Chapter Two
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I peeled my eyes open, squinting in disbelief at my phone. What the hell? Was someone... calling me?
Picking it up, Paris flashed on my screen.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Rainey. Hope you don’t mind I put my number in your phone.”
“When?” I cried. “It was in my purse all night.”
“Not all night.” She laughed. “Sorry, I’m a pretty handy pickpocket. I don’t spread it around for obvious reasons.”
“Who are you?”
“The girl who’ll pick you up and drive you to school as soon as she gets your address. There weren’t any car keys in your purse, and busing it from your farm to school must be killer.”
Busing it to and from the farm would be killer, if I still lived there.
The thought panged my heart.
“You’re sweet,” I said, pushing myself up. “I actually booked in a motel while I’m getting a handle on things. It’s a ten-minute walk, so I’m good.”
“Then let’s meet in the student union. They’ve got this yummy bagel place. My treat.”
I hummed. “Why are you being so nice to me? Do you feel bad for taking off last night?”
Silence descended on the other end. “Yes, I do. I know Cairo didn’t let you leave. I tried to get back in and help you, I swear. The guys blocked the door and wouldn’t let me in. He didn’t... do anything to you, did he?”
I knew that tone in her voice. Hesitation. Shame. Paris loved him. Wanted to see the best in him, even when the truth stared her in the face.
“If he did, I’ll kill—”
“He didn’t,” I cut in. “Cairo was a perfect gentleman. Honestly, we talked and he helped me come to a decision over something I was struggling with.”
“Really? That’s great.” A gush of breath crackled over the line. “I feel fractionally less of an asshole now, though I’m still a jerk for taking off. Bagels?”
“Had me at your treat.”
I hung up and got dressed, lingering in front of the closet while I tugged up my jeans.
Day and night, I’ve worked to solve the riddle. At the start, once I realized this wasn’t a horrible joke, I hoped I could solve it quickly, find the bastard, and follow him till I had proof he was a crazed maniac. Proof that no one, not even Sheriff Sharpe, could deny.
Weeks passed with me stuck on where to find kookaburras. They weren’t native to our area. Bedlam had a private wildlife sanctuary, but they didn’t house any kookaburras, and I called three times and visited to check.
The nearest pair was fifty miles away in Hunter’s Crest—a town three times the size of ours and boasting a zoo. I took the bus out there and grilled one of the keepers. He backed up everything I read online. Kookaburras are known for laughing, and they do not cry or dream. What this was supposed to tell me about the man, or woman, who ordered their execution, I had no idea. For a long time, I was stuck. Then I received the orientation packet for Bedlam University.
I closed the closet doors, grabbing my backpack on the way out.
One interesting fact I discovered about kookaburras, when they laugh, it means rain is coming.
PARIS STOOD IN THEmiddle of the student union, talking to a guy with long hair, sandals, and a laugh that echoed through the room. I hung back, letting them have a minute.
The student union was three floors of restaurants, study rooms, club rooms, and meeting halls. During finals week, they stayed open late and served free meals to those still hanging around at one in the morning.
Ivy used to leave at midnight to join her friends here. They’d kick back, eating and studying, then crash in one of their dorms. She told me the best spot was on the second floor near the back staircase. There was a quiet nook up there next to the vending machine, and the stairs were closest to where they set up the food. First in line.
I had to send her a pic of me eating pizza in the nook, goofing that it’s my spot now. Despite us not talking much these days, she’d get a kick out of it.
Paris and the dude kissed, then he strode off. I moved up to take his place.
“Boyfriend?” I asked.
“Playmate,” she corrected. “I don’t really do boyfriends.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d fall for one of them and then get it into my head that it won’t be so bad to settle down and pop out a bunch of babies in good ole Bedlam. That’s a fucking lie, so better not to give the idea a chance.”
“You might meet someone who wants to leave as much as you do.” We set off down a branching hallway, making for the heavenly smell wafting through the corridor.
“That’s not what anyone seems to do around here. My parents— I mean my mom and Jack, they used to travel all over the world, then they moved back here to have kids and just stopped. Mom hasn’t been farther than Hunter’s Crest since. Something about Bedlam,” she said softly. “It just keeps you. Doesn’t let anyone leave.”
I stumbled.
I get to keep you, Rainey. No matter what you decide, you’re mine forever.
I swallowed through needles, quickly righting myself. Of all the ways to phrase that, it had to be a sentence so close to the one that psycho sent me. And they were right.
This person, whoever they were, had infected me. Every person I passed on the street was looked at with suspicion. Everyone who said something too similar to the notes filled me with horrible visions of their bodies at my feet as their blood dripped from my fingers. What I would be after Ruckus Royale, I was afraid to consider. Only one thing was certain, no matter what I did, they would win in what I now knew was their true desire—to make me a killer.
