Chapter 1
CHAPTER
ONE
NOLA
Every time they open their mouths, spilling those not-so-hushed whispers and nerve-grating snickers, it takes every ounce of my willpower to refrain from taking the pencil I’m twirling around my fingers and stabbing it into their necks.
I bet they wouldn’t be amused if they were gasping for air and gargling on their own blood as they slowly drowned, bleeding out right here in the middle of English class.
I mean, I would. I’d enjoy every second of it with a smile firmly planted on my lips. I wouldn’t think twice about ending their lives. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it either.
Unfortunately, I can’t give in to my intrusive thoughts. You know, with murder being illegal and all that.
Shame, I know.
Plus, if I did follow through with every little thought that popped into my head, then I’d be leaving a long trail of bodies behind me.
It’s not that I couldn’t do it—I’ve actually thought a lot about ending a life—it’s the evidence left behind that I have to really worry about.
Of course, there’s submerging the body in acid or throwing it in a pig pen, but I don’t have access to those things.
I do, however, have access to an incinerator.
The world I grew up in isn’t as morally sound as the outside world would like to believe. I can name at least three people in this room who have taken a life, or at least knows of someone who has and had gotten away with it.
“Nola!” The loud, harsh tone used to call my name makes me shudder and snaps me out of my inner thoughts. It’s how I spend a lot of my time; it sure as hell beats the real world.
The sounds of snickering around me rise, and the grip on my pencil tightens. I inhale a deep breath, hating the spotlight Mr. Robinson placed on me by singling me out.
I’d much rather blend into the background, but that’s not easy to do when the asshole insists I sit front and center. Fucking prick.
“Yes?” I ask, not sure if he’s saying my name to get my attention or if he’s asked me a question. Either way, I’d rather he just leave me alone.
“Is my class not enriching enough for you?” he questions, perched on the edge of his desk. His bare forearms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, displaying each toned muscle.
I swear I can hear the girls around me audibly melt, sighing heavily and swooning as if he’s God's gift to women. My left eye nearly starts twitching as I suppress the eye roll I so desperately want to give.
To most, Roland Robinson is considered an attractive man. He’s in his early thirties, blessed with wavy blond hair that girls want to run their fingers through, blue eyes that one might drown in, and a smile that some have nearly fainted over.
I’m not even exaggerating about that; I saw it happen with my own eyes. Pathetic, if you ask me.
To me, he’s just a man. Actually, no, not a man. A pathetic excuse of a human, a meat sack who fits perfectly in this vile, fucked up world that I was born into.
I lick my lips, contemplating my response.
If I say what I really want to, there’s a good chance I’ll be suspended, and that's not really something I want with exams next week. If I have to repeat this year, I’ll quite literally kill someone.
Fingers crossed it will be one of these bitches behind me.
“That depends on whether you believe that Shakespeare is enriching,” I start, my voice soft.
“Don’t get me wrong, he’s one of the greats.
But it's overdone. As in, we’ve covered this every single year of high school.
Why not explore other literary masterpieces and try something different? Edgar Allan Poe, perhaps?” I suggest.
My gaze never leaves my pencil as I continue to twirl it between my fingers.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking him in the eye, but that doesn’t mean I’m not tracking his every move.
I watch him in my peripheral vision, the way his jaw grinds and eyes narrow.
He doesn’t like that I’m not intimidated by him.
He thought I would be unnerved after he threatened to ruin my life if I told anyone that he tried to fuck me.
A few weeks ago, all I wanted was to ask him a question about an assignment after class, and he used it as an excuse to make a pass at me. He’s used to all the girls in this class—hell, probably even this school—offering to sleep with him.
And while I’ve never seen it for myself, thank fuck, I can almost guarantee that many of them have succeeded.
His fragile ego couldn’t handle my rejection, and he didn’t like that I wasn’t bowing down at his feet.
When he reached out to touch me and leaned in to kiss me, he sure as hell didn’t expect to meet the switchblade that I carry in my pocket.
It slid so damn smoothly into his inner thigh, like fucking butter.
If I had caught him just a few inches higher and to the left, the knife would have sliced into his dick. I would have loved to see the look on his face if I had managed to cut it off.
