CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

NORMATIVE INFLUENCE

( — group effects that arise from individuals' desire to be liked, accepted, and approved of by others. )

— ♡ —

          THE WIND WHOOSHES. Rhiannon's teeth chatter. Rowan stares at her like she's an idiot.

          Granted, she can't see his eyes thanks to his sunglasses, but there's only one person she has seen him look at with total adoration, and that's Isla. Everyone else gets the scowl, the furrowed eyebrows and the firmly clenched jaw. It sends shivers down her spine, reminding her she's not nearly as special as she thinks she is, but it's also reassuring to know that special treatment also applies to being disliked.

          Well, sort of.

          It's always easier to shove all the blame to her parents—and Stephanie, to some extent, as she was never under as much pressure as Rhiannon was—but it takes guts and a lot of introspective work to realize she's been at fault sometimes. Her fear of being disliked has made her create some sort of a protective shell that delivers the world exactly what she received in the past.

          It doesn't always work. Not even close.

          She can't look away from the bruise on his cheek. It looks horribly fresh, and she hadn't seen him in two weeks, ever since the utter fiasco that was her birthday, and she really can't find a reason behind that damn bruise. While he might be biting off a lot more than he can chew, getting involved in things that definitely don't concern him, he's the one out of all of them who's been managing to mind their own business.

          Rowan snaps his fingers in front of her eyes and she instinctively blinks. "Earth to walking Fleetwood Mac reference."

          "What?"

          He drops his hand. "Rhiannon. That's a Fleetwood Mac song." She doesn't move, waiting for him to elaborate. "You know Fleetwood Mac . . . right? Landslide? Go Your Own Way?"

          "I know who they are. They're my sister's favorite band, but my name is definitely not a reference. My parents must have . . . looked all over for the most random name they could find."

          His eyes briefly narrow. "Your sister. Stephanie . . . Stevie—"

          "We're not Fleetwood Mac references," she chimes in, firmly crossing her arms. "Get to the point or let me leave. Some of us are freezing and want to go back to bed. If this is about Isla's birthday, you don't have to get her anything fancy, but make sure to not miss it; she and Jude always celebrate their birthdays together." She clenches her jaw, remembering the birthdays are coming up and she keeps forgetting about it. "Can I go now?"

          He throws her a deadpan look. "I'm serious. I have something to tell you"—he briefly looks back over his shoulder, and, when he turns back to face her, she shifts her weight to her other leg—"but not here. It really is freezing."

          He looks up. The sky is painted in a scary dark-gray tint, rain threatening to come pouring down any minute now, and the ends of Rhiannon's hair begin to curl with the humidity. Rowan's jaw throbs, lost in thought, before he shrugs off his coat in a swift gesture and swings it around her shoulders.

          "You didn't have to," she states, as they pick up their pace, making their way towards the campus café in search of a warm place, shielded from the incoming storm. He just nods, trailing beside her, but Rhiannon fails to ignore the way he constantly checks their surroundings.

          She wants to ask. She really does. However, she has learned she should not get involved, as previous events should be useful to teach her a lesson. After eavesdropping on that conversation with Frances, Beatrice, Laura and Gabriella; after eavesdropping on that conversation with Dimitri and Brooklyn; after finding out a lot more about Hailey and Taylor than she needed to.

          She should have learned, but she didn't. She kept making the same mistakes, over and over again, and knowing too much was what turned Taylor into a target.

          Rowan doesn't give her a chance to, anyway. As soon as they step inside the café and Rhiannon's eyes start tearing up from the sudden burst of light around her, he tells her to go find a vacant table, preferably near an outlet so he can charge his laptop. She opens her mouth, reaching out for her wallet, but he dismisses it with a quick flick of the wrist, and she disappears in the middle of the crowd.

          Realistically, she knows no one is staring at her. It's horrible, but the student body's hype about Project Oxygen and Frances' death has been slowly dying out. While Rhiannon appreciates finally getting her privacy back, one step at a time, the pressure coming from other sources, especially internal ones, becomes stronger by the day. They still care about it, but not to the point of harassing them, whispering and trending hashtags on social media.

          She wishes she had the luxury of forgetting about what happened that night.