But why me? Why did they choose some random girl living out on her farm who never hurt a living soul?
I never even raised my voice to our bobbleheaded chickens, forever wandering through the fence and getting themselves lost. No one could hate me as much as this person surely did. If anyone was wronged, it was me.
“Rainey?”
I slammed the door on those thoughts, smiling at Paris. “Sorry, what you said made me think of something. You’re right that most people tend to stay in Bedlam. Probably why my sister was determined to leave.”
“Where is she now?”
“Chicago.”
She groaned. “I’m jealous. You have to hook us up. I want to hear about every minute of every day she gets to be away from this place.”
The sign for Bagel Glory loomed ahead of us. The little café was a small, cozy corner of the union that opened out onto a terrace. Paris got a blueberry bagel and I tossed my cinnamon sugar on the pile.
I smiled at the girl counting out our change. “You have the prettiest blue eyes.”
“Oh, I—” She brightened. “Thank you.”
I accepted the money and followed Paris outside to a two-seater tucked under a shady spot.
“Why didn’t you go to college out of state?” I asked.
“My parents talked me out of it. Bedlam offered me a great scholarship. They said it was nuts to turn that down and then take out thousands in student loans to go out of state. Mom said when I started my new life outside of Bedlam, I’d want to do it debt-free.”
I inclined my head. “Sensible woman.”
“She is,” Paris said, even while rolling her eyes. “I couldn’t fault her logic, and I know she just wants what’s best for me. I’ve lived here for nineteen years. Two more won’t kill me.” She squeezed my hand. “But everything does work out for a reason, because we met.”
Paris was nice. A supersweet person introducing me to her friends and taking me out for bagels, though all we knew about each other was from being names in an online class. Why was she so nice? What did she want from me?
I tugged my hand away, picking up my bagel to cover it. My stomach knotted and pushed my bite back up my throat.
This is what they’ve made of me. I can’t hang out with a new friend without wondering if they’re a killer.
It can’t be her, a voice spoke up. What do kookaburras have to do with Paris Keller, political science major, and pretty, popular girl waving to almost everyone walking by? Disturbed sociopaths tend not to fit in that category.
“I’m glad we met,” I finally said. “I don’t have a lot of friends. It was always me, Gran, and Ivy growing up.”
“Can I ask what happened to your parents?”
“They died in a car accident when I was three. I never really got to know them.”
“I’m sorry. Gosh, I feel like I’m always saying that to you.”
I flicked over her shoulder. “Anyone who knows me for more than twenty-four hours ends up apologizing for asking me about my life.” I spoke to her, but I was looking at the sight that caught everyone’s attention. “It’s just that depressing.”
“It’s not depressing. You’ve just had— What are you looking at?” She twisted in her seat. “Oh.”
Have you ever seen those movies where a group of blindly attractive people walk and not even the cameraman can resist zooming in and capturing every inch of them? I mean, that’s the real reason almost every movie has a hottie slo-mo moment. All that recording and footage is expensive, and yet twenty minutes just watching people walk is a vital scene.
The thing is, you never think you’ll have that moment in real life. To have such a high concentration of gorgeous people in the same place at the same time is rare. To have them all walk in while your lips are covered in cinnamon sugar and your hair is in a messy bun because you rushed out to get bagels, that’s one of the many reasons people were always apologizing for my sad life.
The world slowed around them, stopping the birds in flight, silencing the cicadas singing to the trees. He swayed as he moved side to side with a walk reserved for the runway. Dressed in a jacket, white tee, and baggy jeans, Cairo took the simplest of outfits and reduced the guys loitering around the terrace to hobos in cloth sacks.
Were there other guys on the terrace? I could only see Cairo and them.
A tall guy with glasses and inky black hair strolled at his side. A long-sleeve sweater and black pants should’ve turned him into a library assistant. If they had angular cheeks, a broad nose, and a shadow’s dusting on their chin and cheeks, changing my opinion on beards forever.
“That’s Jacques,” Paris said. “He and Cairo have been friends longer than the others. Judge’s son and sheriff’s son. They used to sit in the back and watch when they were in court. Jacques is insanely smart. Seriously, IQ off the charts. Highest GPA in the school. His mother used to enter him in national tournaments. Earned us some recognition in the big papers. Bedlam, home of the prodigy. Did you ever see the articles?”
I shook my head. “My Doctor Who DVD marathons didn’t come with interruptions for news of local celebrities.”
“Just as well,” Paris said. “He’s a complete douchebag.”
I choked on a laugh. “Just to save myself some time, are all of your brother’s friends douchebags?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great.” I slid back to them. No one said the beautiful had to have personalities to match, but still, they were ridiculous.
