Chapter 63

The world screeches to a stand-still. 

He has a knife. 

He has a knife. 

There’s a knife in his hand. 

The metal glints under the light, the blade no wider than a sharpened pencil, but it freezes the blood in my veins all the same. 

“Ian,” I breathe again. “What are you doing here?” 

Keep him talking. 

You just need to keep him talking. 

You’ve been here before. 

Except, I haven’t – not like this. 

I’ve feared for my life before. I’ve feared for my life with Adrian. I’ve had my back pressed against the wall. I’ve had his hand wrapped around my neck, and wondered if it’d be the last sensation I’d ever experience. 

But I was only ever collateral damage to Adrian. 

A nuisance threatening to talk to the cops about Mickey. A walking liability with one too many of his dark secrets. An external factor that could, at the end of the day, still reason with him. 

But this, whatever’s about to happen…

This is personal. 

And that scares me more than anything Adrian’s ever done. 

“Ian,” I try again. “What’s going on?” 

Under the flickering light, the shadows that stretch across his visage are jagged and sharp – he looks nothing like the plump, baby-faced boy I met a week ago. 

His mouth twists into a scowl as knife-like as the weapon in his hand. “You know why I’m here, Poppy,” he says quietly, but there’s enough silent rage in that sentence to fill the room. 

It takes just about every ounce of courage to look him in the eye. “I don’t, Ian. I just stopped by to grab someth –”

“Don’t play dumb,” he snaps, and takes one threatening step in my direction. 

“I’m not!” I curl into the workbench, as much of a physical retreat as I’m able, and the edge digs into my spine. “Listen, Rick’s –” 

“In Birmingham. Helping out a buddy today,” Ian says. “He left ‘bout an hour ago. Almost forgot his phone and everything.” 

A wave of nauseating horror rolls over me. 

Oh my God.

There’s no school paper. 

There was never any school paper for me to pick up. 

“You’re the one who texted me,” I realize. “From Rick’s phone. You lured me here.” I lean against the work bench, my legs no more functional than a pile of instant jell-o. “Did Rick –” 

Ian laughs, cold and sharp. “‘Course not. I deleted the texts.” 

Which explains the message full of question marks he sent. He had no idea what I was talking about. 

“You got here quicker than I expected,” Ian muses. “I wasn’t even sure you’d check the garage.but…” 

Panic seizes me. 

I should’ve just left it alone. 

I should’ve taken my chances with Rick’s vague text. 

I should’ve spent the day with Adrian and done anything else.

And now…

Ian’s not particularly tall or stocky, but he is armed, which means, on some level, he’s prepared to hurt me. Maybe even kill me – and unless I’m able to wrestle that knife away (doubtful), turning this into a physical altercation’s not going to end in my favor. 

So, I’m back to square one. 

Keep him talking. 

“You clearly went to a lot of trouble to get me here.” My voice’s shaking – my entire body’s shaking – but I manage to find the words. “So, you might as well tell me why.” 

I know I’m off to a bad start when his face visibly darkens, and he sneers, “I already told you. Don’t play dumb. You know why you’re here.” He, at the very least, doesn’t try to get any closer. “I want to hear you say it, Poppy.” Desperation leaks into his tone. “I want to hear you admit it.” 

I swallow. “Ian…” 

“Say it!” His voice rattles the garage walls. 

Another spike of panic soars through me as I throw my hands up in surrender. “Alright,” I gasp. “Alright. I’m sorry. You’re right. I know why I’m here.” Another swallow. “It’s Lionswood. You know about Lionswood.” 

His jaw ticks. “What about Lionswood?” 

My stomach knots. 

Of course he’s going to make me say it out loud. 

“I…” My throat constricts around the confession. This is a hundred times worse than any nightmare I’ve ever had. “I cheated to get into Lionswood.” 

His green eyes darken. “You cheated me to get into Lionswood.” 

My admission is quiet. “Yes.”

“No.” He shakes his head vehemently, and then points the knife in my direction. “You cheated me. Say it.” 

My eyes are drawn to the knife. No more than three feet of space separate us. All he’d need to do is lunge forward and…

“I cheated. I cheated you,” I blurt out. 

A heavy sigh escapes him, and I realize I’m not the only one who’s shaking. Ian’s trembling with the force of something…anger or nervousness, I’m not sure.

I use the momentary silence to my advantage. “How did you find out?” 

His green eyes root me to the spot. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it,” he explains, sounding calmer than he did ten seconds ago. “That conversation we had.” 