          When Rowan comes back, he carefully sets a short, wide cappuccino in front of her, instead of the usual cardboard cup (which he ordered for himself), and refuses the money she tries to hand him. It's not common for her to be able to pay for these things, especially for such a fancy combination as the cappuccino and the cinnamon cookies on the side, and she doesn't know what to think.

          "I'm going to go straight to the chase," he declares, sipping his coffee and opening his laptop. "Congratulations, by the way." He points to the ring on her index finger with his chin when she takes a little bit too long to reply. "On the engagement."

          "Oh," she blabbers, admiring the way the diamonds, even the smallest, most microscopic ones, reflect the lights. "Thank you." He simply nods once more, without looking at her, and she cups the porcelain cup between her hands. It's so hot it could blister. "What happened to your face?"

          "I got punched. You should have seen the other guy." Rowan shoots her a quick glance, typing at the same time. "I'm kidding . . . about that last part, anyway. But, yeah, I got punched in the face. The night of your birthday, after dinner, we decided to pay a visit to the gas station where KJ works to talk to him and Natalia and I got involved in something we shouldn't have. The first punch the guy threw was meant for her. I stepped in front of her, avoided it, but got hit right after. It'll heal."

          "My birthday was two weeks ago. That bruise looks fresh."

          "It isn't. Can we move on? Please?"

          "Never thought I'd witness you pass on a chance to talk about yourself."

          Rowan ignores the snarky comment and keeps typing furiously, seemingly forgetting about her presence, and all she can do is wait, heart thudding in anticipation. He puckers his lips as he writes, enhancing the sharp angles of his already chiseled cheekbones, and she waits.

          She waits and waits, and then he turns the laptop around, shifting in his seat to shield the device from curious glances. As Rhiannon's eyes scan the screen, the storm breaks outside, nearly shattering the windows with the wind and the pouring rain. She's staring at a copy of a news article, and the title chills her bones.

MARK BONHEUR AND REAL ESTATE—THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY

          Her stomach burns and churns and she wonders if she'll be able to keep it to herself. She'd recognize that last name anywhere, seeing as it's an article from a local newspaper and it's not a common surname in Vofield, but she really doesn't want to believe it. Even if she and Dimitri aren't particularly close, there's no way his family's involvement in whatever shady business Rowan is talking about is minimally positive.

          "KJ Fowler gets underage kids fake IDs," Rowan reveals, keeping his voice down, "and we found out he got Taylor one at some point before she left." He opens a scanned page of a book—Rhiannon glances at the name at the top of the page, recognizing the author as Rowan's ex-girlfriend, Jasper St. Claire—full of scribbled messages in two different handwritings. "He was the bridge between her and the person who found her a place to stay in Maine, and we all think that person has some sort of connection to real estate." Rhiannon sinks into her chair, unable to not think about Connor and his parents, providing Crowcrest with a house they could exclusively use for the experiment. "All communications were made through e-mails and text messages, and we still haven't gotten an answer back from them, so that was pretty much a dead end. Then"—he takes a deep breath and zooms in on the page—"we found this line. Mark has it under control. Chase said Mark is Dimitri's middle name; I googled him, and found this article. Apparently, Mark Bonheur has been accused of fraud. Plus, Chase said Dimitri and Taylor had been arguing for a while, even before she started acting all strange, most likely because of the texts. Whatever she knew, it could have been about him; Mark can be his father, or it could be her code name for him."

          "But he said he was getting texts too," she points out. "Even if he had anything to do with it . . . maybe he was just trying to help her by talking to his father. I don't know, Rowan. It seems the easiest way out, and that totally contradicts what I heard . . . unless he was lying." She stares at the waves of steam spiraling out of her cup. "Everyone in that house lied all the time and they still do."

          "Maybe the contact was a double agent." His tone is a lot softer than usual, and she wishes he didn't feel the need to walk on eggshells around her. "Maybe it wasn't Mark himself who handled it. Maybe it was someone else, even the person behind the texts or an accomplice who ratted her out."

          Rhiannon stops to think.

          The number of people who have been pulled into Taylor's mess and the experiment's has become astronomical. Even people who, initially, had nothing to do with it or with the people directly involved have been sucked by its gravity, their orbits crossing so often they've started to match.