“The guy on Cairo’s right is Roan.”
Roan Banks. I knew the names. Now I got to put them to faces.
Roan was the son of Dean Banks, the attractive woman at the end of the orientation video, welcoming us to the best years of our life. A head of wavy red hair pointed this way and that—falling over his eyes and brushing the tip of his pointed ears. People spent an hour in the mirror trying to get the sexily tousled look this guy was born with.
He was tall and slim without looking stretched. Roan laughed at something the person said on the other side of his phone, and his lips quirked up in a wicked half grin that must’ve gotten him in trouble even when he was innocent. I couldn’t say yet if he was a douche. I sensed all the same I should keep my distance.
“You don’t have to tell me who the guy next to him is,” I said. “Legend St. James. Gran used to do business with his father. I’d see him around the distillery sometimes when we made deliveries.” I was struck by how unnaturally perfect he was back then too.
Legend St. James balanced on the line of hard and soft expertly. Pronounced square chin and pink top-heavy lips. Dark locks gelled into submission and Bambi brown eyes that made you feel the world revolved around you whenever he turned on the charm.
Hard, ropey muscles barely concealed by his blazer, and long tapered fingers that’d curl around mine as he brought it to his lips, welcoming me to his family distillery for the tenth time because he kept forgetting we met before.
“Last but not least, the son of our chosen leader, Arsenio Creed.”
Arsenio Creed was the product of so many ethnicities, his features spanned the world. Light monolid eyes, dark freckles, wide nose, and a head of long, cork-brown curls that caught the sun as he moved, bathing them gold. I heard someone tried to pet him once and he twisted their wrist till it broke. I didn’t know if it was true. We were at the point that anything that went wrong around town, the Bedlam Boys were named for it.
“I only know him from the photos and video shots of him standing off to the side from Mayor Creed,” I admitted. “I’ve always wondered what she thought of her kid being one of the infamous Bedlam Boys.”
“I can answer that for you, she is in complete denial.” Paris slid my cream cheese over and slathered it on her bagel. “Arsenio puts the angels in the heavens to shame when he’s around his mom. ‘Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. I’ll be home in time for dinner.’
“He graduated salutatorian and class president. How could he be fucking around when he was busy being the perfect student? Whenever they were caught, our teachers let it slide. Would you want to be the one calling the mayor in for a teacher’s conference?” She heaved a sigh. “After years of the act, she refuses to believe anyone knows her son better than she does.”
“There is no beating a mother’s blind spot.”
“Tell me about it,” Paris mumbled. She wasn’t looking at Arsenio.
The shift in gaze forced me to follow, and then I was looking at him too. Cairo noticed us and nodded at his sister. Just a nod to acknowledge the person who rode around in the same womb that he did. He slid off me like my seat was empty, and turned to the final person in their group—the one who shot me a look of triumph as she perched on his lap.
“Who’s she?” I tried to ask casually, but being dismissed by the guy who kissed and had his hand down my pants less than twelve hours ago leaked temper in my voice. Without a doubt, I knew the rotted fruit didn’t fall far from the tree.
I didn’t want anything from Cairo Sharpe other than an apology, and his ass could mail it to me. But for him to throw me back, implying I was too easy for him, ten minutes after saying he dropped his pants for anyone with a vagina, stirred my unused confrontational side. I wouldn’t lose my patience with the chickens, but I yelled and threatened him. It never crossed my mind to hit Ivy the many times she tackled me like an NFL player, laughing her head off while I screeched for her to let me up. That didn’t stop me from punching Cairo. Something about this guy stirred all the wrong things in me, and if his friends were even worse, I’d have no trouble staying away.
“That’s Quinn Cunningham. She’s their latest shared toy.”
“What does that—?”
The sentence wasn’t out of my mouth before she tugged Legend by the collar and planted a searing kiss on him—in full view of the guy she wanted to claw my eyes out over. Cairo didn’t even blink at them.
“Ah, I get it,” I said. “No need to explain.”
She snorted. “If you get it, explain it to me. Girls, and guys, are so desperate to be in their orbit, they’re happy to put their ass on tap if it means walking beside them in the halls. I mean, no one else can use a mother’s blind spot as an excuse.”
I suddenly didn’t want to talk about Cairo or his friends anymore. “You know what they say, there’s something about a bad boy. Thanks for breakfast, Paris.” I got to my feet. “I’ve got to take care of something before class. Meet up later?”
“Sure. See ya.”
I headed inside, pointedly looking anywhere other than Quinn’s shit-eating smirk. Keep him, Cunningham. He’s all yours.
