Wealth, status, and beauty define the elite of Kensington Prep. Every one of them possesses the ability to get away with anything and everything they want, unscathed and remain as privileged and superior as ever.
But Amory Scout decides that tim...
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I'm hunched over my laptop, watching Orson from all the cameras I've bugged in his room a few weeks ago. I see his father standing in his doorway and they're having the conversation his father wanted me to hear that morning.
"You told me your interview went well. So why did you get rejected?"
Through the static-y camera, I'm watching the exchange between Orson and his father while munching on Ezekiel toast with avocado and egg.
"It's not like I'm rejected, Father," Orson grits his teeth, "The letter from Harvard says waitlisted. And besides, I already got into other places like-"
"I'd already called some very important people to come to our celebratory dinner," he says. "You said your interview went well. I took that to mean you were ready to be seen-"
"You want to take it up with the dean, Father?" Orson practically shouts; it's so disconcerting to see Orson so ruffled and emotional; every word and sentence he utters is so measured, every smile and smirk he gives out is calculating and pre-planned so it's strange to see him lose control like this, especially right next to his father, who is composed. "I killed it, Dad. The dean smiled after our interview. Has he ever smiled at you? At anyone? He was practically beaming."
"Maybe it was because he was laughing at you. Did you ever consider that?" His father shoots back in a calm but venomous voice.
"You know I should've known you'll turn out such a disappointment. At least that's what you're good at. The consistent, constant stream of disappointments. At this point, I should just always expect that from you and not be surprised when you come up short."
Orson stays silent but his eyes are angry. I can see it from here. Orson doesn't fight back, he just listens to his father's vitriol remarks like he has been doing since he was a child. "I guess it's not your fault," his father softens but I can see from the slight ghost of a smile on his father's face, he's not planning to be kind.
"After all, who could blame you? It's not your fault you came from those weak genes inherited from your mother, that black hole of a woman who birthed you as a conspiracy to ruin it for me. You just can't help nature."
And his father leaves, shutting the door behind him. Orson sets his jaw and I see him walk over to the tray of liquor sitting by his study table- a bottle of Louis XIII Cognac with two highball glasses. He ignores the two glasses and uncorks the cognac, then he begins to down the bottle.
As he pads back to his bed, he notices my school bag left. He hesitates for a moment, then as expected he takes my school bag and opens it. He ruffles around, then pulls out my iPhone- my decoy phone- and Georgina's iPhone. He frowns. And now he got his answer for why I was caught looking through Georgina's room.
Through a mini camera, I've hooked up on his bed's dashboard, over his shoulder I see him unlocking Georgina's phone. He has trouble with the passcode a few times before eventually succeeding with the passcode by entering Georgina's birth year, then he looks through her phone, checking her social media- her messages on there, her group chat with her European friends and then finally, as I wanted, he opens up her text messages. And just like that, the crimes of a dead girl are firmly established.
