clemency. Tell me everything you know, and you may be absolved.”
He wants me to throw Cat under the bus. He brought me here first, without her. He’s trying to get me to crack. Which means . . . he doesn’t have enough evidence without my testimony. Whatever Lola told him or showed him, it’s not quite enough.
That doesn’t mean we’re not in a fuck of a lot of trouble.
It only indicates that I might have a chance to take the heat off Cat.
I take a deep breath, hoping I know what I’m doing.
“Yes,” I say boldly.
The Chancellor quirks one black eyebrow.
“Yes, what?” he demands.
“Yes, I know who killed Rocco Prince.”
Professor Penmark leans forward with a hungry expression on his hollow face.
“Well?” the Chancellor says, impatiently. “Are you going to tell us?”
“No,” I say.
This next silence is like the vibration after the ringing of a bell. A bell that can’t be un-rung.
“Dean,” the Chancellor says ominously. “Choose your next words very carefully. Are you telling me that you did indeed witness the murder, but you refuse to confirm if the perpetrator was Cat Romero?”
“That’s right,” I say. “I know. And I won’t tell.”
Professor Penmark lets slip a horrible smile of anticipation.
The Chancellor clenches his jaw, disappointed, but resolute.
“We’ll see about that,” he says.
Brenner strides forward and seizes one of my arms, Penmark the other. They force me down on my knees and raise my arms on either side of me, in the shape of a pall.
Penmark pulls the chains down from the ceiling, closing the manacles around my wrists and wrenching them into position so the chains are taut and I can’t move.
Lola stares at me, fixated. She looks like a child who flipped a switch, and now stands in awe of what she’s put into motion.
Strangely, I’m not afraid.
Whatever happens next, I know I won’t break.
I’m the only thing left standing between Cat and certain destruction.
Once I’m fixed in place, the Chancellor nods to Brenner.
“Go get her,” he says.
29
Cat
The moment I see that Dean is not waiting for me outside Chemistry class as promised, I know something’s wrong. Dean wouldn’t forget. He wouldn’t be late.
So I’m not entirely surprised when a brawny groundskeeper seizes me by the arm and begins to drag me in the direction of the Prison Tower.
I suppose I wouldn’t have been surprised either way. This is something I’ve dreaded every day since I chucked Rocco off that wall. Since I even started planning it.
I did my best to cover my tracks—but I always knew this particular skeleton in my closet was clawing at the door, desperate to get out.
I feel a numb, floating sensation as the groundskeeper pulls me across the endless expanse of lawn that separates the Keep from that dark, lonely tower.
I should be terrified. But I’m not thinking about myself. The thing worrying me most is the knowledge that Dean failing to show up after class means they must have him, too.
Sure enough, as the groundskeeper shoves me inside a small, dark room on the ground floor of the tower, I immediately spot Dean chained up in the center of the cramped space, on his knees with his arms up in the shape of a Y.
“Dean!” I cry, wrenching out of the groundskeeper’s grasp and running over to him. I throw my arms around his shoulders as if I could shield him from harm. Quickly, before anyone can yank me away, he murmurs in my ear, “Don’t admit to anything, Cat—not one fucking thing!”
Now the full force of fear hits me, and my legs begin to shake. I feel very small in this tiny space, and horribly confined. The rings and shackles on the walls aren’t helping. Worst of all is the fact that I’m trapped in here with three of my least-favorite people: The Chancellor, Professor Penmark, and Lola Fischer.
Lola looks torn between gleeful satisfaction and a strange, sick nervousness. I know she put this in motion. Now she’s learning the difference between a plan and reality.
I learned the same thing the day I became a murderer. Nothing prepares you for fresh blood on your hands.
“Cat Romero,” the Chancellor says without preamble. “Did you kill Rocco Prince?”
I look at Dean’s face—pale and as determined as I’ve ever seen it. He gives one minute shake of his head.
“No,” I say firmly.
“Can you tell me what you were doing the day he died?”
“It was the final challenge in the Quartum Bellum,” I say carefully. “My team was already eliminated. At breakfast, I cut my