An arm snaked around my waist. I snapped up, looking up into Cairo’s eerie eyes.
“What the hell do you want? Get your hands off—”
“Be quiet.” The sharp order silenced me and the couple walking past us. They picked up speed getting away. “That stuff you said about my father. What did you mean?”
I stared at him, watching his expression darken.
“Did you not hear me?”
“I’m confused,” I said. “I thought you wanted me to be quiet.”
His hand burned an imprint on my hip. I tried to push him off and he dug in.
“Why do you have my father’s name in your mouth?”
“I’m sure everyone does,” I hissed. “The bastard’s corrupt. They invented the term dirty cop for him.”
Cairo snapped me to his chest, stopping us short in the middle of the union. “That’s a serious accusation, Rain.”
My stomach fluttered at my name in his mouth. I could despise him. I could hate the bits of him that reminded me of his father, but I’d never be able to control my response to the way his lips formed my nickname in that deep, throaty voice.
“It’s not an accusation if it’s true, Sharpe.”
“Have proof to back it up?”
“Would it surprise you that I do?” My lips pulled back from my teeth—just talking about the man would do that. “But who would I give it to? Who is going to believe me?”
A grin broke out on his face, startling me. “I just might. I’d be very interested to see this proof of yours, Rain. Bring it by my place tonight.”
My jaw worked. “I— I— No,” I cried. “I’m not giving it to you so you can warn him—”
Cairo gripped my chin, snapping it up. My eyes popped as he swiped his tongue across my lips.
“Hmm. Cinnamon sugar. My favorite. I might’ve been wrong about you—something I don’t say often. It’s looking like I’ll keep you after all.”
I get to keep you.
Cairo released me and walked off. “My place. Tonight,” Cairo tossed over his shoulder. “Don’t make me come and find you.”
I stood for a full minute, staring at the spot he disappeared. Hand shaking, I touched my lips.
He can’t be. Dear Lord, it can’t be him.
I ran.
Ran out of the student union, down the causeway, and out onto the lawn. Fire ants crawled beneath my skin, setting my body on fire like he did last night. The Letter Man?
No. No, no, no!My mind rebelled. His favorite bagel worked its way up my throat.
I couldn’t have kissed him. Let him touch me. Perched on his lap like the queen to his king. Cairo Sharpe wasn’t him, and there was nothing more important than proving it.
I raced to the other side of campus, slowing only when the stone structure broke through the trees. Stumbling to a stop, I doubled over before the memorial, sucking in ragged breaths that burned my throat.
This was it. It has to be it!
Gripping the stone plinth, I studied every inch.
In memory of Douglas Herbert.
Your smile rivaled the sun.
Your laugh touched our lives.
Gone but never forgotten.
Douglas Herbert died two years ago. One night, he skidded off the road and wrapped around a tree. The accident crushed the hood, pinning his leg under the steering wheel. Douglas was on his way to a solo camping trip, so no one knew what happened till a random motorist noticed his car off the road two days later. I didn’t know Douglas personally, but everyone in town heard of the tragedy.
But how am I supposed to know—
I circled it and stopped. At the base of the plinth, so small you might’ve missed it, a painted kookaburra took flight.
I DID NOT GO TO SEECairo that night, so when I glimpsed him on campus Friday morning, I backpedaled and went the other way. The man was not versed in empty threats. He said he would track me down, and Hera help me, he was trying.
Cairo ordered his sister to give him my number and address. Thankfully, she was the single person on this planet who didn’t fall at his feet. She refused, so he worked his way down the line of Amy, Presley, and finally Zara, who told him I lived on a farm. A dead end that resulted in his stealing Paris’s phone and getting my number.
For the past five days, I’d been treated to a string of threatening and curiously sexual messages. At the start of the voice mail, he was promising I’d be punished for every day I made him wait, and by the end of it, he was telling me in graphic detail how he’d dip me in cinnamon sugar and lick me clean.
As fucked up as it was, my refusal to give in to him was both pissing him off and turning him on. It’s obvious no one had said no to him in a long time. That didn’t stop him showing me why.
By Wednesday, he had his minions tracking me down. Alfie ran up to me in the student union under the guise of apologizing for the party. He spent ten minutes waffling and stealing glances at the entrance before I caught on.
I dumped my iced mocha on his crotch on the way out the door. Another thing I wouldn’t have done a lifetime ago, but everything was different now.
That morning, I walked on campus figuring Cairo and his friends would be too busy to worry about me.
“Whoo!”
A red streak shot past me, gifting me his hot breath in my face and the full X-rated view of his half-erect penis flapping in the breeze. Then five more of his buddies came running to do the same.
Frat boys, if the Greek letters painted on their bare backs were anything to go by. Couldn’t resist starting the party early. Students clapped and cheered the streakers on.
