“Where did you hear that name?” he asks, and I grimace. Would giving Mr. Murphy away do me any good right now? Or would I just get him in trouble? Because I don’t want that. He’s a good person, even if he is a coward. He did care about Jenica, and he tried to protect me, too, in his own way.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” I say as Dad stands up and comes around the front of his desk, eyebrow twitching. I back up because I know at this point that I’m in pretty deep shit here. “The point is: I do know the name. And I know that you confirmed what I already thought: that someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Charlotte,” he says, but there isn’t a lot of heat in his voice anymore. For a second there, he just looks like a frazzled, middle-aged man who needs a vacation. “You are a child.”

“Young adult, eighteen in a month,” I murmur, but he isn’t listening to me anymore than usual.

“It’s not your job to search for the answers. Your job is to go to school and listen to what I tell you. I’m not making things up just to make your life miserable. There are people looking into this, but those people are not you.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me, really looks at me. “When I came to Adamson, I’ll admit, I was ignorant. I didn’t know what was going on, and maybe I didn’t want to. But you’re going to graduate at the end of the year, leave this place behind, and start a future. Until then, you have to abide by my rules. Don’t you believe that I’d do anything to protect you?”

“Nothing will happen to me in London, Dad. The guys will be there, and really, it has to be safer than here, right?”

“Eric Warren is a leader in this ‘cult’ you’re so fond of discussing, Charlotte. You’re not going to his home—that’s the end of this discussion.”

“But—”

“But what?!” he screams, and I have to blink several times to make sense of what I’m seeing here. Dad. Breaking down. Turning purple. Losing control. “Do you want to wind up at the end of a noose like Eugene Mathers? Charlotte, I’m trying to protect you!”

My eyes water, but I’m not exactly sure why in that moment. So many emotions are tumbling through me that they seem impossible to make sense of. It’s a storm inside of me, with a little bit of rain, some clouds, but some sunshine, too.

Dad cares. He just isn’t good at showing it. He won’t let me go to London. He’s afraid for me.

I bite my lower lip.

“This is a very dangerous organization with centuries of history, influence, and power. You need to stay here, on this campus, where Ian and Nathan can watch you.”

“Ian and Nathan?” I ask, giving my dad a look. “The librarian and the shitty security guard who smells like Mountain Dew?”

“Charlotte, I have a migraine, and I need to lie down. Please. Go back to the dorm and stay in your room. Between that write-up for bursting into my home, and the one you got for missing your room check on Halloween, you’re creeping into dangerous academic territory here.” Dad fails to mention that pretty much every student in the school got a write-up for missing curfew on Halloween, but thus is his way. “You’re safest here. If I’d known what I know now, I never would’ve sent you to California.”

“The boys can hire private security for me,” I start, but Dad’s not listening. We had a moment, but that moment’s over. He walks away from me, out the door of his office, pausing just briefly to survey the five boys standing in his kitchen.

“Sir,” Church begins carefully, but that shiny glitter that used to fill my father’s eyes at the sight of our school’s best student has faded away to a steely irritation known by any teen who’s ever had an overprotective parent. It’s this well-meaning stubbornness that sometimes defies logic and reality. “If it’s Eric Warren that makes you uncomfortable, then perhaps we truly could stay at my parents’ place.”

“Son,” Dad begins, and I know then that he’s getting deadly serious. The word son usually only comes out of Headmaster Carson’s mouth when he’s in full disciplinary mode. Church is in trouble. “You put a ring on my daughter’s finger without asking my permission—we are not friends.”

“Oh my god, you’re such a boomer!” I choke out, falling back into old patterns. With a deep breath, I settle myself and try to resist the flinty glare my father’s just turned on me. “It’s not 1605 anymore. I’m not your possession, and Church doesn’t have to ask you. The only person he had to ask was me.”

“Well, when’s the wedding?” Dad asks, trying a different tactic as he turns on me. The twins, Spencer, and Ranger stand back, unsure where to interfere in this verbal tussle. At least I know that if Dad tries to grab me again, that they will step in. “Because at least when all this is over, you’ll be forced to admit to your lies.” He heads out the door, breezing past the boys and heading for the stairs as I stumble after him. “And by the way, you can’t leave the country without a passport.”

“I have a passport,” I admit, pulling it from my pocket as dad pauses with one foot on the bottom step. He looks over his shoulder with a mix of helplessness and fear. More than likely he’s realizing that Church Montague’s gotten me a passport without consulting him. Somehow, that means Church managed to get a hold of all the required documentation on his own. Admittedly, that’s equal parts fascinating and terrifying to me, too. “What if I stayed with the Montagues? What if … I promised not to see Eric Warren or go anywhere near him?”

Before Archie can respond, there’s a knock on the screen door.

“Hello? Is anyone home? It’s okay, I’ll come in. I’m coming in.”

The door swings wide, opening in for a magnanimous woman with blond hair and blue eyes.

“Mother,” Church starts, blinking rapidly in a rare moment of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“To see you, silly,” she says, planting a lavender kiss on both of Church’s cheeks and leaving lipstick stains. The twins and Spencer snicker until she turns her attention to them, ruffling hair, and kissing faces. Even Ranger isn’t exempt. Even I’m not exempt. “My future daughter-in-law!” she says, eyes tearing up as she yanks me close for a floral-scented hug, and then cups my face to kiss both my cheeks and my forehead.

Church's mom is impossible to miss, this radiant woman in a floppy white sunhat, gloves, and a dress that hugs her lithe form. She stands out like a sunbeam in the dark, sometimes dreary atmosphere of Adamson Academy.

“Mrs. Montague,” Dad says, giving me a thunderous look. To be fair, I had no idea she’d be showing up here today. I hold my palms up and out in apologetic surrender. “How may I help you? The academy encourages parents to call before stopping by for a visit or a tour.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she says, waving her gloved hand around dismissively, a garment bag draped over her other arm. “I was in Nutmeg to work on a little business project and thought I’d come up to give Charlotte a present. Was is this I hear about staying with us? Charlotte is always welcome in our family.”