I ducked into a room off the hall and pressed my back against the wall, taking deep breaths. I tipped a wineglass to my mouth, looked around, and froze.
It was a richly appointed office, commanded by a large desk. Bookshelves held rows of thick, cracked-spine tomes. A room full of clues.
I set the wineglasses down and moved behind the desk. Two silver-framed pictures of the Marquis were propped up in prominent positions. In the first, he crouched, grinning, next to a petite but unmistakable Darla Covington, the former Secretary of State. In the second, he wore a forest-green cap and gown—a Whitney cap and gown—and gripped the women’s rights activist Jane Freeman by the shoulders.
Who the hell was the Marquis?
With mounting dread, I bent over the desk and rifled through a stack of papers.
There—a form, with the Whitney seal. I leaned closer and stared at the signature slashed across the bottom: Reginald T. Carruthers. Underneath, it read President of Whitney College.
The Marquis was the president of Whitney. The Paters had infiltrated my school. I thought back to eight years ago, sitting in the dean’s office next to a stone-faced Laurel. Being patted on the shoulder, reassured the dean would do everything in her power to help us. But none of that help had ever materialized. Were the Paters already in charge by then? Had it been a performance from the beginning?
Understanding dawned. The Pater Society was more than Don’s secret sex club, a place for like-minded men to indulge taboo, old-fashioned desires. There was something deeper, more ambitious happening here. Don had a plan, and its roots stretched all the way back to my senior year, if not earlier.
A loud bell rang, and I dropped the form, snatching the wineglasses and speeding from the room before anyone could catch me.
The whole party was gathered in the living room, their attention held by something at the front. I snuck quietly through the crowd, turning to find what everyone was looking at. The Marquis—President Reginald Carruthers—stood next to Katie.
The Marquis beamed. Even this far away, I could see Katie trembling.
He swept a hand. “Welcome back, brothers.”
Around the room, Paters raised their glasses—including a man standing close to me. I hadn’t noticed him at first, but now I looked. Dark hair, graying at the temples, broad-shouldered, thick brows. He was handsome. I wondered for a moment why he was here—as if being attractive disqualified him from wanting to hurt women—before he sensed me looking. His lips curved in a smile, eyes traveling down my throat to rest on my necklace. I felt the weight of each pearl like a knot around my neck. He tipped his glass in my direction, and I wrenched my eyes away.
Not Don, the terrible voice whispered. But not far off.
My palms were damp.
At the front of the room, the Marquis ran a finger down Katie’s arm, and I shivered. “I’m proud to say our Eve tonight is my special daughter Katie.” He turned his twinkling gaze to her. “Take your bow.”
She curtsied, and the Marquis laughed. “Now your clothes, please.”
As if she had a choice.
With slow hands, she unfastened the buttons down the front of her dress. It fell away, and she reached back to unhook her bra, sliding it down her arms, tugging down her panties. Naked, she was gaunter than I’d guessed. My stomach clutched with phantom pain. I remembered being that hungry.
The Marquis took a cigar from his pocket and lit it, puffing, taking his time. Then he dragged something from behind the piano: a bucket of crimson liquid, thick and viscous. “Katie, dear. You do the honors.”
She bent over the bucket and stuck her hand inside, pulling it out to drip red all over the floor. Her eyes reached into the crowd, jumping from face to face, breathing hard. Then she smacked herself across the face. “Undeserving.”