Page 8 of Corrupted By You

“We’re keeping a close eye on everyone who was around or had a business transaction with Armel in the last six months.”

“Fair enough.” I rolled my shoulders back. “Thank you for calling—”

“There’s more, Zed.” His voice wavered.

I laid my empty glass on the mantel. “Tell me.”

He hesitated. “An anonymous tip came in a few hours ago…with the name of the potential shooter.”

The short silence that followed had me clenching my fist and my muscles pulsing with awareness.

“It’s you, Zeno.” He gulped. “They said you killed Armel.”

CHAPTER 3

Girl Boss

Darla

“St. Victoria has an anti-bullying policy, and you are well acquainted with it, Flynn. This time, you’ll get off with detention and help the janitor clean the crypt downstairs. Next time, it’s an expulsion. Trust me, you don’t want me to call your mother and discuss your behaviour.”

The pimpled-faced teenager sitting in my office sank even lower in his chair with shame. I had no problem kicking out little runts like him. I’d done it before and I would do it again.

“Word of advice, Flynn. If you like a girl, teasing her—bullyingher—is not the way to show it. You will find, as you grow older, that kind of behaviour is not tolerated amongst women. You will apologize to Penelope and, if you wish, tell her how you truly feel without the need to be a condescending member of the male population. Understood?”

“Yes, Principal Hill,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing.

“Good. You may leave now.” I shot him a scornful expression. “But remember what I said. You will apologize to Penelope and stay away from her. No more games, Flynn.”

God, he looked so red, I thought he’d burst into tears.

I shooed him off and he ran with his tail between his legs.

The door shut and I sagged in my seat. It was midday and I already needed a drink. Preferably a nice piña colada while vacationing in the Hamptons.

A soft knock resounded against my closed door.

“Come in.”

Ella popped into the office with a grin. “Knock. Knock. Room service.”

I let out a tired chuckle. It was a quarter to noon and like clockwork, Ella arrived every week at the same time with Pakistani takeout. The aroma of spice, rice, and chicken tikka wafted as she drew closer.

We weren’t teens anymore and we had many commitments, but we made it a point to meet at least once a week for lunch. Life was hectic, but you had to spend time and effort on the right people. That’s what Ella and I were to each other. The right people. Best friends. Sisters.

Some weeks we met up at our favourite restaurants with Hera, another high school friend, and other times we drove to each other’s work places. I texted Ella today that I was backed-up with paperwork, so she came to me.

Ella sat in the seat previously occupied by Flynn while I made room on my desk by moving things aside.

Today, she wore a light blue pantsuit with her hair thrown up in a ponytail and dainty gold jewelry, while I wore a pink tweed blazer and skirt from Maison Sereno with my black hair coiffed in my signature chignon and pearls around my neck.

Like a uniform, I wore the same outfit every day. Most days I wore black and on the days where I felt a little bit bold—on the days where I knew my mother wouldn’t be around in the morning to scold my choice in colour—I donned light pastels.

Diane Hill was a firm believer that women of higher authority should only dabble in black or grey.

“You’re the best,” I said to Ella when she placed our Styrofoam containers between us.

“I know.” She dug into her food after handing me my plastic knife and fork. “How’s your day going, darling?”