Murder at St Veridian Academy

The casket was open.

Blanche always wanted an open casket. She used to say that if she died young, she wanted everyone to see how beautiful she looked one last time. I used to laugh and tell her she was morbid. She'd just smile that perfect, devastating smile and say, "I'm not morbid, Rory. I'm only practical."

I was glad they honored her final wishes.

I sat in the front row, my fingers gripping the wooden pew so tightly my knuckles had gone white. My heels were killing me, a pair of designer pumps I'd grabbed in a rush, not caring if they matched.

The scent of lilies choked the air, hundreds of them, white and suffocating, lining the altar like snowdrifts. They were Blanche's favorite. She'd told me once that lilies reminded her of her mother, that they were the only flowers her mother had ever planted in their garden before she died. I remembered the way her voice had cracked when she told me that. The way she'd quickly laughed it off, pretending she wasn't about to cry.

Blanche was always pretending. Even when we were children, she was always performing as if she was the star actress in a play. She always playing a role. The perfect daughter. The golden girl.

But I knew the real her. Blanche was a crybaby. She loved icecream. She ate ice cream straight from the carton when she was stressed. The girl who made me promise we'd always be there for each other.

Candles flickered in the dim light, casting dancing shadows across the polished wood of the coffin. And inside that coffin, wrapped in silk and surrounded by lilies, lay Blanche Leonie Montclair.

She looked beautiful.

Of course she did. Blanche always looked beautiful, even in death. Someone had dressed her in a gown of pale champagne silk, I recognized it, the one she'd worn to her sixteenth birthday party, the one she'd spun around in and declared made her feel like a princess. Her raven black hair cascaded over the pillow like ink spilling across marble, and someone had threaded tiny pearls through it, catching the candlelight and making her look like something out of a dream.

Her hands were folded across her chest, slender fingers intertwined, and her face, that perfect, devastatingly beautiful face, was peaceful. As if she had simply closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

But I knew better.

I knew the truth that no one else in this chapel knew. I knew about the diary tucked inside my clutch purse, its leather cover warm against my fingers. I knew about the fear in Blanche's final words. I knew that my best friend hadn't fallen from that clock tower.

She had been pushed.

The priest droned on, his voice a monotone lament that washed over the assembled mourners like gray rain. I couldn't understand half of what he was saying. Something about God's mercy. Something about eternal rest. The words didn't matter.

All that mattered was the promise I had made her.

A familiar voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and brittle as breaking glass. I'd been expecting it. I'd been waiting for it, actually. Because if there was one thing Ines Montclair was good at, it was making everything about her.

"...absolutely ridiculous. I specifically requested white roses, not lilies. Does no one listen to me?"

My jaw tightened. I didn't need to turn around to know who was speaking. That voice had haunted Blanche for years. It had haunted her since she was twelve, when her father brought home a new wife who made it clear she had no room for a stepdaughter who reminded everyone of the first wife.

Ines Montclair. The woman who had spent years making Blanche feel like she didn't belong in her own home.

The woman who was now criticizing her funeral.

I glanced back, just a brief look. Ines was draped in black couture, her hair swept into an elegant chignon, her diamonds glittering in the candlelight. She looked like she was attending a gala, not a funeral. Beside her sat John Montclair, Blanche's father, he looked placid, unmoving and unassuming, his eyes fixed on the casket with a hollow expression that made my chest ache.

He looked broken. He looked like a man who had lost his only reason for living.

And his stupid airhead wife was talking about flowers.

"And that dress," Ines continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "Champagne silk? Really? It's so... common. I told the funeral director I wanted something more sophisticated. White, perhaps. Or even black. But no, they insisted on what Blanche would have wanted. As if anyone knows what that spoilt brat wanted."

My hands curled into fists at my sides. The leather of my clutch groaned under the pressure.

"I mean, honestly," Ines went on, her voice rising slightly. "The girl never had any taste. Her mother was the same way. All those bohemian dresses and that ridiculous art collection. It's no wonder Blanche turned out the way she did. She simply had no sense of…”

I turned.

The movement was sudden, and Ines's words died in her throat as my gaze locked onto hers. The older woman blinked, startled by the intensity of my stare, the barely contained fury simmering beneath the surface. I'd spent years learning to hide my emotions, you had to, when you were the daughter of a very wealthy man, but right now, I couldn't.

