Page 50 of Twisted Elites

The policeman scribbled down notes.

“Any examples?” asked the woman.

“On the night Bianca left the money on my pillow, she took my laptop, and a few other items then set the rest of my things on fire in the lawn.”

“How do you know it was her?”

“She confronted me about them later, and I found those items in her room when I went home.”

“Any other incidents with the Byrd family?”

I told them about my last encounter with Bianca’s father before the Board of Governors’ meeting and how I had explained the missing money to him. The policewoman winced as though she knew what would happen next.

When I recounted seeing her the next day with a black eye and the contract in her blazer, the policeman interrupted. “Would we find this document if we searched her room?”

“I don’t know,” the words slid from my lips like a sigh.

My gaze wandered around the empty classroom. Like most in Brittas Academy, its walls were bare, and two-person tables stretched down the room’s length in rows of three.

The way the police phrased their questions, they expected me to be omnipotent and do all the thinking for them. Why didn’t they just check her room and see for themselves? Right. Because they didn’t quite believe what I was saying.

Focussing back on the conversation, I added, “Her father might have taken it with him when he left.”

“We’re going to need a formal statement. Is that alright?”

I nodded, and the policewoman pulled out a notepad I’d seen too many times. She made me go over my story a lot slower and in a lot more detail. This time, I had no qualms about describing what I had seen Mr. Byrd do to his daughter in Mrs. Benazir’s room and no qualms about implicating him in attacking Bianca.

A chill seeped into my bones. What was I talking about? From her unmoving state and the blood freezing onto the frost, Bianca was probably dead.

Part-way through my statement, she asked, “Weren’t you concerned about the plight of Bianca’s sister?”

“I didn’t know she had one until someone brought her up.”

“Who?”

“Leopold Brunswick. The boy you made to wait outside in the hallway.”

“Has he met Bianca’s sister?” asked the policeman. “What is her name?”

My body deflated. This wasn’t good cop-bad cop. It was drive-you-down-with-incessant-and-tedious-questions cop. “As I said, I only heard that she had a sister, and the comment wasn’t even addressed to me.”

“Who was it addressed—”

“Ask Leopold,” I snapped.

“Let’s get on with the statement,” said the policewoman.

By the time I had finished telling them everything, my teeth, and nerves had worn down to what felt like bloody stumps. Either the policeman was an asshole or finely trained in extracting the truth with the art of dick-headedness. I no longer cared.

“Thank you, Willow,” he gave me a bright smile. “That was very helpful.”

I hoped the smile I returned reflected exactly what I would do to him if I ever caught him in front of an open window.

Someone knocked on the door. “WPC Phelps, can you accompany Bianca to the Royal Infirmary? We’ll need to take her statement if she wakes.”

“She’s alive?” I blurted.

The policeman narrowed his eyes. “You sound disappointed.”