Prologue - 1
Summary:
When the body of Lukas von Keller, a third-year student at Veridien, a prestigious all-boys academy, is found at the bottom of a ravine on March 10th, 1986, life at the quiet elite institution is shaken to the core.
After months of investigation, authorities are ready to rule the death a suicide. Detective Whitlock, however, is not. A chance to solve the case, now a personal nightmare, presents itself when Marius Vassier, a local private eye known for his sharp instincts and impeccable fashion, approaches him with a plan.
An unorthodox plan. One that involves Lawrence Garth, the detective’s nephew and a cadet in his final year at the police academy.
Intelligent, observant, and often underestimated because of his size and apparent clumsiness, Lawrence is the perfect undercover agent. That until he comes face to face with the case’s prime suspect.
Bastien Hawthorne - hauntingly beautiful, grieving, and heir to an empire powerful enough to justify a cover-up, should he be responsible for Lukas’s death.
Lawrence has never believed poetry served any real purpose beyond indulging the sentimental. But at Veridien, surrounded by beauty, ritual, and Bastien himself, he begins to understand its power. Because if Bastien Hawthorne is a murderer, then Lawrence is falling for a monster. Unless the word monster has a completely different meaning in the world beyond the gates of Veridien Academy.
Prologue
He needed a shave and a good sleep, preferably dreamless. Three days and nights spent locked up in here, in this windowless room, staring at the same information, didn’t help it make more sense. Slowly, he turned the pages haphazardly thrown into the case folder. What most people didn’t believe was that he had a system.
The light fixture in his office wanly bathed the threadbare amenities populating the space designated for the most accomplished detective in the land. His hand snapped to the desk lamp, adjusting it so that its light fell directly on the same page he kept returning to over and over – the vic’s information sheet. When the victim was someone so young, questions abounded. Too young to make enemies. And yet.
“Detective Whitlock, you have a visitor.” The latest addition to the precinct, a fresh-faced youngster straight out of the academy, put his head through the door, examining him from a safe distance.
Whitlock grunted, a sound that could very well mean either he agreed with the visitor coming in, or that the person in question could go to the deuce for all he cared.
“Phew, it smells pretty ripe in here,” a voice Whitlock knew all too well broke the tense silence following the newbie’s announcement.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Whitlock sneered, too fed up with the case haunting him lately to want to make pleasant conversation.
Marius Vassier, private investigator, in the flesh, and in his office. That had to be… news. Whether the news was good or bad remained to be seen. The well-known investigator never paid courtesy calls. Especially not to this precinct where the worst cases were handled, and where Whitlock was the uncrowned emperor. One without a coffee machine of his own, but still. He and Vassier didn’t often cross paths, since the latter usually dealt with family drama but not the kind that involved the homicidally-inclined. However, when an interesting case did happen to make them cross paths, Whitlock had to admit with all the reluctance he could muster that the private investigator knew his job well enough to be a real cop.
Real cop jobs, however, didn’t pay for designer clothes or expensive cologne, both favorites of the man in question. His presence alone lent Whitlock’s office a polish it didn’t deserve, lifting it briefly from the downtrodden affair it usually was.
“Now, now, mon ami,” Vassier mocked, dragging a chair over for himself and sitting with the same casual grace Whitlock had come to know him for over the years. “I was thinking of sharing notes.”
Whitlock gestured at his visitor with his unlit cigarette and made hard eye contact. “I have nothing to tell you.”
Vassier quirked a perfect eyebrow, his lips barely twitching in a knowing smile. “Is it that bad? Chéri,” he addressed the newbie, stuck in the door and taking in the interaction wide-eyed, “how about a cup of your best coffee? I’ll be forever in your debt.”
The young man shook his head briefly as if aroused from sleep and hurried out, closing the door behind him with deference. Some days, Whitlock had no idea whether the others at the precinct respected him or feared him. Or just thought he was a major asshole and wanted as little to do with him as possible.
“If you came down here for coffee, the sludge we usually indulge in under this humble roof is slated to ruin your delicate palate. I thought I should warn you. Effects might be permanent.” Whitlock shrugged, waiting for Vassier to show his hand. Despite his bristly welcome, he was curious. Vassier was also known for having damn good leads.
“So charming of you.” Vassier crossed his legs and placed his linked hands on top of his knee, watching Whitlock with hawk-like eyes. There was something raptor-like in the otherwise affable, handsome face. Vassier could fool anyone, but he couldn’t fool Whitlock. They knew each other too well. “The Veridien case.”
Whitlock closed the case folder on his desk in an unconsciously defensive gesture that didn’t go unnoticed.
“You have no leads, no means to investigate further, the respectable faculty not exactly forthcoming with information, and it’s eating you raw,” Vassier said in a bored tone. His eyes, however, flickered with a glint that he, also, couldn’t suppress. That meant that the game of cat and mouse was on. Whitlock didn’t like his chances; Vassier never took prisoners, and it was a miracle Whitlock didn’t have actual battle scars to show after interacting with the infuriating man once too many times. Still, he could say that a reluctant kind of friendship had developed between them in the time they’d known each other.
“Impressive analysis. What do you have to do with the Veridien case?” Whitlock attacked as riposte.
Vassier leaned back in the old chair. The obsolete piece of furniture, prone to cackling under the slightest provocation, endured the visitor’s weight without complaint. Cruel elegance, some people called it, when commenting on the private eye’s perfect manners and attire. Whitlock preferred not to call it anything at all.
Their staring contest was abruptly interrupted by the precinct’s newbie bringing the guest his desired cup of coffee. Vassier took it from the young man’s hands, thanking him as if he’d just been handed the drink of the gods. They both waited for the intruder to close the door behind him before continuing their conversation.
“The family wants justice,” Vassier informed him placidly. His eyes, however, followed Whitlock’s every move.
“The von Kellers hired you?” Whitlock asked, forgetting that he shouldn’t betray himself by showing any emotion in front of Vassier.
