Chapter 26 | He Who Kills Last

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Hunter Thomas Singleton:

"Azalea!" I screamed, shaking her back and forth. "Azalea!" I rose my head frantically, eyes darting around the dim classroom before returning my gaze to Azalea, whose body lay limp and lifeless in my arms.

"Come on, Azalea," I begged. "Please wake up."

The lights above me rained down a shimmering artifice as shadows huddled just beyond the dull glow, filling the surrounding corners and crevices with waves of darkness. As I shuddered, kneeling on the floor, I felt a single breath escape Azalea's lips and brush across my shoulders.

I gasped, my heart thumping in wild beats as slowly, her eyelids began to twitch. Tenuous gulps of air filling her lungs, she finally forced a single eye open.

"Azalea," I exhaled with relief, hugging her tightly against me.

"Hunter," she said, her voice weak and hoarse. "Hunter, I just had the scariest dream."

"It's okay, Azalea," I whispered. "You're safe now."

"No, Hunter," she shook her head. "White Robe is still out there."

"I won't let him hurt you, Azalea," I tried. "I won't let anything happen to you."

Her eyes fell. "It doesn't matter, Hunter," she said lowly. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"...Azalea, what do you mean?"

She hesitated. "In my dream, Hunter, you were there. You told me I was beautiful...that I was...perfect."

"It's true," I spouted. "All of it! You are beautiful, Azalea."

"But the one thing you didn't say," she continued softly. "The one thing you didn't say is that you loved me."

I froze.

"Hunter, I was so scared," she breathed frantically. "When you went to Callista's party, I was so scared. Scared that she was going to take you in, that you were going to like it. That you were going to love it...and love her! But more than that, I was scared that you wouldn't love me—that you never had at all."

"Azalea, no, of course not—"

"Hunter, please, I have to know," she whispered. "...Do you love me?"

I embraced her tightly, pulled her close to my chest. "Yes, Azalea. Of course I love you."

She exhaled. "Then nothing else matters." Her eyelids fell shut, and her body grew heavy in my arms.

"Azalea, no!" I screamed. "Azalea, you can't give up—not now!"

CLICK!

I spun around, jolted at the noise of the door as its knob twisted and the woodframe opened. A sliver of light fell through the crack, streaking across my face, and I squinted at the figure who stood at the entrance to the room.

"...Hannah?" I loosened my grip on Azalea. "Where's Alex?"

She sniffled, swiped at her eyes as she headed inside from the hallway. "Lace Face got him," she quivered. "I ran for help as fast as I could, but I couldn't find you anywhere." Tears began building above her cheeks. "Hunter, what if we're too late? What if she kills Alex?"

"Hannah, we can't think like that," I said. "Come on. Let's get Azalea somewhere safe. Then we can go look for Alex."

Hannah nodded slowly.

I slid my arms around Azalea's shoulders and lower back, tightening my grip around her body and preparing to lift when—

CLICK!

I gasped. "Hannah, did you hear that?"

CLICK!

"Oh, no," she squeaked. "It's White Robe—he's coming for us!"

I released my grip on Azalea, left her lying on the floor, then sprang to my feet and sprinted over to the shining gray instructor desk at the front of the classroom. I ripped open the topmost drawer and starting shuffling through it.

Come on, my brain whirred as I hurled aside loose-leaf pages and study-abroad fliers. There's gotta be something we can use...a stapler, a pen—anything!

"Hunter..." Hannah quivered from across the room, "I'm so scared."

I ripped open the bottom drawer, the crash of the metal echoing through the desk's edge. Inside the drawer, the silvery head of a long wooden hammer glinted under the fingers of light that reached it. I gripped its handle in under a second, then I hopped over the desk and rushed to where Hannah stood by the door. "Stay close to me," I warned in a whisper before swiveling my head around the room again, sweeping both the illuminated center and the shadowed edges that—Huh?

"Hannah," I puzzled, "is that...another door?" As I squinted at the shadows along the wall to the left of where she and I stood, I noticed for the first time the outline of a metallic lock and the frame that surrounded it. No more than ten feet away, the room's auxiliary exit stood shrouded in thick shadows.

CLICK!