          It has to end. It will end, eventually, and not everyone will be satisfied with the outcome.

          "There's more," Rowan announces, "except we don't really know where to go from here. Well, me, mostly, since I've ever so gracefully neglected to tell anyone else about this, which will come back to bite me. Are you . . . crying?"

          "No," she mutters, through gritted teeth, and wipes a stubborn tear from her cheek with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry. It just hasn't been a good morning. I talked to Northrop and she said the diagram existed because she and Frances didn't agree on some of the people they wanted to call back for the experiment. She doesn't know why he added Taylor in later, but it was a different pen. There's really no way of knowing when he made that change or why." She swallows. "But everyone is so convinced he knew the truth about what happened to Taylor, which is what might have gotten him killed, and he added her name just so it would help in case something happened to him." The bell by the entrance chimes. Rhiannon catches a glimpse of golden-blonde hair and tall, slim legs. "Or he was killed because he killed Taylor . . . or it had nothing to do with it and we don't know where we stand."

          Rowan's hand twitches, as if he wanted to reach it out across the table, but he stiffens at the last moment. Rhiannon brings her cup to her lips, sipping quietly, and waits for him to finish his sentence. For a writer, he sure runs out of words often.

          "We've been trying to find a theme behind the nicknames Taylor gave people," he continues. "There are a lot of pop culture references, and even names of famous people, but it seems like she used whatever nickname came to her mind and fit the person she was talking about. Anyway, I found this line, written on the edge of the page, and it took me almost thirty minutes to decipher her handwriting because it was so tiny Natalia must have thought it was just a scribble."

          "Except it wasn't."

          He sighs, relaxing his shoulders. "If there's one thing I've learned during my time in this town, it's that there are no coincidences. It read, there's a swarm at Fitzgerald's. I have no idea who Fitzgerald is, and, apparently, there are a few of them attending Crowcrest, but it shouldn't be that easy. I did some digging, trying to find any Fitzgerald references, and then got it. F. Scott Fitzgerald." Rowan throws her a bright grin. "Guess what his first name was. Francis. Frances. Technically, Frances was his daughter, but she was a Scott Fitzgerald."

          Rhiannon leans forward, nearly spilling her drink all over Rowan and his laptop, and he rushes to protect it with his arm. "She's saying . . . his office is bugged? Why?"

          "I have no idea, but that's why I wanted to talk to you. I'm pretty sure Taylor found a way of planting those bugs herself or asked someone to do it, and kept the recordings, but I can't just break into her house or knock on the front door and search for those copies." He clears his throat, still smiling, but, this time, it's a lot more smug-looking. "What I can do, on the other hand, is come here and check the source directly."

          Rhiannon's eyes narrow. "You want to break into Frances' office."

          "Yep."

          "And you want me to help you do it."

          "Yep."

          "Because you think I'm into doing illegal things and we're supposed to be bonding for Isla's sake."

          "Absolutely. Are you in?"

          "Totally."

— ♡ —

          IT'S A TERRIBLE IDEA.

          Rhiannon doesn't really know why she accepted Rowan's suggestion, despite knowing how risky it is, and it's all based on an assumption that might not even be true. She wants to believe it is, especially because Rowan himself seems to be pretty convinced of it as well, but his faith in it might be due to his faith in himself. It's just his brain searching for confirmatory bias, picking up the smallest details just to prove a point.

          There are a few things that have to be taken care of before they make their way towards Frances' office. First of all, since they couldn't agree on which of them would be the one snooping around the room and which of them would keep an eye on the hallway and the surveillance cameras, it was clear they needed more people.

          That's where Natalia Winters and Matteo Di Stefano come in. They're the first people they run into who'd be willing to help them with their task; Natalia, being the sheriff's daughter, knows all about how to get away with things one definitely shouldn't be doing and keep an eye on the surroundings. Matteo can be a great distraction for whoever decides to ruin their plan, and can alert Natalia to let them know it's time to bolt.

