“Of course, Clarke.” And then he hung up.
It’s two in the morning when I sneak out of my dorm room, triple checking that this time Blakely is actually asleep. The last thing I need is more rumors. Her soft snores sound throughout the room as I pad around gathering things I’ll need for my little field trip over to the student center. Slipping on my favorite black hoodie and yoga pants, a pair of worn in sneakers and throwing my hair up in a high pony, I could pass as going to the dance studio again if I pass by someone.
I get outside and into the main building without issue before slipping out the new lock pick set that Nova got me for my birthday a few years back. He laughed like giving it to me was some milestone for him and spent hours showing me how to use it. I never did get very good, but with enough time I do well enough to get into what I need to.
You’d think it would be harder to break into the dean’s office though, but even with my lackluster skills I cracked in here in under a minute. He needs a new lock system. I think about telling him that, but never know when I’ll need access again. It’s best not to make my own time here harder than it needs to be. I do, however, make a mental note to tell Nova. He’d be so proud.
I feel like I should be wearing more black as I sleuth around the room, going through cabinets and searching for paper files, the earth colour of my pants makes itself known against the darkness. But I didn’t want to draw more attention to myself by looking like the partandcommitting the crime. I’m careful about putting everything back exactly as I found it but there is no paper trail, no student records, nothing.
I look over begrudgingly at the computer, knowing exactly why that would be and hating the fact that this school relies so heavily on technology. I prepared for it when I packed for this little excursion, but I just prayed I wouldn’t need it. Sighing and grumbling to myself, I trudge over to the computer, careful to not make noise in my petulant child routine and open my laptop.
I get everything hooked up and access the system I use crack passwords. It’s a basic system, but I’m not trying to get into the government, just a school so it’ll do. As the system does its thing, I lean back in the chair, cringing a little when it lets out a squeak of protest. The desk is plainly decorated in two silver frames showing pictures of a family portrait, who I presume Mr. Kain’s wife and children with him, and one of just him and the woman.
In both photos he’s strait-laced, a small smile in place and dressed in an expensive suit. He’s handsome enough, and his wife is beautiful, the two kids dressed similarly to their parents. It was a hallmark picture of the typical family cliché. The dean though, he gives me basic guy vibes, like super vanilla with his wife but wants to bang his secretary on the desk kind of deal.
I laugh at the thought when my laptop pings to let me know that I’ve been given entry into the system. It’s organized as hell, and I’m thankful for it because it takes no time for me to find what I’m looking for. “Gotcha”, I murmur to myself as I transfer the files for a Miss Blakely Spencer to me. I’m about to log off and pack my shit away when Clarke’s words ring in my head. This is about the Spencer’s. Blakely may be their only child, but they’ve had a child in their care for years. What if?
The mouse hesitates over Mr. Nash Churchill’s file. He could be instrumental to this operation. I weigh up the likelihood of his involvement in whatever it is that Clarke needs, it’s just information he wants. Information doesn’t hurt anyone.Lie,the little voice is the recesses of my mind whispers. I, better than most, know just how damaging information in the wrong hands can be.
This all feels so wrong! I didn’t even hesitate to take Blakely’s information, but here I am weighing up the morality of Nash’s. All because he we had a couple of mediocre interactions. I groan loudly and click out of the system and sneak back out into the hallway. I can’t do it. Nash is a good guy, a pain in my ass, but he's kind and cheeky. His secrets and involvement in his foster family is his business. Besides, their charities and foundations Clarke needs information on. How bad could it possibly be?
I’m wandering outside, thinking about how the hell I’m going to get any of the information Clarke needs. The records will help me track down physical information, maybe some personal information, but little else. For fuck sake, I’m better off google the Spencer’s and seeing what comes up at this point. It’s clear from the messages between Blakely and her parents that she knows nothing. However, some messages alluded to her parents encouraging her to trap some poor sod. The exchange of methods on how to force the situation was revolting, fake pregnancies and blackmail. Nothing was off limits.
If I thought she was horrible person before this, the discussion of stripping anyone of their rights had me seeing red. If I ever find out who they are talking about, I will not hesitate to make it known. Fucking disgusting rich people politics. Peyton had plainly told me how it was in the rich world. Girls spread their thighs in exchange for rings, and the men deal with them like business transactions. But to see the lengths they are willing to go is criminal.
The light sounds of an acoustic guitar strumming caress my senses. It’s a low tune, with a haunting beautifulness that draws you in. I look into the surrounding darkness, but I can’t see anything, or anyone. I let the music guide me and follow the sounds until it gets louder, and I find myself standing in front of the tower that I saw the first day, like a scene in my own version of a twisted fairytale.
