1. Cin
Cin
“Miss Morgan,” Griffin’s deep rumble jolts me from my sleep. A metallic taste coats my tongue and I nearly gag. I’ve had the same dream more times than I can count. It’s always similar, a feeling of peace and reassurance before being murdered by a man I don’t know.
The only thing that’s ever different is my age. Sometimes I would be young, little, sometimes I was old, gray. But recently, I have been just the same as I am now.
Eighteen going on nineteen.
I glance up at the foreboding building. Ravard Prep is an old school, if the chipped and battered limestone of the front gate is any indication. Honeysuckle crawls across most of the whitewashed walls, pruned perfectly before the wrought iron gates.
The gates aren’t thrown open like I thought they would be. Locked tight, they stand obnoxiously tall and imposing, like sentries guarding their treasure. I have my doubts that the kids here are that special.
Especially since meeting my new step brother, and student council president, Zach. Our interaction was small, really it was more of a verbal lashing on his side than anything.
“You so much as breathe a word about my father’s business failing and I will make sure you’re the social pariah of the century.”
He would have been what I would describe as handsome, had his first words to me not been a threat. His gleaming white teeth barred, making his black skin pull tight around his face.
“I don’t give a shit about your dad’s lack of money,” I told him, getting chest to chest as much as I could since he was a few inches taller than me, even in my boots, “and I’d be careful where you throw your threats. One day they might come back to bite you in the ass.”
I walked away from him, into my new room that I would not be spending much time in, since I would now be attending Ravard Prep.
“Miss Morgan,” Griffin, my surrogate dad, and bodyguard starts, “it’s time.”
He nods and exits the white SUV my mother bought a few days ago. She bought it for me, but Malcolm, my step father, had insisted Griffin drive and drop me off. I couldn’t have a car for the first week anyway.
The administration has to sign off on my eligibility for a vehicle. Which really tells me everything I need to know about the place. The gates don’t groan as I step out. Perfectly oiled hinges, silent as I meet Griffin at the back of the car.
“What? No welcome party?” I mumble to him and he cracks a smile.
“There’s absolutely no partying here, Miss Morgan,” a seasoned male voice says, making me jump and spin around. He’s dressed in a suit, tailored perfectly to his lean body, the scowl on his face making him look older than his biography said, unless it hasn’t been updated.
Which I doubt was the case. Everything here feels purposefully updated. Down to the pebbles beneath my feet that crunch under my Docs as I walk toward him.
“Mr. Finnighan, I presume?” I stretch out my hand, I’m not a total asshole, and my Mama raised me to be respectful, no matter how stiff someone is.
“Correct,” he says, tone even and unimpressed. He turns on his heel and walks toward the building that stretches across the front drive, “follow me.”
I look back to Griffin, incredulous. He nods his head, picks up my bags and walks in time with me. The building is two stories, held up by columns that match the front gate. Double wooden doors stand front and center. Mr. Finnighan knocks twice, his knuckles tapping the wood in short motions.
Odd.
Why would the door be locked? Surely the principal has a key.
“Your schedule and keys will be picked up in my office,” he glances back my way as if he expects me not to be paying attention, “you can arrange with Mrs. Davis to drop Miss Morgan’s things in her room.”
Griffin nods, catching my eye. I know Griffin well, he’s been in my life as long as I can remember, basically the father I’ve never had. But I can’t decipher his expression. The way his head tilts in my direction, or the way his eyes linger on mine longer than necessary, holding a touch of sadness in them.
He nods in one motion and leaves in search of Mrs. Davis, I’d presume. Leaving me alone with Mr. Finnighan.
The man whose eyes are currently scorching my body. They travel from my ripped black sweater, over my leather pleated skirt, down my dark green tights, all the way to my boots, which are scuffed with wear and tear.
“We have a dress code here, Miss Morgan,” he damn near sneers, “follow it, or risk swift punishment.”
“I’m not attending classes today, Mr. Finnighan,” I lash back at him. He isn’t going to leer at me, then chastise me for it. “It states in the guidelines that if a student is not attending class they have the freedom to choose their clothing, without restrictions.”
One of his eyebrows rises up as he replies, “very well Miss Morgan. You’ve read the expectations of our hallowed halls. I suggest you memorize them before the term begins.”
With that he stalks off, crooking a finger for me to follow. I do, boots stomping heavily on the freshly waxed floors. The wooden planks are a deep walnut, old enough that I’m guessing they were built with the mansion they converted into their office building.
His office is the last double set of doors in the hall, past who I assume to be Mrs. Davis. She’s hunched over, typing away on a keyboard, her long gray hair pin straight and flowing down her back.
She doesn’t bother looking up as we pass, too busy to acknowledge the new girl. Good. The less people I have to pretend to like, the better.
He pauses before the doors, pulling a set of ancient looking keys from his pocket and sliding one into the lock. It tumbles and clicks while he twists the fancy black knob and opens one door.
“Please, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to a brown leather couch set opposite of his desk. Just the look of it gives me a feeling of wrongness .
“I’ll stand,” I reply, toeing the carpet under his desk, “Griffin will be waiting for me to unpack my things.”
Reminding someone you don’t trust them while in their space–especially when they think they have something over you–is always a good idea. If someone was missing me, I would be looked for.
Mr. Finnighan doesn't seem like a man who wants to be looked into.
“As you wish,” he takes a seat in the plush leather chair behind his desk, and uses the same set of keys to unlock two drawers. One with different sets of labeled keys, and the other with files of papers in it.
“Here is your welcome packet, along with your set of dormitory keys,” he slides them across the dark lacquered desk, but keeps his hand over them, “these will get you into the buildings around campus, each is labeled with a color. Your dorm has its own key, unlabeled.”
“Okay,” I say, unsure why all the buildings require keys.
“Replacement keys are not given to first years. So I suggest you keep them close, at all times.”
“I’m a senior, in the spring semester. I’d hardly call that a first year.”
“Yes, but you have never attended Ravard before. As such, you will have… modified rules,” he lifts his hand to show off a key ring with five keys, “if you lose your keys in the first two weeks of school, no replicas will be provided. If your school work is satisfactory you will have vehicle privileges within a week.”
I swipe the keys and purple welcome packet from his desk and turn to leave when he speaks again.
“You have eighteen weeks until graduation,” he prattles on, “do not make me regret approving your tuition.”
With those ominous words I leave his office, spine straight and unruffled. He isn’t going to scare me into leaving. I have every right to be here just as much as any of his other students.
Even though Malcolm signs the check, the money he’s using is my mothers. And when she finishes this job and I graduate, we’ll both be free.