Ruckus Royale officially didn’t begin until that night, but for some, the party was an all-day event.
I weaved through groups blasting music and dancing on the lawn. A few had the beers going round. It was eight in the morning.
The Bedlam men and women brought the wildness, debauchery, and public orgies, and the Kings provided the venue, music, alcohol, and entertainment. If they wanted to one-up last year’s Ruckus, and Cairo seemed like the kind of guy who would, they’d be much too busy today to chase me down.
Rounding the chemistry building, I entered Burnett Hall from the back. My class was two floors up and at the end of the hall. I made it without incident. Now to avoid Cairo for the next three hundred and fifty-nine days.
Faith, the teaching assistant, stood beside Professor Valdez’s desk, passing us handouts.
“Thanks, Faith. You are killing it in that dress.”
“Rainey, you’re such a ray of sunshine. Your parents gave you the wrong name.”
I thanked her and claimed a seat in the third row. I’d say my parents weren’t too far off with my name. Spending most of my life as the introverted farm girl who said more to her chickens than she did anyone outside the property line didn’t earn most the title of people person.
My habit of complimenting every woman I ran into was recent. Started up not too long after I received a black letter.
It was silly, and in the end, wouldn’t make a difference, but I didn’t know the girl he chose to be his sacrifice. The girl who would die if I failed. So, the very least I could do was make her smile. Whoever she was, wherever she was. Grant her genuine, unasked-for kindness before a monster reminded the world why it was so rare.
I bent over my desk, brushing a hand over the pocket. I gripped it tight as I gazed at Faith. I was still giving compliments because Ruckus Royale was that night, and I didn’t have him.
Squeezing my eyes shut, my jaw clamped tight. What was Cairo’s wrath in the face of an innocent woman’s murder? If it was a woman. The letters said nothing about her age. What would I do if a child was in his sights? How long would it take me to slit my fucking wrists after they broadcasted her death?
Cairo didn’t matter. All that did was finding the right name connected to Douglas Herbert, and after five days of digging up everything there was on him, I believed I did.
I thought this was the hard part, finding the name. Nothing compares to holding the name of the person you’re supposed to stop in your hands, and having no way of proving their innocence or guilt. How could I?
I followed him the day before and all he did was drive home from work, kiss his girlfriend at the door, and stay inside till I finally left at two a.m.
What did the average killer do to give themselves away? Keep trophies?
Of the twenty-six unsolved murders and disappearances in Bedlam, I didn’t know who his victims were to connect them to a trophy. I didn’t know the first thing about breaking and entering to bust in his place and find them anyway. It left me with only one option, and if I was wrong, I wouldn’t get another chance.
I opened my eyes and met Jacques’s. He stood at the bottom of the stairs in all six feet of his tall, dark, and handsome glory, fixed on me. My skin tightened as he passed the first row, second row, and turned down the third.
What is he doing here? He’s not in this class.
The backpack slung over his shoulder defied the thought. My classes were Bedlam Boy-free. They were my safe haven from Cairo and his army of foot soldiers. He couldn’t seriously have sent Jacques in here after me. They couldn’t be so powerful that a professor would turn a blind eye. Then, an even worse idea occurred to me.
Jacques Stone was the son of a judge. Wasn’t it entirely possible he was a prelaw student too?
No, I thought as he sat down next to me. This was not happening. I couldn’t be so unlucky that of all the classes he adds and drops, he had to end up in one of mine.
I openly studied him. I could count each muscle that flexed as he took out his notebook, pen, and water bottle. I watched his lips form a perfect “o” to take a sip. Jacques must’ve noticed my attention, though he didn’t acknowledge it.
He doesn’t have to. All he has to do is text his buddy, and Cairo will be waiting for me.
“Good morning, students.”
“Good morning.”
This was my cue to look away and focus on Professor Valdez. I didn’t give in to it.
I bore in the side of Jacques’s head—waiting for him to fish out his phone. Maybe daring him to look back.
He did neither of those things.
“Before we begin, I feel obliged to mention this along with the many who have warned every year,” Valdez said. “Ruckus Royale is not a sanctioned event or holiday.”
I tore away from Jacques. Valdez said the two words that would steal my attention today, and likely for the rest of my life.
“What started as a celebration of independence has devolved into drunkenness, property damage, petty antics, and in the case of those sacrificed, public ridicule and humiliation.” Valdez paced the length of his desk, giving the stern eye to every row. “As future lawyers, you all should know that ‘this is what we’ve always done’ is not a defense. This ridiculous event needs to end, and it will.”