The doorknob to the right of us began to twist again. Peeking sideways through the square-framed glass situated in the wood, I spotted the pointed shadow of a white hood as the door began creaking open.

"That's him," I whispered, then turned to face Hannah briefly before hesitating where I stood. My eyes flew to the middle of the room, where Azalea still lay unconscious on the wooded floor. I tightened my grip around the hammer in my hand, zeroing in from the shadows on the figure robed in white as he took his first lumbering step inside the—

CLICK!

The unlatching of another lock—the second door?—snapped through the air just as I'd steeled myself to strike, and a storm of swift, clacking strides came flying out of the darkness. I gasped, swirling backwards just as a sharp stiletto heel hurtled into the side of my thigh.

The flaring burst of pain screamed through my leg, and I swung the hammer, but another sharp kick slammed into the bend of my knee. Toppling to the floor, I gasped as a high-heeled blow to my throat knocked me on my back.

Eyes blurring as my windpipe screamed, I looked up to see Lace Face standing above me. A jagged bronze key dangled from the edge of her left index finger, and she gripped a long and pointed syringe in her right hand.

In an instant, she descended to the floor and circled a firm and wiry hand around my neck, her bronze key digging into my skin right before she stabbed me in the shoulder with the syringe.

Hannah gasped. "HUNTER, NO!"

The subtle haze in front of my eyes swelled into a heavy fog of bleary lights, my arms twitching to numbness as I trembled under the room's unforgiving, storming gloom.

Hannah bolted across the floor and lunged at Lace Face, but she grabbed both Hannah's arms and twisted the left one sharply behind her back. Hannah tried kicking backwards, but Lace Face deflected it with her own knee, then hurled Hannah to the ground beside me.

Stepping over the two of us, Lace Face strode forward to meet White Robe at the front of the room, stiletto heels clacking as she sashayed.

"Why are you doing this?" I heard Hannah beg, quivering with every word. "What have any of us ever done to you!?"

White Robe hesitated, exhaled deeply. "You still don't understand, do you?"

"Shut up, you psycho!" Hannah screamed. "I understand that you're a murderer, that you hate me and my friends and want to see us dead!"

"Hate you?" He stepped forward, leaving Lace Face at his heels. "I could never hate you."

"W—what?" Hannah gasped. "What the freak are you—!?"

"Hannah Ivory...it's me."

At that moment, it seemed as though time itself had stopped. Hannah was still on her knees, and I was swiftly approaching unconsciousness. White Robe's hand rose from his side, reaching upward like the arm of an undead corpse springing to life from its grave. His gloved, scraggly fingers rested on his hood for a moment, then in one swift motion, grasped it and cast it away.

The hood began to droop the moment it hit the floor, almost as if it were melting away—and with it, the disguise of the one who'd hidden beneath. I lifted my gaze, facing for the first time the man behind the pointed mask.

"No," I breathed, the last of the air in my lungs seeping out as darkness gushed over my eyes. "It's impossible."




Hannah Ivory Mun:

The moment I saw his face, I felt so much blood surge to my head that I thought my brain might explode.

"DAD!?" I screamed. "You're White Robe!?"

His cold brown eyes stared back at me, their ferocious glare the only answer I needed.

"How could you!?" I screamed. "HOW COULD YOU!?"

He reached inside his robe and removed a voice-modulating microphone, placing it on top of one of the metal desks crowding the chalkboard.

"Hannah," he began, his voice now rasp-free. "There's no time for this. We must hurry."

"NO!" I screamed. "I'm not going anywhere with you! You tried to murder me!"

He shook his head slowly. "No...you were never my target. I was trying to protect you—"

"PROTECT ME!? Dad, you killed people!"

"It was a necessary evil—"

"You killed Hunter's mom! How was that necessary? She was a human being, and you murdered her in cold blood!"

"She chose her own fate, Hannah Ivory!" he screamed at last. "I've been planning my revenge for nearly two decades, and Cassandra Singleton's betrayal almost ruined everything! She was indifferent to the death of Earnestine, especially after hearing how she had ruined Ashley's marriage. But when she realized that Azalea, a child, would have to die as part of the end game—that's when she began to grow hesitant."

