I slam my foot down on his instep. He jerks it back, swearing. "What the fuck was that for?!"
"Talk," I demand.
His jaw twitches as anger hardens his eyes. "You don't belong here."
"What?" Of all the things for him to say, I wasn't expecting something so ... obvious.
"There are prerequisites to being admitted here and you don't meet any, other than being a fuck up and having a brain. You're not Ivy League material. Your family isn't wealthy or even notable. This school has a reputation, and you don't fit. So, why are you here, Lana? Because of what happened that night? Or because of who you were with?"
I'm speechless for a minute. The dots aren't very hard to connect. But why would Niall arrange to have me sent here. How is that protecting Joey and Parker? And how does Brendan know any of this? Because who I was with wasn't in any report.
"How much of what ... happened that night do you know?" I'm careful not to admit to anything in case he's just making assumptions.
"What are you really asking, Lana?"
"Do you know the truth?"
This time, he stops walking, a bemused expression on his face. "The truth?" He studies me, a glint in his eyes. "Now I'm intrigued. The truth is the only thing worth knowing. What are you hiding, Lana Peri?"
"I didn't ask the question as a challenge to find out! I just ... need to know what you know."
"About Allison?"
"Allie," I correct him.
"Sucks what happened to her." The sympathy doesn't reach his eyes. Maybe he's a sociopath, and that's why I can't get a good feel for him. He has no emotions to read.
"Is she ..." I swallow. "Is she still alive?"
"It's still listed as an assault, not a homicide, if that's what you mean."
I relax, slightly. But the fact that Brendan knows any of this is unnerving.
"Did you do it? Push her?" He asks so calmly, like he wouldn't be surprised if I answered yes.
My jaw tightens. I burn holes through his skull with my glare.
I storm past him, not sure if I'm walking the right way. But I can't be within three feet of him right now. He's been trying to get inside my head since I met him. And now he is, and I hate him even more for it.
"Go right," he calls out as I near an intersection. When I turn, I notice the geometric topiaries that lead to the Great Hall's umbrella tables.
I grab a banana, muffin and an iced coffee, having lost my appetite on the walk over. I seek out the corner table I keep gravitating to at each meal. There isn't anyone else in the dining room. I still haven't seen the fifth studen
t that's supposed to be here with us.
"Hi."
I shake out the thoughts that had me staring and at nothing and find Ashton sitting next to me, with a cup of coffee and a greasy egg and cheese sandwich--hangover food. "Thank you so much for letting me in last night. This summer would've sucked if I got caught."
"No problem."
"What were you doing downstairs?"
Before I can answer, Brendan sits across from us with a plate of poached eggs, grilled tomato and asparagus. I can't help but make a face. That is not breakfast food. At least not for anyone under forty.
"Good morning, Ashton." His eyes drift over every inch of her. "Did you two plan your outfits?"
Ashton's wearing a torn sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder and a pair of sweatpants. Her hair is barely contained in a low bun, with strands haphazardly sticking out. Even hungover and without a hint of make-up, she's still gorgeous.