I stood up from my pew. The sound of my heels against the marble floor echoed through the chapel like gunshots.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice low and cold. "I couldn't help but overhear. Did you just say that Blanche had no taste?"

Ines's painted red lips parted. She looked me up and down with the practiced condescension of a woman who had been judging others her entire life. Her eyes lingered on my dress, my shoes, my face, all of it ordinary and unremarkable. Nothing that would suggest I was anyone important.

"And who might you be?" she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"A dear friend," I said simply. "One of her only real ones."

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't recall seeing you around Blanche."

"No," I agreed, taking a step closer. "You wouldn't. Because Bea didn't tell you anything. She knew exactly what you thought of her. She knew how you resented her. She knew how you wished she would just disappear so you could have her father's attention all to yourself."

Ines's face flushed a mottled red beneath her flawless makeup.

"How dare you…”

"How dare I?" I stepped closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout. "How dare I? How dare you stand at her funeral and criticize her when you never once treated her like a daughter? When you spent years making her feel like she was nothing? When you couldn't even pretend to mourn her for one single hour?"

Ines's hand went to her throat, her diamonds flashing. "I have no idea who you think you are, but I will have you removed…"

"You're a monster," I said, my voice cracking with emotion I could no longer contain. "And the worst part is, you don't even know it. You actually think you're the victim here. But you're not. You never were. Bea knew exactly who you were."

The chapel had gone completely silent. Even the priest had stopped speaking, his mouth hanging open as he stared at the scene unfolding before him. All eyes were on me, the stranger in the front row talking to Blanche’s stepmother.

Ines's face was a mask of fury and humiliation. "Who are you?" she demanded again, her voice rising to a near-shriek. "What is your name?"

Before I could answer, a new voice cut through the tension.

"She's Rory."

I turned to look at Blanche's father. John Montclair was staring at me, his eyes red-rimmed, his face lined with grief I couldn't even begin to comprehend. He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost.

"She was Blanche's childhood best friend," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Blanche spoke about her all the time. They are very close."

Ines's jaw dropped. Her husband had just publicly contradicted her, made her look foolish and cruel in front of the entire congregation. The humiliation on her face was almost satisfying enough to make me smile.

We exchanged a solemn look, John and I. A look of understanding.

And then I turned away. The rest of the service continued without as much as a word from Ines Montclair. When it was all over, I left alone.

I could feel the eyes on me, a hundred pairs of them burning into my back, but I didn't care. I didn't care about anything except the diary in my clutch and the promise I had made to the girl in the casket.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors and stepped into the gray Swiss afternoon.

The air was cold and thin, the mountains visible in the distance through a veil of mist. My breath came in ragged gasps as I walked down the stone steps, my heels slipping on the wet pavement. The tears were already coming, hot and unstoppable, blurring my vision as I stumbled toward the waiting car.

Marcus, my chauffeur, the man who had driven me since I was a child, opened the door without a word. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't try to comfort me. He just opened the door and waited, the way he always did, the way he knew I needed.

I climbed into the back seat, and the moment the door closed behind me, I broke.

The tears came in a flood, streaming down my cheeks as I clutched the diary against my chest. I could hear Blanche's voice in my head, laughing at me for being so dramatic, telling me to pull myself together. But she wasn't here. She would never be here again.

I opened the diary with trembling hands, my fingers tracing the pink worn leather cover. I'd read the final entry so many times in the past week that I could almost recite every word, but I needed to read it again. I needed to hear her voice.

I opened to the final entry.

Rory,

If you're reading this... I'm dead.

I wish I could tell you I'm being dramatic. You'd probably roll your eyes and laugh and call me impossible. I'd laugh too. But I'm not. Not this time.

Something is happening at St. Veridian's. Something so wrong that I don't even know where to begin. I can't write everything down here, I don't know who might find this before you. I don't know who's reading over my shoulder anymore. Every time I try to put the truth on these pages, it feels like I'm signing my own death warrant.

Do you remember that night when we were thirteen? We made that promise under the stars. We said if either of us ever said the secret word, nothing else mattered and we'd come no matter the distance.

Tomahawk.

I'm saying it now.

Please don't think I'm crazy, don't tell yourself I'm overreacting and don't decide to sleep on it and come tomorrow.

Because there is no tomorrow.

