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Sasha suddenly says, "Holly told me that you took her student ID and used it to buy books at the bookstore."

I freeze, uncertain what to do. I should be coming clean right now, telling them that I'm an identity thief and a liar. But if Holly gave another story, then I'm not sure I can contradict it.

What a hypocrite I am. I turned the Elites into social pariahs, but I'm not prepared to be one myself. Holding my tongue, I nod in confirmation of Sasha's story, which is close to the truth yet so far away from it at the same time.

"Oh, Brenna." Chrissy sighs, words bursting out of her all at once. "I guess we all make mistakes, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I just hope it isn't too bad for you," she continues, a dark undertone in her voice. "I mean, girls like Holly—those powerful rich girls—they like to get their revenge. The things she could do to you... of course, this is why you're living in the broom closet now, isn't it?" Her mouth turns down in a frown of sympathy that my jaded eyes are only just now seeing as fake. "Poor Brenna. We'll still be there for you."

Sasha quickly adds, "Yeah, just because you're not one of the Rosalinds anymore doesn't mean we can't be friends. You're the only one who really likes to listen to me talk about knife sharpening techniques."

Sasha is an odd one in ways I wasn't expecting, I'll give her that, but there's something nice about the unexpected among these pampered, privileged girls. "Thanks. Because of you, I'll never put a chef's knife through a dishwasher. And I know just exactly the type of switchblade that's legal for me to carry in the state of Connecticut."

She beams at me, patting the back of my hand. Tricia also adds her own promise that she won't abandon me in my time of need.

"After all," she murmurs, "it was just books. It's not like they give you scholarship kids much of a stipend. Though if you ever need anything like that again, just let me know. My dad will pay for basically anything I need as long as it's below four figures."

I smile and thank her, even as internally I twist at adding yet another lie to my ledger full of sins.

It's all just part of surviving at Coleridge, I'm realizing now. No one here is exactly what they seem. If they were, they wouldn't make it to graduation day.

* * *

When I get back to my tiny closet beneath the stairs, I start working on my final Legacies post, the one that will make everything I've been through all semester worth it. This is finally the chance to clear my brother's name, to lay his soul to rest, and to let go of the fire that burns inside me.

I don't want to believe that Lukas is the boy who assaulted Mariana Marks.

But without any kind of confirmation from the girl herself—who said in her email that the video is all she has, and the actual night is a blur—the only thing I have is that tattoo. If the administration here won't do anything about what happened to her, and she's too afraid of the consequences to try, I'll have to be the one in the firing line.

I just have to make sure my post only mentions the truth, and most importantly, that I keep Mariana's name and face out of it, along with my brother's involvement. That kind of video editing isn't the sort of thing I'm well-versed in, so I wind up staying up late into the night, watching video tutorials and trying to figure out how to do this right.

It's only as I'm drifting off that I realize I've completely forgotten to do any of my homework. Ruefully, I reflect that Holly won't need to turn me into the administration to get me expelled. All she'll have to do is wait for me to fail out on my own.

Chapter 43

Six Days Later

It's so late at night that even the most dedicated students have emptied out of the library, leaving just me alone in its stacks, staring at a button that says "schedule for publishing."

There's been no sign of Cole since the blog post went live and cross-posted to social media. The scandal with the governor has been all over the news, though. People are speculating that he didn't want anyone to know the kind of friends his only son had. Some conspiracy theorists even claim that Michael Yates Jr. must have been the one who drove the car and killed the girl and the driver, not Cole; otherwise, the governor wouldn't have gone to such lengths to cover it up. The pressure is on for him to resign, pending an investigation into how involved he was with the scandal—and how much of it was just his son and his communications director, who has already been arrested.

Because of how high profile this exposé was, Legacies is getting more attention than ever. That means eyes on all the other scandals, including Blake's tirade and Tanner putting that boy in the hospital. It also means that when I post information about the ankle tattoo Lukas DuPont shares with Mariana's alleged rapist, there will be thousands of eyes on it within hours.

Meanwhile, though, the boy I see in English class every day still has the same clear blue eyes. He still treats me courteously and doesn't seem to understand why I've been putting off our next meeting about our project. I think he believes it has something to do with the kiss we shared. Maybe Blake even told him about what happened during the haunted house, though I doubt it.

I keep looking for the monster in his eyes that drugged and raped a girl, but I just can't seem to find it. That must be my own delusions. The tattoo doesn't lie.

With a grimace, I set the post to publish in the middle of the night, because maybe it'll be easier to let it go live if I'm not awake when it happens. Then, gut churning, I close my laptop and slip it into my bag, ready to return to my shoebox of a room and crash for the night.

As I'm walking past the stacks and towards the stairs to the lower level, though, I hear a sound that sends adrenaline rushing through me all at once: a cry of anguished pain. Then a girl's voice, sobbing, saying, "Stop! No, please."

Instantly, I'm turning on my toes and running in the direction of the cries. They came from the back of the library, near one of the study nooks. I didn't even know anyone was here with me, but whoever they are, I can't leave them high and dry.

Coming around the corner, I see a tall boy with blonde hair pushing a girl up against the wall. He's holding her wrists tight in one hand, her arms yanked above her head, and his hand is shoved up under her shirt. There's a struggle between them as he pushes his hand further and further up.

"Hey!" My voice is trembling; I feel like I'm going to puke. "Get off of her."