RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,118

underneath her like she’s settling in for a good girl chat. “Wren Jacobi, I never thought I’d see the day. I assumed, after all these years of lashing out and breaking people, that there was something fundamentally broken inside you. It’s a real shock to learn otherwise. Fuck!”

I snatch the paper out of her hand, scanning the information typed on it, pointedly ignoring the shit-eating grin she’s wearing. “We need to write an essay on an unsung hero in literature and present it to the class. You can choose.”

“Really?” For an actress, her attempt at fake surprise is pretty piss poor. “You’re usually so protective over your literary heroes, unsung or otherwise.”

God, this is gonna be such bullshit. I crack my knuckles with a vicious enthusiasm that shuts her up. For five whole seconds.

“Look, I think it’s great that you like someone. I know you don’t believe me, but I care about you, Wren. And if this mousy, strange little girl blows your hair back, then I say go for it.”

This is a trick. A really lousy trick that I’m not stupid enough to fall for. I bare my teeth, dropping the paper into her lap. “Pick the subject for the assignment. Then stop fucking talking, Mercy, or so help me we’ll have problems.

She picks Sydney Carton. Of all the characters in all the books, she picks Sydney Carton from ‘A Tale Of Two Cities,’ because she knows how much it’ll irritate me. Sydney’s my guy. He’s a wretch, the very worst and the very best. I identify with him on so many levels that it’s not even funny. If she were anyone else, I’d be surprised that she picked him out of thin air as the topic of our assignment, but since she is who she is, I’m entirely unsurprised. We’re twins, after all. Our fucked-up brains work so similarly that I despise her almost as much as I despise myself.

The moment the bell rings, signaling the end of class, I take out my phone and power it on. I tap out a message as I bolt out of the class.

Me: Lunchtime. Find me. I’ll be hanging with the poets.

28

ELODIE

I’ve never wished harm on anyone before.

That’s actually a lie, I have wished harm on one person, but my father doesn’t count. He’s a vile piece of work, and he deserves every ill thought I’ve ever had about him. Aside from Colonel Stillwater, I make a point to give people the benefit of the doubt. I like to try and be a fair person. A just person. But it’s no fucking good—Pax Davis is a motherfucker of the highest order and I hope he falls off a very high cliff. I suppose it’d be okay if he survived the impact. A few weeks in traction, writhing in agony in a dingy hospital bed, though? Yeah, that sounds like suitable punishment for a prick like Pax.

Eight: that’s how many times he called me a whore during the forty minutes we had to sit together and plan out how we were going to tackle our assignment. ‘Read an independent book with a profound and moving story arc, and then present it to the class.’ I’m honestly not sure Pax can read. He showed no interest in the sheet Doctor Fitzpatrick gave to us. But then again, he did spend the last ten minutes of class hammering away at his phone’s screen, sending out text after text to god only knows who, so he must possess some rudimentary understanding of the English language.

When we parted, he snarled something guttural and harsh at me in a language that I think was German, then he politely told me that I was to read the book and write the presentation myself, then he flipped me off and bailed without another word.

I haven’t been able to talk to Carina to find out how her ordeal with Dashiell went, but I’m guessing, from the look on her face as she hurried to her next class, that it went just about as well as one might expect. In other words, terribly.

She has a meeting with the school counselor over lunch, which is why I don’t feel guilty that I’m not trying to hunt her down, as I make my way across the academy. When I jog up the steps to the library, my mind’s racing a mile a minute.

It was hardly a friendly text. Then again, Wren’s nothing if to the point. I wasn’t anticipating anything flowery or romantic