think of me as a cowardly, worthless piece of shit if I don’t answer a request for help when he makes one. She flinches as I hold the cell up to my ear and speak.
“Hello, Michael.”
His response is instant, cool, and deadly calm. “Get your ass over to 515 West Ave. Apartment 12c.And bring a fucking gun.”
6
ELODIE
“So, it's true, then?”
Wren hands over the paper for me to read myself.
It isn't headline news. The media has lost interest in Wesley Fitzpatrick, or rather the public has grown tired of seeing his name splattered so flagrantly all over the media. No one died when Fitz trapped us in that cave before graduation. The last person our old English professor actually murdered was Maya Bancroft, and she had been missing for close to a year by the time we stumbled across her body. The price that must be paid to capture the public's interest is blood, and the pool of blood surrounding the Wolf Hall murder is no longer fresh. Some basketball star cheated on his wife last week. A politician was found to be embezzling money from a charitable fund. All of this is to say that Wesley Fitzpatrick’s possible release is nowthird-page news.
“The accused’s lawyer recently gave a statement declaring that all of the evidence presented in the cases pertaining to the young women who were unfortunately killed in the states of Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, and New Hampshire was insubstantial at best and not enough to convict her client. There were no traces of DNA on at least two of the bodies. Dr. Fitzpatrick had privately tutored a number of the other girls in the hours or days leading up to their deaths, which would allow for his hair or clothing fibers to find their way onto those particular bodies.
Of course, even Dr. Fitzpatrick’s counsel admits that it would be a striking coincidence if all of these girls had seen him privately in the days leading up to their deaths and hewasn'tresponsible for their brutal murders. Alessia Regan, Fitzpatrick's lead counselor, stated, ‘Yes, of course. The optics might not look good, but mercifully that isn't how justice is executed in this country. A man can't be found guilty of a series of murders, just because it would be a coincidence if hedidn'tcommit those crimes. We are bound by law to provide irrefutable evidence that confirms a suspect’s involvement in any crime before they can be judged by a court of their peers and found guilty. And in this case, the evidence presented by the district attorney's office in support of their case against my client simply does not hold water.’
When asked about the statements given by the students who found the body of Mara Bancroft on the grounds of Wolf Hall (an exclusive private school located in rural New Hampshire), Regan declared, “Dr. Fitzpatrick was a highly respected member of faculty at Wolf Hall. There were never any complaints lodged against my client whilst he taught at the school. The students who have levied these accusations against Dr. Fitzpatrick, however, were known troublemakers and had clashed with my client on a number of occasions, primarily about their behavior in class and their poor academic performances. One of these students in particular assaulted my client in public, outside a bar that he illegally operates under a fictitious license. This assault was witnessed by at least three other bystanders, who all reported that this student, Wren Jacobi, was shouting and screaming at my client, who was making a visible effort to calm the young man down. It isn't uncommon in situations like these for angry students to spread lies against teaching professionals who hold them accountable for their actions in school.”
I set the newspaper down, layers of anger rising and then settling, only to peak again when I consider each aspect of the ridiculous piece. There'splentyof evidence to convict Wesley of the murders in the South. There's plenty of evidence to convict Wesley of Mara Bancroft's murder, too. Plus, the sick freak confessed to us all in that cave that he’d murdered her, and now his lawyer’s claiming that we had a personal vendetta against him? That we’re all lying because we're spoiled kids out for a spot of revenge?
Horseshit.
I never thought it’d be possible to hate Wesley Fitzpatrick any more than I already do, but time and time again I’m surprised. Wren is agitated. He's been pacing up and down like a caged lion, running his hands through his hair, muttering angrily under his breath while waiting for me to finish. The moment I set the paper down, he ceases his frantic pacing, stops dead, and turns to face me.
“They're laying the groundwork to discredit me as a witness. Ididpunch that motherfucker outside the bar a couple of weeks before we found Mara. I bet a bunch of people witnessed it go down. I didn't give a fuck who saw what I was doing at the time. The moment these reporters get ahold of the fact that Fitz and I—” The muscles in his jaw work as he shakes his head. I've never asked him about what happened between him and Wesley Fitzpatrick. Not properly. It was obvious that there was some kind of sexual encounter between them, but I just couldn't force myself to ask for details. Not because Wes was a guy, and I didn't like the idea of my boyfriend sleeping with other men. I’ve never had a problem with that. Sexuality is fluid. More importantly, it's private; Wren never needs to justify or disclose his actions to me in that regard. No, I wasn't comfortable asking for details about the connection purely because it made me sick with jealousy. I didn't want to think about him withanybodyelse, but now it seems as though I’ll have to; the words can’t remain unspoken if we're going to discuss Wes’s game plan here. Wren must feel the same way, too.
“Once they find out Fitz and I were fucking, they're gonna have a field day,” he groans. “They’ll say you accused Fitz of harassing you and tearing your room apart because you're my girlfriend.Soeasy to discredit a jealous girlfriend. They'll say Mercy backed up my story because she's my sister, and—”
I've never seen him like this before. Nothing fazes Wren. He takes everything in stride, dealing with issues that arise with a reassuring straightforwardness. I cross the hotel suite we’ve been living in these past few months and go to him, placing my hands on his arms. “It's okay. It's gonna be fine. There’s no way in hell that man is walking free after what he did. A jury has already reviewed the evidence and made their decision. They found him guilty. Wes can appeal that decision until the end of time. That's all he has now.Time. And these things take years and years to make it back to court, anyway. Who knows what other evidence will be found? How many more bodies are going to show up at schools where he's taught before. This isn't going to go anywhere, and he knows it.”
