Deadly First Day, page 6
part #1 of Embassy Academy Series
I look away, pulling at my shirt collar. My eyes snag on the slideshow on Charlotte’s laptop screen. An image of her, Na, and Callahan on a couch in what looks like the senator’s living room flashes by before I can get a good look at it. Wait, was Na wearing vampire fangs? I’d love to ask my stepsister about it, but I don’t dare in front of our audience.
“You’re back,” Charlotte says, brushing the greasy crumbs off her hands and standing. “Come sit with us. We’re going down to the eatery in a bit.” She doesn’t notice the collective wince that comes from the circle of girls on her fluffy faux fur carpet, but I do.
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“Loser. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.”
The whispering starts again as soon as I’m out of sight.
Mikhail is there, standing against the wall, but he pushes off as soon as he sees me. “Are you going somewhere? Allow me to escort you.”
I wave him off. “I’m just going to my room. You’re fine.”
He settles between our rooms as I use my key card to unlock my door. Ducking inside, I swing it closed and lean against the solid wood. This is not what I had in mind when I agreed to come to Embassy Academy. Leaving my friends and my school sucked, yeah, but I figured I’d make new friends, and maybe even bolster my transcripts, like my mom promised. I had no idea I’d be embroiled in a murder investigation after only one day of classes. Not even that. Half a day, almost.
Voices rise and fall outside my room as students pass on the way to the eatery for dinner.
My stomach growls, but I can’t bring myself to open the door and submit myself to more public inspection.
The hallway goes silent, and I have never felt so isolated, so alone.
It’s after 11 o’clock and a hush has fallen over the dormitory, but the inside of my head won’t quiet. Instead, I replay today over and over, the shock and embarrassment building inside of me until I might burst if I don’t find a way to siphon it off.
Charlotte came by to ask me to come to dinner with her and her friends hours ago, but I couldn’t make myself answer the door. I’ve had enough attention for one day. Instead, I lie on my bed with my feet up on the bare wall, staring at the swirls in the paint on the ceiling. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and my feast of pastries has long since worn off. Charlotte told me there’s a small kitchen up on the fifth floor that we’re allowed to use at any time, but that would mean navigating the halls at night, and going up to the boys’ floor.
I take several deep breaths and close my eyes, but immediately, images of Na’s body float to the surface, stained red in my memory. I squeeze tighter, but they don’t go away. I’ll never be able to sleep if I see the girl’s motionless body, her lifeblood draining from her, every time I close my eyes.
Pushing to sit up, I cast around my room for something to do. My gaze stops on the cardboard box in the corner, my rolling pin sticking out the top. One of the many reasons I didn’t want to move to D.C. and attend the academy was my job at the bakery back home in Wood View. I’d been working there for almost two years, and my boss had just started letting me actually bake the pies, rather than only decorating them. I craved the feeling of soft, pliable dough underneath my hands. Unlike the chaos of everything else in my life, baking always gave me a sense of control, however illusory.
My resolve solidifies. If I’m going to be awake most of the night, I might as well make something to eat. I slide off my bed and tiptoe over to the box, taking out the tools I’ll need for what I have in mind. Maybe I can get Mikhail to take me to the grocery store for some supplies tomorrow, but for now I’ll have to scrounge.
Nervous energy ripples through me as I unlock my door and peek out. The hallway is well lit by the wall sconces, and there’s no one in sight. Now’s my chance.
Ms. Poppin’s door is closed, and no light filters from underneath. I pause, tempted to knock softly to ask permission to use the kitchen downstairs, but stop myself. She’d probably say no, anyway.
There’s a single security guard stationed inside the front door. It’s going to be tricky getting past him to the eatery kitchen.
On an upper floor, a door slams once, then again.
The noise gets the guard’s attention, and he slowly ascends the stairs.
Terror and curiosity mingle in my mind. I’m tempted to lean out over the railing to try to see what is happening up there, but I’d be spotted by the guard immediately. I shudder to think what Headmistress Morgan would do to me if she found out I was sneaking downstairs after hours, on today of all days. Besides, it’s prohibited, as I found out when I read the student handbook.
Above, another door slams, and there’s a faint chuckle of laughter. The guard increases his speed, jogging upward out of sight.
With the coast clear, I lean out over the railing to look up, but I can’t see anyone. It’s the opportunity I need. I scurry down the stairs, hugging my baking supplies to my chest. I hit the rug that spans the foyer and turn down the hallway.
But when I reach the kitchen, the door is locked. The knob won’t budge. I lean my forehead against it in frustration, and it swings open.
Whoever locked it didn’t make sure the door was actually latched.
Yes!
Even in the dark, the kitchen is impressive. White subway tiles wrap the walls from floor to ceiling. Every inch of the space has been scrubbed clean. I’ll have to be careful not to make a mess while I’m here.
I walk to the long center island, a stainless steel expanse that runs the span of the room. Setting my things down next to one of the industrial-sized stoves, I fumble until I find a light switch. Bright white lights illuminate the stove I’ve chosen, leaving the rest of the kitchen in shadow. Perfect.
Now all I have to do is gather my ingredients.