He was a handsome man. The kind that could make an old-fashioned tweed coat with elbow patches look natural. From the first day I met him, I got the impression he was a man out of his time. Someone who believed in picking up the check, or sitting out on the porch smoking a pipe. Why I thought that made him suited to teaching ethical issues in law, I had no idea. I just had a feeling from the first class, it’d be an interesting year. Didn’t think he’d prove me right so soon.
Students in the rows ahead glanced back, catching a peek at Jacques’s reaction. The guy sat there sipping his water bottle and appearing lost in his head.
“I lead a group of parents, neighbors, and members of the community committed to seeing the end of Ruckus Royale. Tonight, and every night this reckless lawlessness is allowed to run rampant through our streets, we’ll take action.”
Valdez stopped pretending and fixed on Jacques.
“We’ll call the police, photograph the people participating, bring charges against illegal activity. We’ll make it so your couches and a bowl of popcorn are the most exciting thing anyone dares to do on Ruckus night.
“I heard this year’s clue is too difficult. Most of you don’t know where the party is. That’s for the best,” he said. “When it is broken up, and it will be broken up, you don’t want to be rounded up. An arrest doesn’t make an attractive addition to a law school application.”
No one said a word. We didn’t so much as cough.
Valdez straightened his back, propping against his desk. “Forgive me for starting class this way. As my students, I had to warn you before you made a mistake tonight that you can’t come back from.”
My vision glazed on his handsome tweed form. What about the mistakes I can’t come back from tonight? Where’s your stern talking-to for me?
“I hope the message sunk in,” he said to everyone, but addressed to Jacques.
Again, nothing but a serious thirst from my seatmate.
Valdez cleared his throat. “Let’s begin. First week of classes, I’m throwing you right in the deep end. As we know, there’s always been a disconnect between what is legal and what is ethical. I don’t need to give examples,” he said. “Dozens have popped into your head already.” He swept over us. “Can anyone tell me the history of how Crystal Canyon became Bedlam?”
A hand shot in the air. “Life wasn’t good for women, servants, or African-Americans back then, but in Crystal Canyon, it was hell on earth,” Victoria began. “The landowning men formed a club, a cult— I don’t know the word for what they were. A group that protected and favored each other, they called themselves the Men of Honor. Holding all the highest positions in town, coupled with all the rights, they did what they wanted when it suited them. And we all know what they say about absolute power.
“Colonel James Cotton saw his wife getting too familiar with a man outside the general store. He savagely beat them both right there in the street. His wife later died from the injuries, and the sheriff didn’t lift a finger. Dozens of witnesses, a victim, and a body covered in bruises. Cotton spent one night in jail and was let off for lack of evidence.
“They say that was the splinter that broke the dam. From there, they knew without a doubt they had the law under their thumb. The Men of Honor descended into total savagery and cruelty and soon started the Hunt. One night a month a young girl was chosen, chased through the streets, and brought to their lodge after capture where they’d... do what they wanted to her.
“People were scared. Terrified,” she said. “Those with the means to move, left town as fast as they could. Families sent their daughters to live with distant aunts and cousins. Crystal Canyon fell into bedlam long before it became our name.”
I hadn’t noticed till then I was nodding along with most of the people in my row. We all grew up with the history. The gentle version as children, then more of the awful truth as we aged through school. Every Bedlamite holds one thing to be true: Evil exists.
“Months of this, years of it,” she continued, “Crystal Canyon entered its darkest period with the emergence of a serial killer. No one knows if the Men of Honor knew the killer and approved, but we do know they did nothing to stop him. Why would they care about the murder of poor young women?”
“The history gets a bit murky there,” Valdez took over. “Some say the citizens accepted they’d have to protect themselves. They noticed the serial killer’s pattern of how they chose their victims and laid a trap for him. Mayam Westchester volunteered to risk her life drawing him out. The night he attacked on her deserted walk home, the forest lit up.
“Dozens upon dozens of lamps and torches emerged from the trees, bringing Ambrose Otis into the light. The mob got their hands on him, and years of pain and oppression broke free. They half tore him apart and displayed his body in the town square. It was the first death in the massacre that followed.
“But I said that was one version,” Valdez went on, all of us hooked though we knew the stories as well as him. “The other is Mayam Westchester did not plan to be bait that night, but was attacked all the same. In the struggle with Otis, she turned the knife on him and got away. Ran all the way home and warned her family. Ambrose Otis was the son of the magistrate and one of the Men of Honor. The entire town would pay for his death. As predicted, the Men rounded people up. Dragged them from their homes, and beat and tortured for a confession.