"But why? Why is it so important that you kill Azalea? What could she possibly have done to make you hate her like this?"

His thin frown morphed into a vicious grimace, rage exploding across his face. "HER MOTHER TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!"

I stepped back, eyes widening.

"She is the one," he breathed. "THE ONE WHO MURDERED HEATHER!"

My jaw dropped to the floor. "What!?" I almost screamed. "I thought you said she committed suicide?"

"Yes," he said bitterly, "but only because Luvietta drove her to it."

I couldn't say anything. My whole body felt ready to collapse under the sheer weight of it all. What? How is that even possible?

"Heather and Luvietta were about the same age as you are now, Hannah, applying to colleges and universities. At the top of Heather's list was Scofield-Andrews College of Business and Accounting, the very building in which we now stand." He exhaled lowly. "About a year earlier, I had applied for work here, thinking that I could ease Heather's transition. The only positions open were janitorial ones, so I applied and was assigned to work the daytime shift.

"And it was during one of those shifts, approximately three weeks later, that I began eavesdropping on admissions-board meetings. I heard them discuss the names of applicants and the strengths and weaknesses that they saw—it was perfect. I would come home and tell Heather everything; we made her application so spotless and shining that she was sure to be accepted! When she applied at the end of December, we were all so very confident, assured that success was ours at last."

I shuddered, glancing away. "...What happened?" I asked lowly.

My father's face grew thirty shades darker, if that were even possible. "One word—Luvietta." His rage was palpable in every syllable. "The admissions board sent a letter in January, informing Heather that her application, though excellent by all standards, was rejected for admission. The moment she read it, she burst into tears." He paused, and for the first time, I saw his expression soften. "When I went to work at Scofield-Andrews the next day, I sneaked into the admissions board office to read the notes on all the applicants. They were locked away in a secure file drawer, but I had a key to every room and cabinet in the entire building. I made sure no camera or board member was there to see me, and I stole the notes regarding Heather's application." He shuddered. "Reading those comments was one of the worst moments of my entire life."

"...W-why?" My voice escaped as a whisper.

He reached inside his robe and retrieved a folded sheet of paper. "Read it for yourself," he responded gravely, stepping closer to where I knelt on the ground and extending the paper to me.

I took the page out of his hand cautiously, then slowly began to unfold it.

"An excellent candidate," I read aloud the words on the crinkled sheet, "but her Asian ethnic background would ultimately disadvantage our college's purpose. Her academic record aside, the likely nature of her upbringing calls into question her ability to contribute to our image as a racially diverse institution of higher education. Her candidacy is to be denied, instead conferring acceptance to Miss Jackson, whose scholastic achievements are of comparable merit and whose profile better suits our long-term interests."

I raised my head.

My father was visibly shaking. "They rejected Heather...they accepted Luvietta," he breathed angrily. "AND FOR WHAT!? AFFIRMATIVE ACTION!?" He reached inside his robe again, this time retrieving three more folded sheets and hurling them to the ground.

I shuffled through the pages, saw Luvietta's picture printed on the first. The words African-American were circled near the bottom, and a printed note was typeset underneath:

Among our best black applicants, she appears prepared to undertake the level of difficulty that our scholarly studies will require. She is to be assigned Dr. Brickley as her academic advisor, and her acceptance letter is to be postmarked within twenty-four hours of this message's receipt.

I was silent.

There were no words for this.

"That same day," my father growled through his teeth, "when I came home, I found Heather lying unconscious in the backyard, clinging to an empty bottle of sleeping pills." His eyes fell; liquid drops glinted against his shadowed face. "By the time we made it to the hospital, it was already too late. The doctors could do nothing to save her."

"Dad..." I trailed off. "I...I can't...." The words trembled in the air as they left my mouth, as wavering and unsteady as every inch of my body; I quaked with melancholy—with rage.

My father shook his head, shut his eyes for several moments. "And that was the night," he finally spoke, refusing to allow sadness to choke out his words. "The night I vowed revenge on Luvietta Jackson for stealing my daughter's life."

I gulped once, felt a fresh jolt of fear at the mention of Azalea's mother.

"At first, my plan was simply to kill her. Once she matriculated into Scofield-Andrews, I started researching. I found out about the Festival of Freaks and planned to slip poison into her drink during the party.

