Page 140 of The Ruthless Note

What exactly is Dutch planning? And why does Sol seem different than usual?

I throw my head back and groan. It feels like I’m missing something. Now, I kind of wish I’d used the fake ID guy to break into Jinx’s app. I’m sure she would have information that could help me figure things out.

With no other recourse, I move on to my next class. On the way, I pass an empty classroom. Miss Jamieson is at the desk, gathering books into a bag with robotic movements.

I wave, but she stares through me as if she’s lost in another world. I debate whether I should disturb her or not when she distractedly grabs her coffee and swings it toward her purse.

“Whoa! Miss Jamieson!” I sprint ahead and grab her hand before she dumps liquid all over her papers and books.

She startles and glances up at me. The zoned-out expression is immediately replaced with a professional smile. “Cadence.”

“Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah. I’m fine.” She stands and flicks at the hem of her fluffy blue skirt. “I actually wanted to speak to you.” Her eyes flicker away. “Given some… circumstances, I haven’t been able to talk to Jarod Cross about your case yet. But I plan to. Keep your chin up and don’t worry about Miller.”

My smile falters. Everyone keeps telling me not to worry, but if I have no control over fixing the problem, then worry is the only thing I can do.

Miss Jamieson hurries to the door, glances both ways and then darts out. My eyebrows scrunch.

What iswitheveryone today?

Maybe it’s because I’ve been at Redwood since early this morning, but there’s a stillness in the air that feels like the calm before the storm.

Redwood Prep is shifting, morphing, making room for something. I hope thatsomethingisn’t as sinister and cold as The Kings.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-FOUR

DUTCH

Miller has the good whiskey. I can tell just by the way the amber liquid shines in the glass. If this was a cordial visit, I would have asked before I touched it. Since this is a different kind of meeting, I pour two fingers of whiskey into my glass and take a sip.

Damn. That is good.

The door opens.

Miller’s eyes get big when he sees me. They get even bigger when he notices the whiskey in my hands.

I don’t know which offends him more—my presence or my confiscation of his alcohol.

“Who let you in here?”

“Your secretary.” I lean against his desk and tilt my glass so the amber liquid sloshes against the rim. It’s not hard enough to spill over, but it courses to the very edge.

Miller doesn’t lose his composure. He shrugs out of his jacket, walks over to the desk and pours himself a glass.

“Aren’t you too young to be drinking alcohol?”

I snort out a laugh. “Let’s not waste time asking rhetorical questions.”

Miller walks around to his desk. He has eyes like Christa and a painfully thin mouth that is nothing but a lifeless, disappearing slash across his face.

If those are Christa’s family genes, it’s no wonder she went and popped a bunch of chemicals into her lips.

He takes a seat in his fancy office chair, makes a huge production of smoothing down his tie and gestures to the chairs facing his desk. “The last time my daughter ran in here begging me to help you lot, she almost got arrested.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Only because I made it happen.” He rolls up his sleeves. “If things had spiraled, I would have made sure she didn’t go down alone.”