“Mayam’s family wasn’t spared. They circled her home, and her husband went out, confessing to killing Otis. The Men shot him on the spot. Something snapped inside Mayam. She took her husband’s gun and fired from the window, killing two Men and scattering their horses. Witnesses saw and... picked up their guns too,” he said. “Which of these events sparked the revolt, we don’t know for sure. All we know is Mayam and Ambrose lit the match, and the resulting inferno saw the death of every Men of Honor, their spouses, their children, and their children’s children. Their homes were burned. Their businesses reduced to ash. If the Battle of Bedlam could be classed as a war, it’s one of the most devastating in history. Absolutely nothing and no one survived of the enemy.”
Valdez nodded at Faith. His teaching assistant scurried behind the desk, clicking on the slides.
“This brings us to the discussion of the day, ladies and gentlemen. As we’ve said, what is legal is not always ethical. Therefore, what is ethical, may not always be legal. Can we class the massacre and revolt of Bedlam as either?”
Thick, pressing silence filled the room. Not even the eager to impress raised their hands.
Valdez grinned. “Alright, alright. Those waters are too deep for the first week. Hold that question in your head, folks, because it’s the topic of your midterm paper. Comparing then and now, if you were representing members of the revolt, what would be your argument? Legal or ethical? Could you stand on either?”
He turned his back to the class, motioning to Faith. She clicked to the next slide.
“This is our actual discussion topic this morning: euthanasia. What—?”
“It’s neither.”
Valdez turned back. “Excuse me?”
Jacques set down his water bottle.
“We don’t have to wait for a term paper. It’s amusing you think you’ve stumped us, but of course, you would think so, having moved here only three years ago. A born and bred Bedlamite is told of the story of Mayam Westchester and the revolt as bedtime stories, and we’ve all thought of what we’d do if we were in their place.”
Valdez bobbed his head. “Fair point. I—”
“Quiet,” Jacques snapped. “I’m speaking.”
My mouth fell open. Did this guy seriously say that to a professor?
“I beg your pardon! How dare—?”
“Your puffed chest and raised voice give an excellent impression of a howler monkey. Unfortunately, I’ve never found primates particularly threatening.”
Bugged eyes swung from Jacques to Valdez—not just mine.
“Out! Out of this classroom.”
Jacques’s features didn’t so much as twitch, let alone the rest of him. “It’s too late for you to cite classroom decorum and respect. Two things I might’ve given you if you proved to not be an idiot, or if you didn’t pretend you were something more than a never-published, failed academic who took the first school that’d hire him after those rumors came out about you and a former graduate assistant. Have you started fucking this one yet?”
Faith flushed bright red. The smile I wanted her to have today washed away and hid as it looked like she was desperate to do.
“I— I— You—” Valdez tripped over himself, swinging from Faith to Jacques. I’d never seen a person so flustered. “We’ve never—”
Jacques was far from done.
“Despite being barely above contempt, I sat in silence while you threatened me, my friends, and my party guests with jail and criminal records. The least you can do is listen when I’m speaking.”
In front of his class and all eyes watching, Valdez shut his mouth.
“Good.”
That was the first time in the conversation I heard something other than boredom leak into Jacques’s voice. It sounded eerily close to pleasure.
“As I was saying, the Bedlam revolt was neither illegal nor ethical. It was war,” he stated. “Revolution. The laws and ethics of society do not carry in war. They never have. To kill a stranger in battle makes you a hero. To kill a stranger behind Roadhouse makes you a murderer. We could not make the same argument for these men then or now, for they would not be prosecuted by the same lawyer under the same proceedings. They would be tried as war criminals in a courtroom the majority of us are unlikely to see inside.
“The premise of this assignment is at its root pointless, but the premise isn’t the objective. Your objective is the same as other teachers, professors, and outsiders who learned the bloody history of Bedlam and gasped in horror. A savage mob killed innocent people who stood in the way of the Men of Honor. Wives and families killed. Why don’t we see that? How can we praise them as heroes? Erect their statues in the square? Name their fight a revolution?
“You’re not the one to open our eyes, Valdez. We see the revolt for what it was, and we accepted around the time we were learning to tie our shoes and get up on training wheels, that it’s not only soldiers who die in war, but it’s always the enemy.”
Valdez shook with thinly disguised rage and humiliation, yet he didn’t speak. He didn’t do anything.
“This midterm topic has no purpose in regard to educational value or as a thought exercise. Change it,” Jacques said. “Come up with something better. I’ll tell you if it is.”
“I disagree.”
Four dozen necks swiveled. Not to Valdez, but to me. Yeah, that’s right. Of all the people to open their mouth, it had to be me.
Jacques slowly turned his head, fixing like he just noticed I was there. Just noticed I existed. “Excuse me?”