"But as I was getting off work that day, I overheard one of the Scofield-Andrews admissions-board members thanking his secretary for her dedication to organizing and sending out the flyers for the upcoming application year. He told her to take the rest of the evening off and that he would finish the work to be done for that day. Simply hearing his voice was enough—my anger overrode my sensibility. I waited for his secretary to leave, then shot him in the back of the head. I used my janitorial supplies to clean up the blood, then I went to the security rooms and spent the next three hours finding and clearing out all the footage of the hallway where I'd killed the man. Once I'd finished, I wheeled his corpse out to the dumpster."

I shivered. There's...there's no way.

"But I wasn't the only looking to hide a body that night," my father's voice carried on, every word stony and unyielding. "Luvietta and Aaron had just arrived moments before I made it outside. I saw Aaron as he was carrying the corpse of another student behind the building; I would later come to learn his name was Thaddeus. When I saw Luvietta following, I hurried after them, snapping as many photographs as I could without being noticed.

"I stole Thaddeus's body and stuffed it into my trunk the moment Aaron and Luvietta left. Then I started dragging the board member's body to the dumpster. But I wasn't alone. There was this...woman. She saw me and screamed. But when I threatened her with my gun, she caught a glimpse of the body I was dragging. And when she realized who it was, she promised she wouldn't say a word.

"As it turned out, she was his wife and had filed for a divorce only weeks earlier. She denounced him as a bigot and a philanderer, even going so far as to say that the only reason she'd come to Scofield-Andrews that night was to see if her husband was really working, for she was almost certain that he was having an affair. She said that she hated him and promised to help me cover up his murder if I would let her live.

"I was highly skeptical, but she proved herself honest. She reached inside her husband's pocket and stole his key ring, revealing that in addition to being on the admissions board, he was also a professor of physical chemistry and his keys had access to the upper-level experimental laboratories. She told me to follow her upstairs to one of the labs, where she retrieved a bottle of highly concentrated sulfuric acid. She burned all the flesh off his body, then suggested that we destroy the head so that his body couldn't be identified from the teeth.

"After that, I called a contact I'd made at Hale University, a photography student whom I agreed to pay one thousand dollars if he would doctor the timestamps on the photographs I'd taken earlier. He agreed, and I anonymously submitted the photographs to the police on the following day. Aaron and Luvietta were both arrested within twenty-four hours, but Luvietta's conniving boyfriend managed to get her off. Shortly afterward, the photography student started feeling guilty about his part in the plan and confessed everything to the police, save for my name. He fled the country only two days later to avoid jail time, leaving me and Cassandra to cover our tracks."

I froze. "Wait, Cassandra? As in Singleton, Hunter's mom?"

He nodded coldly.

"Hunter's mom helped you get away with murder!?"

He nodded again. "Ironically enough, she had been at the Festival of Freaks as well. She met Aaron and had taken a liking to him, though she could tell he was very enamored with Luvietta.

"But when Luvietta betrayed him, alleging that he was the one who murdered Thaddeus, Aaron began to despise her. He married Cassandra only a few years later. Initially, I was averse to it, but she promised to never tell him of our involvement in her first husband's murder. I finally consented and bade her farewell, telling her that one day I would require her help again—and that if she refused me, I would not spare her life again."

I shuddered at his words. "But why? Why would you need her help? And why wait so long for all of this? Couldn't you have just...just killed Azalea's mom and been done with it?"

He paused, then turned to stare me directly in the eyes. "Because, Hannah Ivory. That night, I realized something—death, simple death, would be too great a mercy. Luvietta had to suffer, as I suffered." He started pacing back and forth, smoothed wood creaking under the weight of his steps. "I decided then that I would steal from her what she had stolen from me."

I swallowed hard, pulled my eyes away from my father's.

"So I returned home," he said. "I comforted my wife. I made sure that Heather received a proper and respectable burial. And I began to watch Luvietta closely. I followed her every move. When she married Staley, when she graduated, when she had her first and only child—I was there, keeping watch, taking note of all she did."

I felt shivers rush down my spine. This isn't real.

"But watching her wasn't enough. I knew that if I was to have

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