Chapter 64

And here it is: the worst part of the story. 

“No.” I shake my head. “She wasn’t. A couple months before, we got close, and I managed to convince her to take the SSAT.” 

His eyes widen, but I continue. “And you remember how strict they were about what we could and couldn’t bring. Only pencils and a bottle of water.” 

Ian’s eyebrows furrow. “Don’t tell me you rubbed a bunch of orange peels on her pencils or somethin’.” 

I rub the back of my neck. “No, it was the water. I put a little – just a couple of drops – of orange juice in my water. Then, during our last bathroom break, right before the proctor took our tests, I switched them out.” 

“And nearly killed her,” he adds sharply. 

“But I didn’t!” I shoot back. “It was just a couple of drops. Enough to cause a reaction, to freak out the proctor, but not enough to kill her.”

I’d spent those months before asking Anna all sorts of questions about her rare but severe allergy to oranges.

I also knew she kept an EpiPen on her at all times.

For the first time since he ambushed me, Ian eyes me with a look that isn’t anger – but disbelief. “You poisoned her.” 

I bristle. “Barely.” 

“So, what? While everyone was worried about Ana dying, you switched the tests? Scratched my name out and added yours?” 

“Right before the proctor ushered us all out of the room,” I answer quietly. 

Tense, suffocating silence descends on the garage as Ian absorbs the truth. 

I don’t move. 

I don’t breathe. 

I don’t do anything but remain hopeful that, if I stand here long enough, he’ll mistake me as one of Rick’s dusty power tools and leave. 

“You…” He shakes his head. “Do you have any idea what the fuck you’ve done to me?” His voice breaks – and so does my resolve. 

“You have no idea how sorry I am,” I plead. I step toward him. “Ian, I –” 

“Sorry?” And he’s bursting with rage again, flinging the knife at me with careless abandon. “You stole Lionswood! You stole my entire future!”

I flatten myself against the work bench. “I know, I –” 

“You don’t know!” He shouts. “Do you know that I spent months beating myself up about that test? Months combing through the practice questions so I could see where I fucked up. Once I got my score, I went to the academic counselor and begged – actually begged – to see the questions I got wrong.” 

My gaze lowers to the floor. “I’m sorry.” 

“Stop saying that,” he hisses. “Your apology means nothing to me, Poppy. It doesn’t change anything. I mean…” A manic laugh tears it way out of his throat. “Holy shit. I could’ve been studying with peers just as smart as I am. I could’ve been taught by world-renowned professors. And, right now, I shouldn’t be applying to community college just to save money. I should have Ivy Leagues lining up at my door with full-ride scholarships.” His gaze sharpens. “Can your ‘sorry’ fix any of those things?” 

I flinch. “No.” 

“Then, please, tell me what the fuck I should do with you.” 

“You could turn me in,” I blurt out, something close to a plan taking shape in my head. 

He snorts. “Turn you in? What, like the cops are going to care about one incident of academic fraud that took place four years ago?” 

“Lionswood will care,” I tell him. “Their academic reputation’s sacred. They can’t have this kind of scandal threatening to stain it.” 

“Or they’ll just cover it up,” he retorts. “You’ve already taken four years of an education from them. What’s another couple of months?” 

“Not if you threaten to go to the press,” I say. “They’ll have to do something – quietly, of course. They’ll kick me out without a diploma. Probably blackmail me from every college in the world.” 

Ian remains silent as he weighs my offer, and I try not to release a visible sigh of relief when the hand holding the knife collapses at his side. 

Please just say yes, and let me get out of here. 

“How do I know you’ll actually own up to it?” His tone’s tinged with skepticism. “You’re scared. You’re willing to say anything just to get out of here. I doubt you’ll be so generous once you’re back at school. You might even try to convince the faculty that I’m the liar.” 

My mouth turns dry. “Well…”

“I want a video confession,” he interjects. “Here and now. I pull out my phone and you confess to everything.” 

My stomach plummets. “Alright.” 

Ian backs up so that I’ve got enough room to breathe, digs the phone out of his pocket, and maybe it’s the distance fueling my courage, but I ask, “You know this looks like a coerced confession, right? Me, standing in a dingy garage, looking scared out of my mind. It should be audio.” 

He snorts. “Why? So you can tell people it’s fake? That I hired someone to imitate you? Or used AI? I don’t think so.” He glowers at me from behind his phone. “You’re not getting out of this, Poppy. You better make it convincing.” He certainly sounds calmer than he did five minutes ago, but the dangerous edge in his voice makes me rethink making any more snarky comments. 

He points the camera right at me, and I, against every instinct screaming inside me, try to pass the fear plastered on my face off as remorse. 

I state my name and my status at Lionswood as well as Ian’s – but leave out some the darker aspects the story: namely, that I poisoned a classmate and I’m now completing this admission under duress. 

And it isn’t until Ian lowers the camera that the reality hits like a well-aimed kick to the ribs. 

Ian can – and probably will – do anything he wants with this video. 

Send it to Dean Robins, sure, but he could put it on the internet too. He could send it to every college in the country. 

I’m going to lose my future.

No Pratt, no Harvard, and most likely, no Adrian…

My heart seizes with panic. 

A private fraud’s one thing, but a public one…

Not even he’ll be able to protect me,. 

And chances are, he won’t want to. 

I hear my own voice playing through the phone speaker, admitting to everything, as Ian rewatches the confession, too engrossed in the video to pay me any attention. 

Adrenaline floods my extremities. 

I’m sorry. 

I keep my eyes fixed on Ian. 

You don’t deserve any of this. 

I lean back till I feel one of my hands close around Rick’s adjustable wrenches. 

But I’ve worked too hard to watch my future go up in flames now. 

And then I swing. 

The adjustable wrench collides with Ian’s skull. Surprise flashes through his eyes, and then he crumples to the ground.