“I disagree. Both with your answer and that this assignment is pointless,” I said, voice holding steady. “Professor Valdez asked what our defense would be then and now, and it’s a thought-provoking question because if the revolters were rounded up— If the outside militias succeeded in retaking the town, the revolters would’ve seen the inside of the courtroom where we’d defend them.”
A wrinkle was forming between Jacques’s brows, cracking that impassive mask to splinters.
“You’re forgetting—”
“I didn’t forget a thing.”
“Then, you’re ignoring that the people who rose up against the Men of Honor were servants,” I said. “Shop workers, cooks, housemaids, women, laborers, minorities, and African-Americans. They were seen as less than in the very society that allowed them to be ruled by tyrants. If they didn’t recognize their right to live as equals, they certainly wouldn’t have recognized their right to fight as soldiers, or lead a revolution against the very system that benefits them.
“The uprising wouldn’t have been called a battle then, and it isn’t called one now except by the descendants who pass on the story. They would’ve been tried as common killers against the elite of society. As they should be.”
“What?” someone blurted. “They should be?”
“Yes.” I didn’t break eye contact with Stone. “They didn’t take up their guns to win a battle. The revolters didn’t line the town square with bodies as a tactical move. It wasn’t about what was legal, or ethical. What happened that day and in the bloody days to come was no more or less revenge.”
The wrinkle became a deep groove separating thick brows fighting to meet.
“Revenge for years of living in fear. Revenge for the rapes, murders, and injustice. Revenge for splitting families apart and leaving the splintered members behind without hope. Everyone had to die from the oldest man to the youngest son, because that pain and fear had to go somewhere, and when it breaks, it showers the world in red.”
My throat closed, straining to choke down the truest words I ever said.
“They took up their weapons knowing their choice was to die as murderers, or live as cowards.” Black letters floated through my mind. “They took them up knowing it wasn’t a choice at all. A soldier enters into war with patriotism on their lips and reluctance in their hearts. A widow doesn’t march to war. They march to slaughter.”
I folded my arms, half to cover my thumping heart. “So, how do you defend unrepentant murderers who’d kill and kill and kill again in the name of their children’s freedom? It’s an interesting question and I can’t wait to tackle the paper. Love to see what you come up with too, Stone.”
“Who said you could use my name?” The question wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even contemptuous. “I don’t believe we’ve met, so I don’t believe I gave you permission to have my name in your mouth.”
A hot pit boiled my stomach. “I don’t need permission.”
“Or common sense, awareness, or basic survival instincts.” Jacques faced me, blessing—cursing—me with all six feet, shadow dusted, and shiny-eyed bit of him granting his full attention. “If you spent less time thinking of that simplistic comeback, and more time reading the room, you’d have noticed everyone is looking at you in surprise, some horror, a lot of disbelief, and more than a little disdain. Not the faces of people about to give you a standing ovation.”
I glanced around. Jacques was right. There was a mix of emotions on people’s faces, none were congratulatory.
“This is my school, in my town, in my classroom,” Jacques said. He tipped my chin up—a touch that could only be described as gentle. “No one talks back to me. And if they’re going to conjure up the courage, they at the very least have the courtesy to not be laughably wrong.”
I swallowed against his fingers. “How am I wrong?”
“For one very simple reason,” he replied. “If the militias and armed forces succeeded in retaking the town, the revolters would’ve been executed where they stood. None would’ve seen the inside of a courtroom, because they couldn’t be seen as equals, but would be recognized as enemies. That’s always the case... in war.”
My lips parted. “I think—”
“Your first mistake,” he sliced in. “Don’t make it again. You were meant to get by on your looks.”
My face flared hot. “Wow. You are a douchebag.”
Jacques faced forward—my audience with him coming to an end. “Falling back on insults because you don’t have anything intelligent to say. You and I are done. Be quiet.”
“I would, but I can’t let it pass without mentioning how pathetic it is that you need to look so tough and cool, that you’re sitting there with wet pants and pretending it doesn’t bother you.”
A muscle in his brow ticced. “Excuse me? My pants aren’t wet.”
“Aren’t they?” I snatched his water bottle, twisted off the top, and dumped the contents in his lap.
Jacques leaped out of his seat bellowing.
“Rainey!” Valdez barked. “Unacceptable. Leave my class this instant.”
“Me? But he’s the one—”
“Enough.” He smashed his fist on the desk. “I will not have another argument. I won’t hear another word uttered for the next hour and a half. Leave!”
More words said to the entire room, but directed at one person, and I suspected that person wasn’t me.
Even so, it was me who packed her backpack and walked out under Jacques’s gaze. Those burning eyes followed me out the door and on the other side of it.
Jacques was wrong about me failing to read the room. I picked up on every face I passed as I walked out the door. They said one thing in complete agreement.
I made a huge mistake.