“I want to see him for myself,” I answer finally, and Vic shares a long look with Oscar before nodding briefly. “That’s possible?” I continue, glancing between the two of them. “You know where to find him?”

“We know,” Vic answers, and then the six of us take a quick cigarette break in the shade before the bells toll, signaling the end of lunch.

After school, Cal leads us across the campus like he’s lived here a hundred years and knows every fucking shortcut there is to know. We get the keys to our cars from the valet—Jesus, this place is like the goddamn twilight zone—and we head into the ritziest part of Oak Park, to a café that sells coffee that legit gets shit out of a wildcat’s ass. It’s called like, kopi luwak or some shit, and it really and truly is coffee made out of beans eaten by an Asian palm civet cat and then crapped right back out.

That’s what rich people do with their money: eat cat crap.

“Thirty-five dollars for a cup of coffee that may as well be kitty litter?” I choke as we step inside the fancy-ass establishment with its highbrow idiot consumers. Back in the day, coffee producers would just search for the cat dung and sell it—apparently the cats only eat the highest quality coffee cherries and the animal’s digestive enzymes do … something that makes it taste good.

Now, with the industry booming, humans have ruined things the way they always do: most of the kopi luwak sold is from caged wildcats force-fed crappy coffee cherries the way geese are brutally force-fed to make foie gras.

Yep, another ‘ridiculous political cause’ for me to hunt down and be annoyed by. Like, for real-real, I absolutely hate rich people. Mostly billionaires. Billionaires are the devil. Trillionaires are like … anti-matter that consumes and feeds on society like a cancer.

Eventually, we find Donald, sitting alone at a table in the corner with his phone in his hand and the faintest whisper of the word Rapist scrawled across his forehead. How the boys knew to find him here, I’m not sure. Since this is part of my list fulfillment, I decided not to ask. The mystery is what makes it fun.

As soon as our shadows fall over Don, he glances up and there’s this moment of instant recognition. Sure, on the night of the assault, we were wearing masks, but I know that the second he lays eyes on us, that he’s already heard the rumors, that he already knows Havoc was responsible.

Whether or not he remembers that ‘southside whore’ he bragged to his friends about, I’m not sure.

“Holy fucking shit,” he breathes, and then I see it, the quickening of his pulse, the way his hands shake, the frantic bounce of his knee as he jostles his foot against the stained concrete floor. “You.”

“Me,” I reply, giving him my best wolf’s smile, my dog of war smile, my Havoc smile.

“You’re the one that …” Donald trails off, his attention moving from me to Vic, from Aaron to Hael, Oscar to Callum. He turns his shit-brown gaze back to me again, fear streaking through him like lightning. The background noise of the café is pleasant enough—even if they do serve cat crap coffee. I take a seat across from Don and he has a visibly strong reaction to my presence.

“Do you remember when you roofied my drink?” I ask him, leaning forward and really getting a good look at his face. “When you invited your friends to get a taste of a southside whore?”

Don just stares at me like he’s Scrooge and this is some old-timey story where I’m the ghost of Christmas motherfucking past, and he’s actually allowed redemption of some sort. The thing is, this isn’t his story: it’s mine. It’s always been mine.

“Answer my wife. Now.” Victor snarls those words out in just such a way that Donald startles, like he’s just had those brand-new balls of his kicked.

“I remember,” Don manages to choke out, shrinking in on himself. “The rumors … Havoc …” He swallows a lump in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing, the debonair rich-boy brat he used to be long gone and likely so damaged that he won’t make another appearance in this lifetime. “You’ve come back to kill me.”

I keep smiling, really trying to savor the joy I feel in this moment, watching a monster be hunted by bigger and better and kinder monsters.

This is exactly why I wanted to see Don, a nightmare from my past reduced to ashes. It makes the awful memories of him more palatable somehow, the way seeing Neil Pence buried alive did.

“Not yet,” I tell him, giving him a look that I hope he takes very, very seriously. “But we will. If I ever hear about you hurting another girl, you will suffer. And don’t think we can’t find you. No matter where you run, no matter where you hide. Be it in this country or any other, I will use the billions of dollars my husband is inheriting to make sure that you suffer.”

Don flinches, and I wonder briefly if I shouldn’t just have him killed. But then, seeing the way he shrinks and cowers and shakes is too much fun.