I stand there, staring up at the curved window, pushed open and a beautiful man sitting on the edge, with grey eyes that I’d recognize anywhere. He doesn’t see me, and I don’t make myself known, content on just listening to him play, strumming his guitar and picking at the strings with such tenderness that it bleeds through the sound. Then he starts to sing. My heart beats at an agonizing pace against my chest listening to his rhythmic sounds, Leo’s voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard.
He croons with low rasps, subdued heartbreaking melodies, like he’s filled with constant sorrow, and my chest swells in response with my own painful emotion, as if everything he’s letting out is being directly absorbed by me. I feel it all. All the pain, the anger, the hopelessness, his cage. And I understand none of it. The way he sings pours out a desperation for something, anything. Leo feels trapped, a caged bird singing behind his confinements. Despite his wealth, his status, his looks, the different freedoms he is afforded than mine but his limitations are just as restricting. A cage, no matter how pretty, is still a cage.
I stand there until the sounds die out into the night, and the silence is once again in affect, before I slink back into the shadows, doing what needs to be done. But the whole time, I cannot erase the sorrow filled sounds from my mind and the troubling need to know what put them there.
I don’t know when I fall asleep, but it was some time after the sun rose. I wake, slumped in front of my laptop to the sound of loud banging on the door. Taking a moment to get my bearings, I recap last night, the break-in, Leo’s singing, then coming back here and doing exactly what I said I would do and googled the Spencer’s.
I’m unsure how fruitful the information I’ve found would be because according to google George and Leona Spencer are regular donors in twenty plus charities and frequently begin new non-for-profit foundations, then transfer ownership to someone who can successfully run the organization. On paper they seem like outstanding, altruistic people. But paper means nothing in the hands of the power.
The most successful of the Spencer’s endeavors by far is the Lost Girl Foundation. The records I found show that it’s been running for more than fifty years and was instrumental in how the Spencer’s lifted their name and status in high society. A truly noble deed. Underprivileged girls, born into poverty, addition, and prostitution are given a second chance by going to the institution to get an education, a job, guaranteed shelter, and food, learning to strive for more. I was up well into the early hours watching success stories of girls who’ve entered and come out the other side of the program.
The pounding on the door pulls me from my brain haze and I shuffle over to it still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Before I can pull it open though, the yelling starts in. “Girl, I know you’re in there! Open this door right now! If you don’t, I’m going to break it the fuck down.”
Jesus Christ, who spit in her cereal this morning. I open the door just as she goes to pound it again but she’s not fast enough to pull back her fist and ends up walloping me directly on the head. It wasn’t hard, but I just woke up and my muscles are all tense from sleeping at the dining table. I let out a pathetic little whimper and rub at the sore spot as Peyton stares at me wide eyed.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry. I was knocking, and you had answered, and… well it doesn’t matter, you were there. Here, I brought you coffee. Now scoot and let me in.” She pushes through the door, handing me a large takeaway mug before sitting herself down on the lounge.
I mumble out a quick “forgiven”, as I make my way over to her, releasing a deep yawn as I sit in the armchair. I can barely keep my eyes open as I take small methodic sips of my drink and Peyton is kind enough to give me a minute before starting her onslaught. She waits me out, but eventually I give her a small nod to proceed to which she wastes no time.
“You weren’t in class today, and I didn’t see on campus at all. You weren’t answering your phone.” She speaks so quickly, like she’s trying to rush through her point.
My brain is still trying to catch up, but there is one thing that she mentions that has me giving her a questioning look of my own. “I fell asleep as stupid o’clock this morning, which is why I wasn’t in class, I haven’t left the room since last night. Also, it’s Friday. We don’t share any classes on Fridays.”
She rolls her eyes like I’m missing the damn point. I think I am because I don’t understand why all that is cause for alarm. But I give her a moment, letting her think and ask in her own time. She’s clearly worked up over something and needs to get it off her chest. Suddenly my skin prickles with the memory of yesterday’stalkwith Jack. Did he talk to her afterwards? Is this her telling me we can’t be friends anymore?
She still hasn’t said a word. Pushing my head back against the seat, I close my eyes, willing myself to stay strong, reminding myself that I’ve made it this far without a girl friend and I can make it without her.Lie. It’s a freaking lie, and I know it. Devastation threatens to consume me as my chest begins to ache, it’s one thing to have never had a friend like this before, but it’s entirely different to lose it.
Her voice is quiet, but I listen intently, needing to hear the words so that I can steel myself and find a way to move forward. “Nash told me you weren’t there, he’s worried. He said Jack cornered you yesterday and grilled you, and I thought… I thought you were avoiding me because of it.”
I’m shocked into silence. Out of everything, that is the last thing I thought she was going to say and the laugh bubbles out of me uncontrollably. Partially in incredulity, the other in pure relief. She thinks Jack’s big brother routine scared me away. I thought his routine scared her away. And in the end, we are both ridiculous. I shake my head at her, waving off her concerns.