          Rhiannon still thinks it's a horrible idea and should have been planned more carefully. Rowan throws her impressive glares whenever she tries to point it out, so she has resorted to biting her tongue, but, as she watches Natalia kneel in front of the door and tries to pick the lock with a bobby pin, she's sick to her stomach.

         It clicks after a few moments of nearly unbearable silence. Natalia pushes it open without a single care and straightens, dramatically gesturing inside; then, she and Matteo go occupy opposite sides of the hallway—she makes her way towards the stairs, he picks up a magazine—while Rhiannon and Rowan quietly slip inside the office and close the door.

          "We are so dead," she mutters, looking around, and is nearly blinded by the lights when Rowan flicks them on. "Turn them off! Are you trying to get caught?"

          "Sorry," he whispers, a note of irritation twisting his voice. "I can't see anything. Can't you pull open the blinds just a little bit to let some light in?"

          She huffs, but obeys, as that's all she's good at—and even then, she's not perfect. "What are we looking for? If Frances didn't know about the bugs, or so we're assuming, they'd have to be perfectly hidden."

          "You're asking me? You knew him better than I did; I've never even seen or heard of the guy before he dropped dead. Sorry," he adds, when her posture stiffens and the air seems to drop several degrees in the office. She just nods, and they pace in circles, trying to look for anything that could possibly look out of place.

          It's like looking for a needle in a haystack. It's like looking for a silver lining.

          "Rowan?" she calls, after a while. He hums in response, examining a potted plant, which is too lively for a plant whose owner died two months ago. In fact, the healthy, almost greasy look covering the leaves looks too good to be real. "If we get caught . . ."

          "I'm not leaving you behind," he declares, without turning around to face her, and her chest tightens. There's something at the bottom of her throat, clogging her airways; it's thick like petrol, dry as dust. "I wouldn't."

          "Thank you."

          "One of us has to pull the team's weight. We're both smokers, but I'm in better in shape than you, Miss Former Model."

          Of course.

          Everything is immaculate, without a grain of dust speckling the shelves and Frances' impressive collection of books, and Rhiannon wishes she could recognize more authors. Zimbardo, Sherif, Milgram, Asch . . . those are all social psychologists, and Rhiannon only knows their names mostly thanks to Matteo. If there are any bugs in this office, they can't be hidden in books Frances often consulted. They're even color-coordinated.

          The fake potted plant is a no-go. It's too pretty, too green in a white and brown office.

          Rhiannon's eyes dart towards the desk, which looks as if Frances had been working until late in the evening last night and went home to rest for a while. It's almost as if he never left this world, as if he never died; his pens are all immaculately stored into cups, sorted by color, and the binders are all perfectly aligned.

          Then, she remembers what Beatrice said, just moments prior. He wrote Taylor's name with a different pen, a long time after that diagram was made, seeing as there was no way she could be involved with the experiment.

          There's a pen resting inside a small, rectangular case, both of which could easily pay for what's left of Rhiannon's tuition. Rowan is still distracted when she glances at him, and she picks up the case, examining it carefully and holding it as gently as she'd hold a cute puppy. The case looks innocent enough, so she flicks it open and removes the pen from the velvet cushion it had been resting on.

          It's so small she barely finds it, and she only spots it after spinning the pen around, admiring the way the silver exterior reflects the lights. It's a black half of a sphere, on the top of the pen, where one would click to reveal the tip, but it resists the soft pressure of her thumb against it. If she looks closely, she can see the small holes, characteristic of a speaker.

          "I found it," she declares, and Rowan stops moving, turning around. His eyes dart towards the pen. "It's the pen." Rhiannon applies more pressure, revealing the pen's tip, and draws a line across her palm; the ink is red, looking eerily similar to the one Frances used to write Taylor's name in the diagram. "We have to take this."

          Before Rowan can say anything, already standing closer to her than he was before, the door swings open and Natalia's head pokes in.

          "Someone's coming," she hisses. "Get out or hide. Now!"

— ♡ —

i am angry at myself i'm sorry it took me so long but you know.....finals season and all......if you care, i got an 18 (out of 20) on that ethics essay i mentioned on my rant book (max page limits can go to hell bye) and an 18 on my psychopathology final, so i finish both courses with 18!!!

two more chapters, y'all. TWO.