“Do something good for the world, Donald, or we’ll find you—I can promise that.” I sit back in the chair and then nod toward the door. “Now, get the fuck out of here before I change my mind.”

The rich pompous dickhead scrambles out of his seat, leaving his kitty litter coffee behind. Frankly, I’d rather drink my own piss, so I push it aside as the boys pull up chairs around me. For once, we’re not being stared at like we don’t belong here—the Oak Valley uniforms make it look as if we do—and I decide that I don’t like that either.

I don’t want to blend in; I want to stand out.

“Shall I order us a round of coffee?” Oscar asks, and I nod, lifting up a single finger in warning.

“But it cannot be cat crap coffee, just the regular stuff,” I say, and he laughs. He actually laughs at me in a way that isn’t derisive or mocking or dry. A shiver takes over me as Oscar stands up, Hael joining him at the counter to help carry the order.

“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” Vic clarifies, his hand sliding up and under my skirt so that he can stroke the silky inside of my thigh. That’s when the shiver turns into a quaking heat that I know I’ll have to slake before the day is out. We haven’t been fucking nearly enough. Granted, we survived a school shooting, a miscarriage, and enrollment at a school for people who think cat poop makes a delicious hot beverage, but I don’t intend on finishing out my senior year as a nun.

“I’m okay with it,” I say, glancing over at him. “Donald isn’t worth our time. Did you see the look on his face? You neutered him.” My mouth twitches and I find that I’m having trouble keeping the grin off my face. “Physically and emotionally. Besides, the last thing we need to do is put a body in the ground when we’re so close to having all the others swept under the rug as a result of the GMP.”

“Police Girl incoming,” Aaron murmurs as Cal’s blue eyes target Sara Young through the window, and I sigh.

I’m not surprised to see her here, to be honest: she’s been trying to get ahold of me since Friday.

I stand up before she can approach our table, meeting her halfway across the café with my arms crossed over my chest.

“I have to say, you look lovely in that uniform,” she tells me as Constantine peruses the menu on the wall above the counter.

“Kopi luwak,” he says, whistling sharply. “Thirty-five dollars a cup? For cat shit?”

My mouth twitches, and I try not to hate him just a tad less than I did a minute prior.

“Thanks. What do you want?” I ask as Sara glances over my shoulder and lifts a hand in greeting to the boys, her mouth stretched tight. She readjusts her attention over to me.

“Do you want to talk about why you went to Portland and visited a club owned by the GMP? Oh, and also, the racetrack thing, could you stop doing that? We’ve traced your routes, so we know all about your shortcuts and your secrets.” Sara turns her head from side to side in time with those two words—shortcuts and secrets—in a way that reminds me of the mother I used to wish I had. One who was kind, but who also cared enough to be concerned if it looked like I was faltering or flagging in life.

If Ms. Keating and Sara Young had been my parents, I’d be a whole different person than I am right now.

“I don’t hate you anymore,” I tell her, and she lifts a brow, dressed in a casual suit with a loose silken blouse underneath, very FBI of her. “Just thought you should know that. Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about. My friend Vera was supposed to work a party and then got freaked-out at the last second. She called us for a ride, but by the time we got there, she had some guy picking her up.” I roll my eyes, and I don’t care if Sara believes me or not. It’s a good enough story and kind of close to the truth, too.

“How did you get into Oak Valley Prep?” she asks, like she’s fascinated by me at the same time she simultaneously wishes for me to be both good and also evil, just so she can be right and bust my ass. “Your grades at Prescott High were atrocious—although I have to say, that Ms. Keating only ever has wonderful things to say about you.”

“How is Ms. Keating by the way?” I ask, shifting slightly and catching a brief glance of my reflection in one of the large windows that looks out onto the oak-lined street. I don’t look like me right now, like Bernadette Savannah Blackbird. Shit, I could almost pass for one of those rich, spoiled assholes in my short, pleated skirt and jacket. “I can tell you matter-of-factly: the bald-headed, middle-aged dude that works as the VP for Oak Valley doesn’t have one-tenth of her charisma or her integrity.”

“Breonna Keating is doing just fine,” Sara says, still smiling at me as café patrons stream around us and Constantine orders an espresso at the counter. “Did you know that she risked her life to save some of your peers? Instead of locking herself in her office as per the school’s active shooter protocol, she braved the hallway, took a shot to the arm, and rounded up all the kids who were cutting class or smoking. She got them offsite and made the first call to the police.”