Right. 

The conversation I (stupidly) gave little thought to. 

I’d been on edge after our first conversation in this garage, but then Adrian showed up, and all things Ian Creasey faded to the back of my mind. 

Stupid. 

Fucking stupid. 

“I mean, at first, I was just so impressed.” He chuckles, but it contains nothing but venom. “You got into Lionswood. Fuckin’ Lionswood. I’d already convinced myself that place was a pipe dream because nobody gets into Lionswood. Nobody anywhere, but ‘specially not here.” He jerks his knife hand through his hair. “But you did. You got in. And you were so fuckin’ reluctant to even say it too, I could tell. Like it didn’t matter. Like you were ashamed. Which is crazy. Nobody’s ashamed to go there, ‘specially not anyone that tested well enough to get a full-ride scholarship.” 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he’s seen through me. 

When Ian confronted me that day, I hadn’t had time to prepare – to strategize. I’d simply hoped for the best.

And I’d been wrong. 

“So, I kept thinking,” he continues. “About your scholarship. About how smart you must’ve been to get in there. Smarter than anyone else. Smarter than me.” My breath hitches as he swings the knife around. “I’ve got an IQ of 140, did you know that?” 

I shake my head. 

“Got tested when I was eight years old,” he proclaims. “That’s when the guidance counselors started shuffling me around. I mean, you know these public schools, too many kids, not enough resources. They did what they could though. Moved me up a grade. Started offering high school courses, college courses…and eventually, Lionswood.” 

Even now, I can hear the hunger for it plain in his voice. Time hasn’t soothed the ache. 

“I didn’t really buy into it,” Ian says. “Not at first. I’m sure you know – the tuition’s more than most people will be lucky to make in their lifetime.” 

He gives me an expectant look, and I reluctantly nod in agreement. 

“And then I learned about their scholarship program. You know the one – they take two students every four years, whoever has the highest SSAT scores in the country.” He outlines the criteria I already know like the back of my hand, but at least he’s talking. He’s not currently threatening me. 

“Every counselor I spoke to was sure I’d make it,” he says. “I studied for months. Advanced mathematics, reading comprehension, vocab…” He suddenly glowers at me, alight with anger. “Did you study, Poppy?”

“I…” My tongue might as well be lead. “I tried.” 

He offers me a cruel smile. “Oh, you tried?” 

I clamp my mouth shut. 

How long have we been in here? 

If I screamed, would someone come to my rescue? Would someone come to my rescue? 

In this neighborhood, it’s a roll of the dice – and Ian could do a lot with that knife before anyone reaches me. 

“You still haven’t told me how you figured it out,” I say quietly, determined to keep the focus on him, not me.

For a split-second, his eyes narrow like he’s caught on – but he obliges. “You lied about it,” he says. “And I didn’t remember, not at first…but then it clicked. That day, in the testing center, you were there. A couple rows back.” His eyes flick to the top of my head. “I remember your hair.” 

I nod. I’d thought as much. “Ian –”

“Shut up!” He growls, and brandishes the knife in my direction. “You’re not the one with questions here. I’m done talking. It’s your turn.” My heart thuds as he takes another step forward, the raised knife only inches from my face. “And you’re going to tell me everything.”

I loose a shaky breath from my lungs, the gravity of my situation sinking in: if I refuse, he’ll stab me. And if I explain, he’s going to want to stab me. 

At least the latter will buy me a little more time. 

I look him square in the eye. “If I tell you, are you going to let me go?” 

His lip curls into a snarl. “We’ll see when we get to the end of the story.” 

That’s hardly reassuring, but I’m not sure I have much of a choice. 

“I knew I wasn’t going to get in,” I start. My voice trembles. “Even before I took the test, I knew I wasn’t going to get in.” I bite my lip, unsure if this next part will trigger another bout of anger. “But I knew you were taking the test. You talked about it for months, and I figured…” Another shaky breath. “I figured if I was going to get into Lionswood, you were my best shot.” 

Anger flares to life in his green eyes, but his voice’s eerily calm as he asks, “How did you switch the tests?” 

Weirdly enough, the worst part of the story’s the easiest to recount. “Well, that took some planning,” I explain. “There weren’t a lot of kids signed up for the test, so I knew the proctor would be paying a lot of attention.” 

“Till they weren’t,” he sneers. “Anna. She must’ve been in on it too. You bribe her or somethin’?”