Chapter 13 Rayne
Rayne
Sometimes when you finally discover something that you’ve been looking for, it feels like finding treasure.
Other times, you wish you could retrace your steps.
Go back in time.
Reverse everything that got you to this point, because finding out the truth is even worse than being kept in the dark.
My fingers hover over the mouse and keyboard as I sit at the library computer, the glow of the screen illuminating my face.
Notorious Thornwick Crime Family Busted in Latest London Crackdown.
The headline is simple.
But what I’m looking at—the picture underneath—is making me panic more than any of the shit that’s happened to me in the last few weeks.
In the photo, three of the well-known members of London’s biggest crime family, including Renn Thornwick and Maxwell Thornwick, are standing at the edge of a bar.
But behind them is a particular head of white-blond hair.
A very particular one.
Hunter Knox, sitting at the bar behind them, looking off somewhere out of frame.
It’s clear that Hunter had no idea they were taking the picture, and something tells me that if he had known, he never would have allowed himself to be photographed.
All afternoon, I’ve been on a hunt in the lower PC lab in the library.
Searching for dirt on Hunter didn’t seem like a good thing to do on my own laptop, so I came down to the dusty, dark lab two floors underground, a place where nobody seemed to go unless they desperately needed to print something out for a project.
I’d been alone in here for an hour before I came across this particular article.
Hunter wasn’t named anywhere in it, but one of the guys from the crime family, Renn, happened to be on Hunter’s friends list on an old social media account he started up when he first moved to England.
The afternoon had consisted of a lot of searches that turned up nothing.
But Renn Thornwick left one comment on Hunter’s profile, two years ago, that happened to catch my eye.
The comment only said one word.
“Tonight.”
But it also had an emoji of a black heart right after it.
So I searched for that guy’s name, and I found…
This.
Proof.
My first definitive proof that Hunter was involved with truly bad people during his time in London, and that there is plenty of reason to believe he still would have ties to them now.
Why should I trust him at all, if he has secrets like this?
A bitter, acidic feeling sinks in my stomach.
Even back in high school, I always thought there might be more to Hunter than the image he projected to the world.
Or…
I wanted to believe there was more.
In his chaos, there was so much brightness, too.
He made beautiful art.
Paintings and sketches that showed talent that most high school kids couldn’t dream of.
And Hunter always had one thing I didn’t.
He was comfortable being alone.
He just wanted to be unbothered, when it came to anything other than a fight.
He hated people, other than Lune.
And after Lune died, Hunter’s only real friend seemed to be their family cat, an all-white fluffball with blue eyes named Pearl.
Could a true psychopath be capable of caring so deeply about things, when he wants to?
There has to be something more.
There must be.
I need to figure out the rest of the truth, sooner rather than later.
Another anvil lands on my chest as I look at my phone.
I have a message from Hunter.
Yet another terrible decision, letting you get my goddamn number. Now I have a literal fucking criminal texting me.
Guess what?
Yes?
You know that sedative that was used on you in the dart? The campus hospital doesn’t have any of it available.
I shift on the desk chair.
The sound creaks out into the empty basement.
Hunter is still on his own little mission to find out what happened to me that night.
Other than Wes, everybody else seems to have forgotten about it.
So what? The person must have gotten it from a different local hospital or pharmacy.
That’s the thing. There’s been a shortage of that particular sedative for over a year, and it only lasts for 6 months, stored properly. Whoever was using it must have their own means of access.
How do you even know what type of drug it was?
Easy. Went to the campus hospital, told them my back hurt, then while I was in the room alone, the nurse left the computer open. I searched your name, found the toxicology report.
Damn.
I also got into the student darkrooms in the photography studio. No one in there uses the brand of photo paper that was on your stalker’s pictures.
Great. So whoever took those photos was working independently.
Probably in their own personal darkroom. From looking at the class roster, no one in Onyx, Luros or Daggers even takes photo classes, either.
Great. So we have no leads, and no hope.
Chill. I’m going to figure this shit out. Whoever’s fucking with you will be punished.
Punished, huh? You going to spank them and call them a bad little attacker?
Not funny. Meet me after your football practice. We have a lot to talk about.
We do have a lot to talk about.
But what he doesn’t know is that the topic of conversation tonight is going to revolve around him, not me.
Honesty used to feel like it meant something, in Onyx Society, and I’m not letting Hunter rip all of that apart.
