As I neared my apartment building, I slowed down. Despite Lauren’s reassurance, a prickle of fear raised the hair on the back of my neck. Wes’s cruiser was gone. The force must have picked it up while I was being interrogated beneath the Waverly library. No one lingered around the building, and there were very few cars in the parking lot, most of which I recognized as belonging to my neighbors. Still, I pulled the hood of my winter coat up to veil my face before walking out into the courtyard and heading up the stairs.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I reached my apartment. Wes’s set of keys dangled from the doorknob. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like a simple mistake, but I knew Wes. He was obsessed with safety, almost to the point of neuroticism, and the only reason he would’ve left his key in the door was if he wasn’t in a position to remove it.
I pressed my ear to the door, listening for any signs of trouble. A muffled yell echoed from inside, followed by a low growl.
“Damn dog!”
The voice was unfamiliar, and if Franklin, the most easygoing dog I’d ever met, was upset over the intruder, I knew it wasn’t someone friendly. Franklin had flawless judgement when it came to people.
Suddenly, a high-pitched yelp, one that was unmistakably uttered by a non-human, met my ears. The asshole inside, whoever he was, had done something to Franklin.
Fueled by hate and fury alone, I kicked open the door and grabbed the first weapon I could find, which happened to be the old softball bat that Wes and I kept near the kitchen for situations just like these. Across the living room, Franklin cowered beneath the coffee table, hiding from the stranger who kept attempting to drag Franklin out by the collar.
As I stormed across the room, raising the bat, the stranger turned around. I recognized him from O’Connor’s files. It was one of BRS’s freshmen, Robert Buchanan, dressed stealthily yet stylishly in a black leather bomber jacket and dark jeans, complete with a black beanie pulled low over his forehead.
“No one touches my dog, asshole.”
Before he could even raise a hand to defend himself, I swung the bat. It connected with the side of his head, and he dropped like a stone. I stood, panting, for a moment, staring down at Buchanan’s prone figure as my adrenaline rush faded. Franklin emerged from beneath the coffee table and snuffled my fingers. I knelt down next to Buchanan, tipped his head to the side, and pressed two fingers to his throat. There was a pulse, and his chest rose and fell evenly. Buchanan would have a nasty bruise and a hangover-worthy headache, but he’d be fine in a few days.
I glanced around the room. Lauren had either lied to me or underestimated her father. I was more inclined to believe the latter. Orson seemed like the type of man to have a backup plan, but if that were the case, it was likely that Buchanan hadn’t broken in to my apartment on his own. I knew from experience that BRS liked to outnumber their targets.
As if in answer to my silent question, the squeak of the bedroom window opening floated down the hall.
Franklin barked madly but stayed by my side. His encounter with Buchanan had subdued his guard-dog tendencies. I didn’t bother to shush him. I knew whoever was in the bedroom wasn’t Wes. He would’ve charged into the living room at top speed if he’d heard someone trying to hurt Franklin. With my softball bat at the ready, I crept toward the bedroom, terrified of what I might find. Either Wes wasn’t home or he lay incapacitated in another room of the apartment.
I nudged the bedroom door open with the bat and peeked inside. Though the place was a wreck, the intruder was nowhere to be seen. The sheets on the bed had been ripped off, the mattress overturned. Someone had ransacked the dresser, emptying the drawers into a heap on the floor. The closet had been searched similarly. Our clean clothes lay like litter throughout the room. Nothing had been left untouched, and the culprit had found what he was looking for.
The cardboard box—the one full of O’Connor’s research and the only remaining evidence I had of BRS’s crimes—had been tucked beneath the hanging coats at the very back of the closet. Now it was gone.
A cold breeze drifted through the room. The window behind Wes’s desk was still open. Whoever had been in the bedroom left in a hurry as soon as he’d gotten what he needed. I wandered over to the window and peered out, but there was no sign of suspicious behavior in the side yard. With a defeated sigh, I shut the window.
Without any evidence, there was no way I would be able to take down BRS. Lauren would have to fend for herself while Wes and I got out of dodge. There was only one problem with my escape plan. I had no idea where Wes was.
A piece of paper taped to Wes’s work computer caught my eyes. I ripped it from the monitor, holding it near the window so that the sunlight would illuminate its contents. It was a short note, scribbled with permanent marker in messy, nearly illegible handwriting.
Dearest Miss Costello,
We regret to inform you that, due to your misbehavior and inability to cooperate, we were forced to take drastic measures. You will find that you have been relieved of your research, and your record at Waverly University has been expunged. Furthermore, we have taken Weston McAllen into custody. Our previous offer to fund your exit from Waverly has been redacted. You have twelve hours to leave the area. If, at noon tomorrow, you are still in town, or you have made any attempt to contact the authorities, McAllen will die.
Our sincerest apologies,
BRS
I crumpled the
