“What about him?”

George glances back at the truck. “He’s the only reason that I took this job.”

“I know.”

“Did you know that I used to teach on the graduate level?” He rubs his neck and peers back at me as if trying to see whether I understand what he’s saying. “You think it’s not humiliating, taking orders from Rush? Reporting back to him like some lackey? Knowing that I’m doing this because it amuses him to see me driving around in a security truck? You think I don’t hate him for it, every single day?” His eyes narrow. “But this is for my son. I’d love to help you burn Brandt, but . . .” He shakes his head. “I can’t take the risk.”

“Yeah, you can,” Carl says, stepping out from around the corner of the building.

George just looks at him, then back at me. There’s a funny look on his face, a combination of surprise and anger. “What . . . ?”

“I asked him to join us here,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind.”

George stares at his son. The boy looks back at him. For what feels like a long, painful time, neither of them moves, and the moment aches like an overworked muscle.

“Carl,” George says. But that’s all he’s got.

“Dad, I don’t care about getting kicked out,” Carl says. “I hate this stupid school anyway, and Brandt Rush is a total tool.” For the first time I see him smile. “Come on. Will and I need to borrow your truck.”

By the time we get to Crowley House and George leads us up to Brandt’s suite, I’ve figured out most of the rest of the plan. Not all of it, but the big parts, enough to know what needs to happen next.

George uses his master key to open the suite, and I send Carl in alone. A moment later he comes back and nods at us.

“He’s not there. Must still be in the hall shower,” Carl says. “We’ve got time.”

Carl and I slip inside, crossing the main room to where the coffeemaker is still brewing up freshly ground French roast.

“You sure this stuff is real?” I ask, glancing down at the vial that Carl brought with him.

“I think so,” Carl says. “Dad said he confiscated it from some kids last month.” He hands it over to me, and I can tell something’s bothering him. “Hey, Will?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry about hitting you in the face with my lacrosse stick. And punching you. And throwing you against the wall.”

“I’m sorry too.” I bump fists with him. “We all make mistakes.”

Lifting the carafe, I pour half the vial into the coffee. Carl and I duck out of the room, all three of us heading back down the hall to wait in the stairwell. Within five minutes, the bathroom door opens and Brandt comes up the hall with a towel wrapped around his waist and goes into his room. Music starts blaring inside—some kind of hip-hop anthem—and Brandt is singing along through the closed door.

Suddenly the voice stops. The music keeps playing, but Brandt’s not singing along with it anymore.

I don’t actually hear the thump, but I’m pretty sure I feel it. It sounds like a giant falling to earth.

I look at George and Carl. They look back at me.

“Game on,” I say.

We carry Brandt down the stairs and out to the truck in his towel and lay him in the back. He’s not quite unconscious—he keeps mumbling and drooling on himself—but he can’t seem to move his arms and legs or open his eyes, which makes everything a whole lot easier. George covers him up with a blanket.

“Where to now?”

I hesitate. Up until this point, my thoughts have been running a mile a minute, but they have finally collapsed at the side of the road to catch their breath.

Then Carl smiles. “I know the perfect place.”

Thirty-Four

BY THE TIME I MANAGE TO UPLOAD THE photo onto the school’s website, I’m pretty sure the drugs have worn off. It wasn’t a particularly heavy dose to begin with, and although I’m not around to see the details, I’m picturing Brandt waking up on the floor of his suite sometime around three p.m. with a throbbing headache in his skull and the sound of someone—maybe several concerned someones—pounding on the door.

When his parents got my anonymous email linking them to the Connaughton homepage, they must have panicked and phoned Dr. Melville, because it was the head of school who called George and demanded to meet him in Brandt’s room immediately. I can speculate about this part with some confidence because it’s George who describes the scene to me later that afternoon, while he and I are gathered in his truck with Carl out by the statue of Lancelot Connaughton.

“Did he see the picture?” I ask.

“I don’t see how he could’ve missed it.” George grins, looking down at my MacBook, where the official Connaughton Academy homepage now features a full-screen, high-resolution image of Brandt, stark-naked, duct-taped to the statue of Lancelot Connaughton. You can’t actually see anything R-rated because of the way we wrapped the tape, but Brandt’s got a big, dreamy smile on his face, and the message below the picture couldn’t be more obvious.

TO BRANDT,

SO GLAD YOU COULD FIND THAT

“SPECIAL SOMEONE” TO MAKE ALL

YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!

MOIRA

“Moira McDonald.” Looking at the screen, George chuckles and glances at me. “You know, signing her name to that was a stroke of genius.”

“Thanks,” I say. “It just seemed like the right thing to do.”

“They’ll kick you out for it,” Carl says.

“No doubt.” I nod. “It was worth it. Especially the part where we got to yank the tape off him before he woke up.”

“He’s probably still counting what’s left of his chest hair,” Carl says.

George shakes his head and laughs. “Wherever Moira is,” he says, “I hope somebody sends her a link to this page before the administration takes it down.” He casts a sidelong glance my way. “Hey. You mind if I ask you something?”

“What?”

“You’re the new kid on campus. You haven’t been here a month. You didn’t even know Moira.” He frowns and nods at the screen. “So why are you doing this?”

“I need something from Brandt,” I say, “and this is the only way I could get it.”

“What?”

Before I can say anything, my cell rings. On the other end, Brandt is apoplectic, so furious that I can practically feel the spit flying through the earpiece.

“I got the cash,” he shouts. “Two million. Tell your boss we’re coming back. I’m going to take that piece of crap down tonight.” I hang up the phone without responding.

George cocks an eyebrow. “What was that?”

“My long-lost buddy,” I say, holding out my hand for George and Carl to shake. “It was a pleasure working with you, gentlemen.”

Something tells me I won’t be seeing them again.

Thirty-Five

AN HOUR LATER, I’M WAITING NEXT TO THE STATUE OF Lancelot Connaughton when Brandt comes striding up with an expensive-looking leather briefcase. His jaw is clamped and his eyes are slits. Any sign of playfulness is gone from his face now. Even in the twilight, I can see that he’s squeezing the handle hard enough to make his knuckles go white.

“Where’s your driver?” he snarls.

I glance at my phone to check the time. Six o’clock. “He’ll be here.” Clearing my throat, I look down at Brandt’s briefcase and say in a lower voice: “He’s, ah . . . he’s not sure Mr. McDonald can cover a bet that big,” I say. “Two million is a lot of coin. There might be a house maximum.”

“Too bad,” Brandt says. “Your boss shouldn’t be running an online casino, then, should he?” He pokes me hard in the chest as if the message requires additional punctuation. “Don’t wuss out on me now, Humbert.”