Chapter 4 Maeve O’Brien

My dormitory room was a shoebox. I stood in the middle of it, my hands on my hips, surveying the space that was supposed to pass for my new home. A narrow bed with a thin mattress. A desk that wobbled when I touched it. A wardrobe that smelled faintly of mothballs and dust. The single window offered a view of a stone wall and a sliver of gray sky.

It was the smallest room I'd ever been in. My closet back home was bigger than this. My bathroom was bigger than this.

But I wasn't home anymore. I was a scholarship student. And scholarship students didn't get corner suites with panoramic mountain views or a glimpse of Lake Geneva.

I forced myself to breathe. To remember why I was here. This wasn't about comfort. This was about Blanche.

I unpacked my bag in silence, hanging my meager collection of clothes in the wardrobe. There weren't many, just enough to maintain the illusion of poverty. A few plain, non-branded sweaters. A couple of simple pants and skirts. Nothing that would draw attention. Nothing that would make anyone wonder why the scholarship student was wearing designer labels.

The diary was the last thing I took out. I held it for a moment, feeling the familiar weight of it in my hands, the worn leather warm against my palms.

"I'm here, Bea," I whispered. "I'm here. And I'm going to find out what happened to you. I promise."

I tucked the diary underneath the plain mattress and straightened my uniform.

Time to face the lions.

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The hallways were chaos.

Students flooded past me in waves of designer uniforms and expensive perfume, their voices a cacophony of accents and laughter. I was jostled and shoved and completely ignored, a ghost in their midst.

I checked my schedule for what felt like the hundredth time. First period: Advanced Literature. Room 214. I had no idea where that was.

"Excuse me," I said to a passing girl with perfect blonde curls. "Can you tell me where..."

She walked right past me, her eyes fixed on her phone.

"Sorry," I tried again, reaching for another student. "I'm looking for..."

He brushed me off without even glancing my way.

I stood in the middle of the hallway, my schedule clutched in my hands, feeling utterly invisible. It was a strange feeling. I'd spent my whole life being watched, by bodyguards, by family members, by my father's business associates. Being a wealthy man's daughter meant attention, whether I wanted it or not.

But here, I was nothing.

I found room 214 on my own, slipping through the door just as the bell rang. The classroom was large and airy, with tall windows that let in the pale light. Students were scattered across the room, clustered in groups, laughing and chatting like they didn't have a care in the world.

I scanned the room for an empty seat. There were a few, scattered here and there, but they were all surrounded by groups of students who looked at me with cold and unwelcoming eyes.

I chose a desk in the back corner, away from everyone. It was the only one that didn't seem to belong to anyone. I slid into it just as the teacher swept into the room, a stern-looking woman with silver hair and glasses perched on her nose.

"Good morning, class," she said, her voice clipped and efficient. "I see we have a new student today. Please stand and introduce yourself."

My cheeks burned as I rose to my feet. Every eye in the room turned to me, curious at first.

I could see them taking me in. My plain uniform. My modest bag. The ID badge clipped to my blazer that read Scholarship Student in clear, damning letters.

"Aurora Sterling," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I just transferred from Westoria. It's nice to meet you all."

There was a beat of silence. Then the girl in the front row, the one with the perfect blonde curls who had ignored me in the hallway, let out a small, dismissive laugh.

"Westoria," she murmured to her friend, loud enough for me to hear. "How quaint."

The friend giggled. A few other students joined in.

I sat back down, my cheeks burning, my hands trembling with suppressed rage. I wish I could utter a witty retort, but what use would that be? So I swallowed my pride and opened my textbook.

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The rest of the morning was a blur of classes and more embarrassing moments.

In Sciences, the boy next to me moved his bag from the floor to the seat I was eyeing when he saw my ID badge, making it clear I wasn't welcome.

I was exhausted by the time lunch rolled around. My stomach was hollow and my head was pounding, and all I wanted was to find a quiet place to eat and regroup.

The cafeteria was a cathedral of noise. Long oak tables stretched across the room, filled with students laughing, shouting, gossiping. The air smelled like roasted meat and freshly baked croissants and coffee, and my stomach growled in protest.

I clutched my tray and scanned the room for an empty seat.

There were none.

Every table was packed with students who looked at me with that same dismissive look. I tried to sit at a table near the window, but the girl at the end shook her head.

"Sorry, this table is reserved."

I tried another. "Full."

Another. "You can't sit here."

I tried a fourth, and the boy at the head of the table, a tall and arrogant-looking boy with a bored expression, simply stared at me and said nothing. His silence was worse than anything they could have said.

I stood in the middle of the cafeteria, my tray getting heavier in my hands, and it felt as if every eye in the entire room was on me.

I turned on my heel and walked out.

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The bench was tucked away behind the main building, partially hidden by a row of hedges. It was small and worn, the wood splintered and gray, and it overlooked a small garden that was just beginning to show signs of spring.

It was perfect.

I sat down on the bench, my tray balanced on my knees, and let out a long, shaky breath. The tears I'd been holding back all morning pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I was stronger than this. I had to be stronger than this.

I picked at my food, not really tasting it, my mind churning with everything I'd seen and heard. The whispers. How could I do this? How could I go on with such mistreatment?

I was still wondering that when I heard voices around the corner. I could hear moaning.

I leaned forward, peeking through the hedges, and my breath caught in my throat.

That blazing red hair. I'd recognize it anywhere.

Maeve O'Brien.

I remembered her from Blanche's diary immediately. The daughter of the Prime Minister of Cairnmore, with the perfect cheekbones and the razor-sharp smile and blazing red hair. Blanche had written about her extensively, about how Maeve had been jealous of her, how she had pretended to be her best friend while secretly scheming to take her place. Blanche had called her a viper. A wolf in sheep's clothing.

And there she was, pressed against the stone wall outside the cafeteria, her uniform disheveled, her crimson hair a wild tangle around her face. Her hands were tangled in the hair of the boy in front of her, pulling him closer, and he, he was kissing her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.

Bryce Ashford-Smythe.

My stomach lurched.

They were making out, no, they were devouring each other. His hands were all over her, gripping her hips, her waist, her backside, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass like he couldn't get enough. She moaned against his mouth, her body arching into him, and he responded by pressing her harder against the stone wall, his hips pinning her in place.

It was vulgar. It was in incredibly bad taste.

Blanche had been dead for two weeks. Two weeks. And here was her boyfriend, the boy she had written about so passionately in her diary, the boy who had told her to burn her secrets, the boy she had loved and feared in equal measure, here he was, shoving his tongue down the throat of another girl.

I felt sick. Not just because of what I was seeing, but because of what it meant.

Did Bryce even care that Blanche was dead? Was he mourning her at all, or had he already moved on?

Or worse, had he been the one to kill her?

Maeve pulled back from the kiss, her lips swollen and red, her eyes hazy with desire. She laughed, a breathless, triumphant sound, and said something I couldn't hear. Bryce responded by kissing her again, even harder this time, his hands sliding up her thighs beneath her skirt.

Maeve O'Brien. The girl who had pretended to be Blanche's friend while secretly wanting everything she had. The girl who was now making out with Blanche's boyfriend like she'd already won.

Could she be the killer? Was she so consumed by jealousy that she had done the unthinkable?