I looked at the key. Etched deeply into the tarnished brass were three alphanumeric characters: B-17.
“What the hell is that?” Brad muttered, stepping forward to look.
Before Trent could answer, the heavy double doors of the main administrative building swung open. Principal Vance stepped out into the crisp air, clutching a leather binder. Vance was a tall, sharply dressed man who always seemed to be calculating his next move. His silver hair was perfectly combed, his posture rigid.
He was clearly coming to see what the shouting was about. “Mr. Sterling, what is the meaning of this disruption?” Vance demanded, his voice a polished bark of authority.
Trent immediately dropped the pieces of the cane, pointing an accusatory finger at Joe. “Your gardener got in my way, Mr. Vance. I tripped over his cane. It broke.”
Vance sighed, looking deeply annoyed at having to deal with a maintenance issue. He walked briskly down the steps and approached us. “Liam, get him up. We have guests arriving for the alumni dinner in—”
Vance’s voice died in his throat.
His polished dress shoes came to a halt right next to Max. His eyes locked onto the brass key lying on the red bricks. The afternoon sun hit the engraving perfectly. B-17.
I was kneeling just three feet away, and I saw the exact moment Principal Vance stopped breathing. The color drained from his face with terrifying speed, leaving his skin the color of old chalk. His pupils dilated. The leather binder slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground and scattering papers in the autumn wind. He didn’t even notice.
Sweat beaded instantly on his forehead. This wasn’t annoyance. It wasn’t anger. This was absolute, visceral panic.
Vance looked at the key, then snapped his gaze down to Old Joe, who was still on the ground, holding his shoulder, staring blankly ahead as if he didn’t understand what was happening.
“Where…” Vance choked out, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard, a trembling hand reaching up to loosen his burgundy tie. “Where did that come from?”
“It was in the old guy’s stick,” Trent said, suddenly looking unsure of himself. The bully’s arrogance was faltering under the weight of the principal’s terrifying reaction. “It’s just a key, Vance. What’s the big deal?”
Vance ignored him. He took a stumbling step backward. He reached for the heavy two-way radio clipped to his belt. His hands were shaking so violently he fumbled with the plastic button twice before pressing it.
“Security,” Vance barked into the radio. His voice was breathless, manic. “Security, this is Vance. I need immediate lockdown on the sub-basement. The old archives. B-17.”
Static. Then a confused voice replied. “Sir? The archives are scheduled for cleaning…”
“Nobody goes in!” Vance screamed into the radio, losing every ounce of his polished demeanor. “You seal the doors right now! You post two guards! If anyone goes near the B-17 vault, you physically restrain them! Do you hear me?!”
“Yes, sir. On our way.”
Trent, Brad, and Kyle exchanged bewildered glances. Even they knew something was deeply, fundamentally wrong.
Vance slowly lowered the radio. He looked back at the key, his chest heaving. He crouched down, his hand hovering over the cold brass. He looked as though touching it would burn him. He carefully picked it up by the very edge, slipping it frantically into his jacket pocket.
Then, Vance’s panicked eyes shifted from the spot on the ground directly to me.
I realized what I was looking at. A principal terrified of a secret room, and a key hidden in the cane of a deaf groundskeeper. A chill colder than the October wind crawled down my spine.
“Liam,” Vance said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, dead whisper. The panic in his eyes was instantly replaced by a predatory darkness. “Leave the gardener. Come with me to my office. Right now.”
CHAPTER 2
The walk from the courtyard to the administration building felt like walking to the executioner’s block. I left Joe sitting on the cold bricks, still holding his bruised shoulder, while Brad and Kyle nervously backed away. Max stayed with Joe, whining and licking the old man’s hand.
I wanted to stay. I wanted to help Joe up and take him to the nurse. But when the headmaster of Oakridge Academy tells a scholarship kid to follow him in that tone of voice, you obey. Your entire future depends on it.
The administrative wing was heavily carpeted and smelled of lemon polish and expensive leather. It was completely silent. The alumni dinner guests hadn’t arrived yet, and the administrative staff had gone home for the day. Vance led me into his massive corner office, slammed the heavy mahogany door shut behind us, and locked it.
I stood awkwardly by the door. The silence stretched until it felt like a physical weight pressing against my chest.