RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,39

keep up with the flashes.

Dot dash dash dot. That’s a P.

I miss the next part. Whoever’s standing in the pissing rain, sending covert messages to another student in this building, is signaling too fast for me to keep up.

I wait, biding my time until the message begins again.

P, and then dot, dash, dash. That’s a W. The last letter, dash, dot, dash, dot, is a C.

PWC?

Anyone with half a brain cell and a father in the military knows what PWC stands for: Proceed With Caution.

Hmm. Some kind of lover’s tryst? An invitation? A warning? It’s warm in my bed, as well as considerably dryer in here than outside. On any other night, I’d be so curious about the message and what it meant that I wouldn’t be able to stop myself; I’d have to sneak out and see what kind of salacious meetings were taking place inside the maze, but tonight my own self-preservation instincts tell me that I’m much safer right where I am, protected from flying debris, gale force winds, icy rain, and hypothermia.

About to try my breathing technique again, my eyelids flutter…and the light starts flashing again, with a whole new message:

A…R…E

Y…O…U

A

C…O…W…A…R…D

S…T…I…L…L…W…A…T…E…R

?

The light goes out, and this time it stays out.

What the hell? I launch myself out of bed. The rain’s so bad, even worse than before, rolling across the window in sheets, that there’s no way I can see the maze anymore. All I see is the gauntlet thrown down, the challenge of someone waiting out there in the dark. For me.

“Nooooo,” I groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Thanks to Colonel Stillwater’s rush evacuation from Tel Aviv, I didn’t have time to go shopping for new clothes before I was bundled onto that personnel carrier. I have no coat with me. Not one that would provide any sort of protection against the gale that’s blowing outside. As I step out of the front door, I tighten my light, too-thin bomber jacket around me, thankful that at least my feet should stay dry inside my Doc Martins. The rain hits me square in the face, ice cold and shocking, forcing a string of curse words out of my mouth as I duck my head, forging forward, out into the maelstrom.

The wind rips my hood down and whips my hair up around my head. I don’t have to worry about it flying around my face for too long, though. By the time I’ve reached the corner of the building, it’s soaking wet and plastered to my skull.

“This is fucking insanity,” I hiss, jogging along the perimeter of the school, doing my best to keep my footing as I skid in the bog of mud that was once the border of the rose garden. Each second feels like a minute. The distance from the wall outside Doctor Fitzpatrick’s room to the entrance of the maze stretches out, increasing with every step I take instead of growing shorter, and I question whether I’ve lost my goddamn mind.

This is not a good idea.

This is a horrible idea.

No one knows where I’ve gone. I decoded a fucking Morse code message in the middle of the night, cast onto my bedroom wall, and like a stubborn idiot I decided to prove I wasn’t a coward rather than stay where it was safe and warm. Who fucking does that?

Dumb girls in horror movies, my father’s voice informs me. The stupid ones who wind up dead, with their body parts strewn across the lawn.

“Didn’t ask for your opinion, thanks, Dad,” I growl, gritting my teeth as a freezing cold gust of wind pelts droplets of rainwater into my face.

At the mouth of the maze, I consider turning back. For a long second, I give myself the opportunity to turn around. To return to the relative protection of my room. Then I remember that knife sticking out of my bed, and I scoff at that idea. My room isn’t safe. And I’m already drenched to the bone. My calves are covered in mud. And someone’s waiting for me in this maze, likely the person responsible for wrecking my belongings, and I want to face them. I want to face Wren, because I already know it was him who sent the message.

If I face him, I can nip this whole thing in the bud. I’ll be tackling the situation head on, and isn’t that what my father taught me? Never run from the enemy, Elodie. Never show them your back. Any sign of weakness will