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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The reflection looking back at me is one that is grossly familiar and foreign at the same time.
Chestnut haired and red-lipped, I appear as a more glamorous version of my true self. Massive Dior Spirit 2 sunglasses block the glaring rays of the sun beaming upon the blue waves of the sea crashing onto the beaches of Montauk.
"Miss, your Bloody Mary?" The waitress brings forward a concoction of olives and celery drenched in vodka and tomato juice towards me. I thank her as the person I'm meeting, Jack Greene, arrives by the entrance. He scans the crowd before seeing me, a figure with a dark-haired wig swept into a chignon clasps with a pearl-detailed barret.
"Shouldn't you be in school?" he muses as he takes the seat directly opposite of me.
"Uncle Jack," I sigh as I remove my sunglasses, "You know I don't do school. Do you want a drink?"
"Yes," he turns to the waitress with a dazzling smile, "Whiskey neat."
The waitress jots down the order on a notepad and takes off without a word. I am distinctly indistinguishable in a Marine Serre top tucked into a pair of Issey Miyake Homme Plissé trousers with black respectable Prada pumps.
"So?" I prompt once the waitress leaves.
He sighs, taking off his spectacles to rub the glass with his Brook Brothers argyle sweater. "I found it."
My heart skips eight beats. "The report?"
He nods grimly.
"What did you find?"
Reaching into a Tom Ford briefcase, he presents me a white folder and slides it over to me. "I haven't looked at it but Devon told me it's not good."
I sigh. I steel my nerves in preparation for what's to come as I open it. My eyes scan through the details, my throat closing up as more information is revealed to me. One thing that strikes me is under the 'Narrative/Notes' segment it says:
Suspect Orson Calloway is reported to have only two beers.
I grew cold. The medical report said he had a BAC of 0.212%. Two beers meant he was still sober enough to write his name, run a marathon, drive a car. Granted, he was only fourteen when he made the decision to get into the driver's seat but I've been around Orson enough to know he was not a lightweight. The medical report submitted into the court case and the original police report had two different conflicting stories on the state of Orson's intoxication. My breath was closing in.
Shit, shit. What happened then? Why did Orson lose control of the car if he wasn't even that drunk?
I flipped through the pages with the pit inside of my stomach growing into a bigger black hole, only to stop at a section where it read:
There were no skid marks on the pavement, suggesting the driver had not applied the brakes, or that they had not been functioning well, before reaching the stop sign.