Keeping one palm on the cool countertop to ground myself, I scan the room, looking for the pantry. Ah! There it is.
I round the center island to the walk-in pantry. Inside, dry goods are shelved in clear, labeled bins. On the right side are commercial refrigerators with glass doors that reveal the stores within.
Guilt niggles at me as I open the first refrigerator. Technically, I’m stealing from the school. I freeze with my hand outstretched, my conscience at war with my stomach. The rumbling in my abdomen wins out. I can replace the ingredients tomorrow. And anyway, I’ll be using so little that they probably won’t even notice. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I pull out the items I need. First, a hefty peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Then, I bake.
I’m at the stove, stirring a creamy liquid in my saucepan when footsteps fall out in the hallway. Someone is coming.
Crap!
My head spins as I scan frantically for somewhere to hide.
The footsteps draw closer as my eyes land on the pantry.
It’s too far away, and I’d have to run past the door to reach it.
In the hall, the person stops, as if listening for something.
My heart is railing against my ribcage. It’s the guard, and he’s going to catch me in here, and it will be the second time in less than twelve hours that I was found somewhere I’m not supposed to be. In addition, I stole some food from the school kitchen. They’ll expel me for stealing.
I tilt my head. That might not be too terrible. Maybe I could go back to my old school and finish high school with my friends, like everything is normal.
Who am I kidding? There’s no way my mom is letting me move back to Wood View with nowhere to stay where responsible adults can keep an eye on me. Oh man, I am so dead.
The kitchen door creaks as someone takes hold of the handle and swings it inward in an agonizingly slow motion.
There’s nothing for it. I can’t be caught standing here.
I flick off the light over the stove, distinguish the gas burner, and duck behind the center island, hoping the guard won’t do more than a cursory glance into the room. My eyes rise to the saucepan and the liquid measuring cups sitting on the counter. Will he notice those are out of place?
I scrunch my eyes shut and listen, waiting for the inevitable.
Someone steps into the room.
My chest throbs as I hold my breath. If I’m not breathing, they can’t hear me.
A creak on the other side of the island makes me sink down further toward the ground and bow my head to cover my face with my hair. I’m wishing I had changed into darker clothes, rather than my pale yellow pajamas covered in syrupy waffles.
“Why am I not surprised to find you here, chouchou?”
My head whips back, slamming against the steel shelf behind me and making my head pound. “Ouch,” I hiss, rubbing at my scalp. “Ricardo, what are you doing here?”
He rounds the island and crouches down beside me, studying my face, his eyes glittering in the dark. “Are you okay? That sounded like it hurt.”
“I’m fine.” I push off the ground and flick on the light over the stove, eyes darting toward the door. “What are you doing here? Did the guard see you?”
He crosses his arms, completely at ease in his gray t-shirt and blue and black flannel pants. “This is not my first time sneaking around the academy in the dark.” A flirty smile plays on his lips as his eyes find mine.
My cheeks betray me. Even in the low light I’m sure he can see their rosy pink tinge.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Question?”
“What you’re doing here?”
Ricardo blinks slowly, and an expression I might mistake for concern crosses his features. “I wanted to check on you. I heard what happened this morning.”
“I think so. I really don’t want to talk about it. Actually, I do have a question. Were Charlotte and Na friends? And what about Callahan?” I try to recall the photo I saw on her laptop, but it vanished so quickly that it’s hard to recall. Was Callahan’s arm over Na’s shoulder, or am I misremembering it?
Ricardo’s mouth tightens. “It is not for me to say. You’ll have to ask your stepsister.”
Well, that’s an ominous response. “Okay…”
His brow relaxes and he steps up beside me. “What are we making this late at night?” He peers down into the saucepan, and then at the silicon molds sitting prepped and ready on the counter. “Are you making blancmange? For me?” He cocks an eyebrow in smug satisfaction. “You’re halfway in love with me already, aren’t you?”
I shake my head violently, embarrassment churning in my belly. “I’m not making this for you. I mean, yes I’m making blancmange, but not because you said… I’ve never tried it, okay? And I was curious.” Flustered, I turn the burner back on, hoping the minutes without heat haven’t ruined the dessert.
Grinning, he leans against the counter.
“Are you going to stare at me the whole time?”
“Why, would you rather I do something else?” His eyes fall to my lips before sliding back up to meet my gaze.
“No! Do something useful. Be the lookout or something.”
He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
“Shh. You’re going to get us caught!”
“Don’t worry, chouchou. I’m sure the security guard is still combing the upstairs looking for the vagabond who’s responsible for slamming all those doors.”
My eyes widen in surprise. “That was you?”
“Of course. I saw you standing on the balcony outside your room, looking as if there was somewhere you wanted to go, but with that pesky guard at the door…” He tuts.
“You did that for me?”
“I did.” Somehow, we’ve moved away from the scolding I gave him when he arrived, to something closer to friendly banter.
I cock my eyebrow in disbelief. “Why?”
He shrugs casually. “I wanted to see where you would go, and to make sure you were okay, after this morning.” His tone is light, but underneath there’s a current of honesty. It’s the most candid thing he’s said to me since we met, the earnest look in his eyes catching me off guard.