He spat some very colorful pet names at me like crazy bitch, psychopath, dumb cunt, all that fun stuff.
Thankfully, with me hitting a major artery, he didn’t have much time to argue, considering he needed to get medical help before he bled out and died.
Shame. I would have loved to see the light fade from his eyes.
If he keeps pushing me, it might happen sooner than we think.
There’s only so much I can handle before I decide to say ‘fuck it’ and give in to my intrusive thoughts.
My dad owns a morgue, and I’ve thought about using the crematorium to destroy evidence, but quickly crossed that off the possibility list. I wouldn’t be able to handle his disappointment if he ever found out.
He’s a powerful man, and I don’t want to be the reason his reputation is tarnished.
Mr. Robinson can’t stand me because I got away with stabbing him. Sure, he could have ratted me out to the cops, but all I’d have to do is tell my daddy about his disgusting, wandering hands, and Mr. Robinson would have been dealt with in a far worse manner.
I, myself, might not be close with the most powerful families here in New Orleans, but my father is a vital tool in their business endeavors. As the sole owner of every morgue in the city, he plays a very important part in our society. Therefore, by default, I’m untouchable.
What can I say? I’m a daddy's girl, and my father takes my health and safety very seriously.
That, however, is partly why I’ve had a target on my back since the moment I began elementary school.
I stand out, but not in the obvious way. Nothing about my appearance is much different than the girls around me. I’m what most would consider conventionally attractive with long, white-blonde hair, blueish-green eyes, and a petite stature.
The girls I’ve grown up with are all as tall as supermodels, while I’m pixie-size, standing at around five-two.
Crest Wood Academy is filled with little nepo babies, all from highly powerful families. Families that are not only the foundation of this country, but are persuasive in other parts of the world as well.
Only the most influential, elite families enroll their children in the academy to set them up for a future in the family business.
Then they will spend the next four years at Oakridge University, where the men will learn to become just as corrupt as their fathers so that they can take over, and the women bide their time while Mommy and Daddy negotiate who they will spend the rest of their lives with. A business deal of a marriage.
It’s a joke. All of it. This school, these people? All they know is money and power. They would sell their soul for the right price, that much I know.
I fucking hate them all. They know it, and the feeling is mutual. They can’t stand me either.
The fact that I don’t care about vanity is what makes me stand out.
I don’t care about how much money my father makes, and I don't care about making connections with the ‘right’ families. I couldn’t care less about playing nice with assholes just to gain money or power, which makes me a freak in their eyes.
Add in the fact that my dad is a mortician, and I’ve pretty much been labeled the blonde Wednesday Addams. And they say it like it’s an insult. I admire that girl. I aspire to be just like her. My weirdness and my dad’s protection make us a creepy pair that most try to avoid.
“Edgar Allan Poe?” one of the girls I’ve envisioned stabbing in the throat scoffs. “Of course, you would rather discuss him.”
I know better than to play into her bullshit, but I still turn around in my seat and ask the question.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
She curves her bright pink lips into a nasty smirk. “Because he was a freak. An emo madman. Didn’t he die by going insane and talked to birds or some shit? Like a crow, or a pigeon, or something?”
I stare at her, blinking slowly. “I think it would be best if you just don’t speak.
Your silence is the only asset you have left,” I say, giving her the tiniest of smirks.
The satisfaction of watching her face turn as red as a tomato with anger filters into my heart, giving me a warm, fuzzy feeling.
“First, it was a raven. Secondly, it’s gothic, not emo.
Neither of which I am. And thirdly, his death is enveloped in many conspiracies.
Which is something you’d know if we studied him in class.
” I turn in my seat again, directing the last sentence to Mr. Robinson.
“Maybe an idea for next year.” Not that it would matter.
I’m graduating in a few weeks and will be free of this place.
Unfortunately, I’ll be attending the same university as most of the people in this room.
Thankfully, the campus is big enough for me to avoid them all like the fucking plague.
“I will not be taking that into consideration, thank you. Now, how about you focus on the class and stop daydreaming, Miss Edwards?” Mr. Robinson tuts.