Page 48 of Revenge

I peered into my mailbox to see if Mom had sent me a postcard or some sort of sign that she remembered having a daughter. It was empty.

“I ought to thank you, Hobson,” said a nasal voice from behind my back. When I didn’t turn around to ask what for, Charlotte continued. “I met the most amazing man because of your party. He’s older, handsome, rich, and smitten.”

Patricia sniffed. “Much better than the immature louts we have here.”

I turned. Charlotte pulled back her shoulders, making her boobs strain against the burgundy blazer, and Patricia mimicked the action, looking like a mime artist imitating a chicken. I suppressed a smirk, and said in my calmest voice, “That’s great.”

Charlotte’s mouth slackened. “What did you say?”

“I’m happy for you.” I walked past them, through the doorway, and toward the stairs. “Excuse me, while I get some textbooks.”

As soon as I reached the first run of the stairs, Patricia said, “Bitch.”

My feet ground to a halt, and I whirled around. Patricia’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, hiding half her taller, thinner body behind Charlotte’s. My skin prickled with irritation. I hadn’t said or done anything to her, yet she felt the need to call me names within my earshot.

“What was that?” I asked in a calm voice.

Patricia’s hand shot out to hide her mouth. “Nothing.”

“You called me a bitch.” I walked back into the reception hall. “Why?”

Patricia glanced at Charlotte for support, but her friend’s gaze dropped to the package she cradled in her arms. A silence stretched out, broken only by the crack and sizzle of the fire. As if spurred on by an invisible bout of courage, Patricia flared her nostrils. “What do you want?”

“I haven’t repaid you for last term’s stunt, and if you dare call me names again, I’ll give you a taste of what I suffered.”

Her mouth puckered like she had eaten a lemon, but she remained silent, and Charlotte seemed too lost in her admiration of whatever was in the package to comment. I turned back to the stairs and took them two at a time. Jackie might be able to tell me the identity of her generous benefactor and give me an update on the situation with Mr. Frost.

After picking up my books and sending a message on my burner phone, I headed out of Elder House to toward the main teaching block. The clouds cleared, and pale sunlight thinned the frost on the lawn, allowing patches of green to shine through. Rock salt lined the pathway leading to the main teaching block, making me wonder why they hadn’t used it weeks ago.

“Emilia!” shouted a voice from the direction of the tuck shop.

I turned to find Nadia standing a few feet away from the entrance to International House. My stomach flip-flopped. I hadn’t seen her for a few days, and had worried she might have regretted confiding in me about her fiancé’s drug charges. The bouffant had returned to her hair, which had to mean things were going better at home.

I jogged across the lawn and grinned. “How are you?”

“I need some help.” She stuffed her hands into her pockets.

“What’s wrong?”

“Will you come to my room? I can show you there.”

A boulder of apprehension rolled through my belly, but I suppressed the reaction. Nadia was a nice woman, alone and needing a favor from a friend. Nothing bad could come of going with her. “Sure.”

I followed Nadia into the building. As it was more modern than Elder House, its entrance hall was warmed by radiators instead of fireplaces. The marble-floored hallways reminded me of the main teaching block, as did the small atrium where two corridors bisected. Cigarette buts littered the ground, making me shudder. Did Edward know the international students were treating his family property with such disrespect?

Nadia’s room was on the first floor. Unlike the space I shared with Rita in Elder House, Nadia’s was a single-study room with modern furniture and a door leading to the bathroom. No pictures adorned the desk or walls, making me wonder if she’d had to leave the country in a hurry and hadn’t been able to pack keepsakes.

“How can I help you?” I asked.

“I do not understand this.” She walked to her desk, opened up a folder and showed me a photocopy of this year’s GCSE exam paper, the tests used in schools all over Britain. It was stamped by the educational authority and marked highly confidential.

My breath caught in the back of my throat, and I stiffened, pulling back every reaction, so as not to alarm Nadia. Students weren’t supposed to see this until they sat their exams.

“What don’t you understand?” I asked.

“The teacher said I had to learn this for exams in June, but it is just questions.”

“He didn’t explain what they were for?”