Peter Williams. Zephyr’s father.
The library had a decent amount of information about him right there on the shelves. Born outside Philadelphia in 1964, the son of a Senator and a mining heiress. He was raised at the top of the Pennsylvania elite in the late 60s and early 70s. The Williams family counted the Barneses and the Duponts among their closest friends. Peter went away in 1982 to attend Stormcloud.
At least, that’s what the official Stormcloud publications said. If I looked at anything written from outside the school—The Wall Street Journal, for example, or Fortune—the years that young Peter spent here were a limbo. He just . . . disappeared from this world and then returned two years later.
Two years, I thought. He was only gone two. . . . By 1985, Peter was back stateside.
More importantly, a couple of profiles indicated that the Williams family had faced comparatively hard times upon Peter’s return. His father’s campaign money dried up suddenly, and he lost re-election. His mother sold most of her family’s mines for pennies on the dollar.
It was almost like Peter was kicked out of school, and his parents’ bank accounts were drained simultaneously.
“Interesting choice for research, Miss Quinn,” an arrogant, sonorous voice growled over me.
I yelped in shock. Behind me hovered Professor Gianas. He stared down at my many opened articles.
“As great alumni of Stormcloud go,” he continued, “Peter Williams is middling.”
“In your opinion,” I replied, trying to draw him out.
“His success is significant but narrow. It can be measured by the balances of his bank accounts and no other way. No one will remember the tenth richest man in the world, not even when he tries so hard to be memorable.”
Gianas stared hard into my eyes, and I did my best to conceal my discomfort with the conversation.
“Is that what you came here to tell me, Professor?”
“I saw you there, pouring over the biggest minnow in the modern pond, and I thought to myself, ‘Such a smart girl with so little vision.’ A man like Peter Williams only matters in relation to those greater men he strives to be.”
“Who are the greater men?”
“The ones I discuss every class, Miss Quinn—who changed the course of history and whose riches endow this school.”
Staring up at Gianas, my mind strained to understand his meaning.
“Also,” he continued, “I saw you studying so intently and thought it best to warn you to put away your books. Mr. Hurley is on his way in.”
My eyes shot up in alarm. Gianas was right. Arvo was standing in the vestibule next to the librarian’s station. Dressed in a form-fitting polo and a pair of equally snug gray denim trousers, he scanned the room, presumably for me. Gianas and I were mostly hidden on the second level. We could see Arvo from above, but it would take a moment for him to spot us.
For whatever reason, Gianas chose to help me. He closed the books on the table before me and tucked them under his arm.
“Good day, Miss Quinn.”
He crossed paths with Arvo on the stairwell. Between the professor’s marked girth and Arvo’s broad shoulders, they almost didn’t make it. Arvo gave him an annoyed scowl and proceeded to my table.
For a few seconds, Arvo and I stood in silence, regarding each other. This was our first time alone together since the pool. I hadn’t a clue what he was about to say or what I could possibly answer. We heard the door latch shut as Gianas exited.
“I don’t know why you felt the need to speak up on behalf of Sol Stamos,” Arvo said, “but it only seems fair that you have the full story on him.”
He placed a single sheet of paper on the table and slid it across to me. It was a receipt for a wire transfer from a Stamos family account to the bursar of Stormcloud Academy. The sum was huge, in the low eight-figures. The wire had been made last year, on the same date as my admission letter. There was also a memo: Tuition of B.Q.
“Is this—?”
“You know what it is.”
“But why?”
“Revenge, Biba. Sol’s father was a King in the 1980s. He was wrongfully expelled for a crime he didn’t commit. The dishonor tore at him, and he shot himself in the head when Sol was a child. For some reason, Sol’s mother blamed your family for the expulsion.”
The bottom dropped out inside me. I felt empty and like I might vomit all at once. This didn’t make sense. Or did it? I’d focused on Peter Williams first, but maybe Dimitri Stamos was the way I should have gone after. Only he was dead.