We’re supposed to tell each other our darkest secrets.
We’re supposed to know each other better than anyone does.
Confronting Hunter Knox may be a bad idea, but it’s exactly what I’m going to do.
The moment I’m on the football field again, I’m like a well-oiled machine.
My thighs and calves burn.
I’ve missed this.
As I run the football to the endzone, I remember what I’m actually good at.
Today is only practice, but I’ve been pushing myself to the limit, and I’m being rewarded for it.
“Play like that this weekend, and we’ll put fear into Tennyson for the whole season,” Coach Madrigal says as Weston and I jog over to the sideline.
Weston looks happier than I’ve seen him in weeks. “We’ve got their asses already,” he tells Coach.
“Still need to have respect for them, Knox.”
“Coach is right. We do,” I tell Weston. “I’ve seen you get too cocky on the field and fumble passes.”
Coach Madrigal is still smiling, though. “You two are playing better than ever. I’m proud of you. But don’t let that get to your head, either.”
He fist bumps both of us and heads over to talk to a couple of our new players this year.
“God fucking damn, that felt good,” Weston says, clapping me on the back as we enter the locker room after practice. “Ready to crush some Tennyson skulls in?”
“They’re still good players. Stay humble.”
“Oh, give me a break. I respect all of the guys. Still want to win every single game we play this year.”
We shower off, toss on some clothes, and I walk out onto campus with Weston.
“This is it, Rayne,” Weston says as our shoes crunch on leaves scattered on the walkway. “Shit started out crazy this year, but we’re going to change that.”
“I agree. We need a good week.”
“Want to watch a movie in the main room tonight? Just us? If the other guys come in we’ll tell them we need our private time.”
I laugh and give him a shove. “For a straight guy, you’re more loyal than my own ex-boyfriend was.”
“How is shit with Mikael, by the way? Heard from his punk ass lately?”
“No,” I say, staring up at the trees. “I hope I never have to talk to him again.”
And I sure as fuck hope he doesn’t talk to you, after seeing my tongue in your brother’s mouth.
Luckily Mikael doesn’t ever talk to Wes, and neither does Tara.
My footsteps crunch over a few leaves on the sidewalk.
The leaves are just starting to change for the season. Green maple leaves are starting to become tinged with yellow and gold at the edges.
I can feel fall coming in the air, too.
It even smells different, at this time of the year.
Maybe it’s the smell of the leaves themselves, or maybe there’s just somebody grilling far off. But autumn always has its own scent.
“Hey. Uh, Rayne?” Wes says.
“What’s up?”
When I look over at Weston, I can tell he’s waiting to talk.
He looks hesitant, for some reason.
“I knew Mikael was wrong for you,” Weston finally says. “I should have warned you at the time. But I didn’t want you to…”
I lift my eyebrow as he trails off. “Want me to what?”
He sighs. “Didn’t want you to think I was butting in on your first real relationship.”
My heart aches a little, hearing him say it. “Wes.”
“What?”
“You’re too nice to me.”
He pauses again for a while, then shakes his head. “I just want what’s best for you. I always have. Since you were twelve years old and wearing those fucking shoes with holes in them.”
I remember it well.
Weston noticed, even when he was a kid, that I hadn’t gotten new shoes in way too long. My feet were still growing at the time, and one day, Wes showed up to school with a pristine shoebox with new ones inside.
A gift for me, for no reason.
Other than the fact that even as a twelve-year-old, Weston had access to more money than most adults ever do.
My heart goes heavy in my chest, thinking about what I found out in the computer lab earlier.
Honesty before everything.
Weston should know.
I want to say something about what I discovered.
I want to tell him that Hunter had ties to a fucking mafia family in London, because I usually tell Weston everything.
But every time I think I’m about to say it, I stop myself.
I don’t know why.
“Air’s starting to get chilly,” I say to him.
I’m next to my best friend in the world and now all I can talk about is the weather.
“I like it cold.”
I hum. “I don’t mind it, either.”
“Yeah. I know. I’ve watched you pelt people with snowballs enough to know you’re a pretty big fan of the colder season.”
I snort.
For a while, we lapse back into an unusual silence. Usually Weston and I never shut up when we’re together. The sound of the quad fills the space, and I listen to the snippets of conversation from other students walking by. A bird’s caw-caw, in some tree up above.