I need you to come to St. Veridian's. As soon as you get this. I need you to find the truth of my death, because I know I'm going to die. I know how insane that sounds. God, I know it does. If our roles were reversed, I'd probably think you'd completely lost it.

But I'm begging you anyway.

Promise me you won't give this diary to anyone. Promise me you won't trust the police or the teachers or anyone who tells you they want to help. They're all part of it. Promise me you'll find the truth and make them pay.

I wish I could hug you one more time. I wish we had one more stupid sleepover. One more terrible horror movie. One more argument about which ice cream flavour is objectively the best.

I wasn't ready for this, Rory.

I'm sorry I'm leaving you with this. But you're the only person I've ever trusted completely.

Please.

Forever yours,

Bea

I closed the diary and pressed it to my chest, my tears soaking into the leather. I could hear her voice in every word, the fear and the desperation.

And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I couldn't fail her.

Not this time.

-———————

The hotel suite was vast and opulent, all marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Geneva. I'd been staying there for two days, ever since I arrived from Westoria, but I'd barely seen any of it. I spent my nights reading the diary and my days staring at the mountains, wondering which peak hid St. Veridian's Academy.

Now, I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed, my phone pressed to my ear, waiting for my father to pick up.

He answered on the third ring.

"Aurora." His voice was warm. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine," I said, though my voice was rough from crying. "The funeral was... it was today. It's over now."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I wish I could have been there."

"Don't apologize." I meant it. My father's presence would have only complicated my plans. "We agreed you couldn't be seen there. It would have raised too many questions."

A pause. Then: "Are you sure about this, Aurora? Changing schools? I've had people look into St. Veridian's. There are things going on there that…”

"I know what's going on there," I cut him off. "I have Blanche's diary. She told me everything."

"And you still want to go?"

"I have to, Dad. She was my best friend. She begged me to come. I have to do this."

The silence on the other end of the line was heavy with worry. My father had always been protective of me, overprotective, some might say. But he had also taught me to fight for what I believed in. He had built an empire from nothing, and he had raised me to be just as fierce.

"Your mother would have been proud of you," he said finally.

My throat tightened. My mother had died when I was six, and my father rarely spoke of her. I knew it was his way of giving me permission.

"The transfer is complete then," I said, forcing myself to focus. "You made sure of that, right?"

"Yes. You're officially a scholarship student." All the paperwork is in order. No one will ever bother to know who you really are."

"Good." I took a deep breath. "And what about the other thing? The leak?"

He paused again, longer this time. "It's contained for now. But you were right to be concerned. Someone was trying to expose your identity. I'm not sure who, but they were getting close.”

”Then this is the right move," I said firmly. "Leaving Westoria and coming here, by the time I'm settled, the leak will be contained and the press won't find out that I'm your daughter."

"Aurora..."

"I have to do this, Dad. Please." My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it. "She was my best friend. She was the only person who ever really understood me. Something happened to her, and I can't just…”

"Okay." His voice was quiet and resigned. "Okay. I'll have everything sent to the hotel. Your uniform, your supplies. You can start tomorrow."

"Thank you." The words came out as a whisper. "I won't let you down."

"You could never let me down, Aurora. Just promise me one thing."

"Anything."

"Call me when you need me."

---

The next morning, a package arrived at the hotel.

I opened it on the bed, my hands steady despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. Inside was a dark navy uniform, a short pleated skirt, a crisp white blouse, a tailored blazer with the St. Veridian's crest embroidered on the pocket. There were books, a laptop, and a student ID card.

Name: Aurora Sterling

Status: Scholarship Student

Class: 12th Year

I stared at the photograph for a long moment. I looked so ordinary. A small plain brown face with curly chestnut-colored hair, plain brown eyes, and a small unassuming smile. No one would ever guess that I was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the world. No one would ever guess that I was on a mission to expose a murder and I was terrified.

But I couldn't afford to be afraid. Blanche had been afraid, and it hadn't saved her. The only way to survive this was to be smart, to be careful, and to trust no one.

I picked up the diary one last time, my fingers tracing the worn leather cover.

"I'm coming, Bea," I whispered. "I'm keeping our promise. And I will find the truth. I swear it."

I tucked the diary into the hidden pocket of my uniform, took a deep breath, and walked out the door.

St. Veridian's Academy was waiting.

And so was the killer.

---