My lips part in a gentle smile, and I relax into the stirring motions I’m making with one hand. “Want to check the pantry for some candied fruit, for garnish?”
“If you wish it.” He gives an exaggerated, mock bow and goes over to the pantry. After a few moments of near silence, but for the pop of a storage container being opened, he comes back, holding out a handful of candied orange peels on a paper plate. The gentle smell of sugared citrus makes my mouth water. “Will these do?”
“Perfectly.”
He sets the plate down on the countertop, and then leans on an elbow, facing me. “Now I have a question for you, if I may. Blancmange takes time to set in the refrigerator, correct?”
I nod in assent.
“So what were you going to do with it once you poured it into the molds?”
“Hide them in the back of the refrigerator and hope no one noticed them?”
He chuckles at this, a pleasant rumble in his throat. “That won’t do at all. May I volunteer the mini fridge in my room?”
“Will you promise not to eat them all before I have a chance to try one?” I smooth down my apron, pleased that I came up with something to say right away. Apparently Ricardo loosens my tongue, although I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
He puts a hand over his heart, affecting a solemn expression. “I promise nothing.”
Laughing, I point a finger at him. “I swear, Ricardo, if I don’t get to at least taste one of these I’m never making anything for you ever again.”
He leans closer to whisper in my ear, a mischievous look on his face. “Then I will endeavor to save some for you, because I would dearly enjoy watching you cook again another time. And please, call me Ricky.”
9
Headmistress Morgan has herded all of the students and faculty into the auditorium for an assembly, after which we’re all to go back to class. The word in the halls is that the headmistress considered cancelling classes for a couple of days, but got pushback from some of the parents, who insisted the school adhere to its rigorous academic program despite the death that occurred. Priorities.
Apparently those parents have not considered the fact that someone on this campus killed a girl.
When I ask Charlotte about it, she’s brusque. “They’ll find the asshole who did it and put him away. In the meantime, Mikhail is following us everywhere, so don’t worry about it.”
“Do you think it was a student?” Dali asks.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte says with a shrug. “Whoever it was must have been pretty motivated to stab her in the neck.”
Dali’s eyes go wide, and a hand rises to clutch her own throat.
Charlotte gives her a cold glare, and gestures her chin toward where Callahan is sitting down the row.
Our eyes swivel to my stepbrother, who’s been in a dark mood all morning. His face is downcast as he clutches his paper coffee cup.
I wonder what Charlotte means by that, but when I recall the interaction he had with Na in the hallway yesterday morning, after what I’m mentally calling the “coffee incident,” and combined with the photo on Charlotte’s laptop, it seems like there might have been something between them. Or, at least, he had a massive crush on her.
If Callahan had feelings for Na, I can’t fault his low mood.
Around us, the auditorium is full of murmurings and speculation. The student body’s penchant for gossip is running rampant in the wake of Na’s death.
My mind circles back to Charlotte and Na. They were clearly ill at ease with each other, but why?
“Hey, Charlotte?” I whisper.
She swings around to look at me.
“How well did you know her? Were you friends?”
Charlotte tenses. Her mouth opens on an intake of breath.
“Attention, everyone.”
My eyes shoot to the podium at the front of the room, where Headmistress Morgan is standing, flanked by the school’s faculty—Professor Rook, Ms. Martin, and others I haven’t yet met. She waits for absolute quiet before continuing.
“I’m sure, by now, you’ve all heard about the tragic incident that occurred yesterday. I have already assured many of your parents that we are cooperating fully with the local authorities in the hope of finding Miss Li’s killer and bringing him or her to justice. In the meantime, we have heightened security at all points of ingress and egress, and will be instituting a school-wide curfew. Exemptions will only be made by direct application of a parent to myself. In addition, we have been asked by the police to warn you not to post about the events of yesterday on social media. I know I don’t have to remind you of the consequences of unfiltered speculation, especially if it reaches the press.”
Charlotte nods in agreement.
Headmistress Morgan’s eyes scan our faces. “Let me assure you that I take the wellbeing of each of my students seriously. Each and every one of you is safe within the walls of our school. Lastly, I’d like to ask that anyone who had a close relationship with Miss Li visit me in my office. If anyone needs to speak with a counselor about this incident, one will be available in administration for the next two weeks. You’re dismissed.”
We leave the auditorium, rippling out into the hallway in a swelling tide that crests and dissipates as we break off into smaller groups, heading toward our first period classes.
Callahan shuffles, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his scarlet jacket.
Eyes prick at the back of my neck, and I glance over my shoulder. Instead of looking at me, the small clump of girls behind me is looking at Callahan. Was his crush incredibly obvious to everyone? Is that why he’s on the receiving end of their pity?
I’m about to ask Charlotte when she stops in the hall to give Callahan a pat on the back and a, “See you later, all right?”
His head bobs halfheartedly.
Her eyes slide to mine, and she mouths, “Keep an eye on him, will you?” At my nod, she moves off in the crush of bodies.
Callahan trudges into class with Dali and me on his heels.
We sit at the same table as yesterday, unlocking our devices and opening our notes.
