I knew Brittany well enough by now to take her threats seriously.At St. Augustine's Prep, she maintained her social position the way our father maintained his business interests—through a network of favors, implied threats, and occasional acts of public humiliation. I'd watched her reduce a sophomore to tears for wearing a dress similar to hers. I'd seen her friends pour ink into backpacks, spread rumors that got people ostracized, create an ecosystem of fear that everyone pretended not to notice.So when I walked to the garage the next morning and found the Bentley's back seat drenched in red paint, I wasn't surprised.Brittany stood by the passenger door, dressed in pressed linen, her expression arranged into theatrical regret. "Oh no. I was going to offer you a ride, but there's been an accident. Paint everywhere. Such a shame."Marcus tossed me a folding umbrella. "Mom and Dad both took the other cars. You'll have to walk." He paused, the pause of someone checking for loopholes. "
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