From #1 New York Times
bestselling author Lisa Jackson comes a pulse-pounding thriller that goes behind the doors of an exclusive academy with a terrifying secret…
Ever since her father was stabbed to death in a home invasion, Julia “Jules” Farentino has been plagued by nightmares. Her half-sister, Shaylee, now seventeen, has had her own difficulties since the tragedy, earning a rap sheet for drug use, theft, and vandalism. Still, when Jules learns of her mother’s decision to send Shay to an elite boarding school in Oregon, she’s skeptical. The Academy has a reputation for turning wayward kids around—but one of its students went missing six months ago and her body has never been found. There are rumors she may have died during one of the school’s questionable treatments. Once enrolled, Shay grows fearful, convinced her every move is being watched. And the deeper Jules digs, the more concerned she becomes.
On impulse, Jules applies for a teaching job at the Academy. Though the facility boasts state-of-the-art equipment and a breathtaking campus, Jules senses cracks in the director’s do-good demeanor. Shortly before Jules arrived, a student was found hanged, and a hysterical Shay believes it was murder. Staff members are wary and unwelcoming—all except Cooper Trent, another recent hire who has his own suspicions, and his own secrets.
Then another girl goes missing, and yet another is found dead. There’s no doubt something sinister is at hand—but Jules may be too late to stop it. Behind the Academy’s idyllic veneer lurks an evil force on a brutal and terrifying mission. And Jules has become the next target of a bloodthirsty killer without limits, without remorse, without mercy…Chapter One
“Help me . . . Oh, God, please someone help me. . . .” The voice
was a desperate plea, barely audible over the sounds of a familiar
song and the steady drip of liquid splashing, like a single drop
of rainwater hitting the ground. Over and over again.
Her heartbeat pounding in her eardrums, Jules Farentino, barefoot
and wearing only a nightgown, made her way toward the den
where a fluttering blue light was barely visible through the sheers on
the French doors.
“Hurry . . . there isn’t much time. . . .”
She wanted to call out but held her tongue. The feeling that something
was wrong here—something dark and evil—caused her to
creep silently along the icy floors.
Slowly, she pushed open the door to the den and peered inside.
The L-shaped couch and a recliner were illuminated by the weird,
flickering light of the muted television.
Michael Jackson’s voice sang about Billie Jean through the speakers.
Above the melody:
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like rolling thunder in her aching head.
Liquid warmth splashed on the tops of her bare feet, and she
looked down quickly. Her eyes rounded as she saw the blood dripping
from the long blade of the knife in her hand, the red stain
spreading into a pool.
She tried to scream but couldn’t, and as she looked toward the
open French doors, she saw her father lying on the floor near the
“Help me, Jules,” he said, lips barely moving. He stared up at her,
eyes unblinking, a jagged gash on his forehead, a stain spreading on
the front of his rumpled white shirt.
Blood gurgled from the corner of Rip Delaney’s mouth as he
stared up at her, whispering in a wet rasp, “Why?”
Transfixed, her hand now sticky with blood, she started to scream—
“Seven forty-five in the morning. It’s a chilly thirty-seven now.
That’s only five degrees above freezing, you know, but temperatures
will climb until midafternoon, topping out near fifty. It’s going to be
a cold, wet one today, a major storm expected to roll in later this
morning. Now for the traffic report . . .”
Jules awoke with a jerk.
Her heart was pounding, her head splitting, the radio announcer’s
voice an irritant. She slapped off the alarm and shivered. Her bedroom
was freezing, her window open a crack, wind rushing inside, rain
beating a steady tattoo against the roof.
“Damn,” she whispered, wiping her face, the vestiges of her ever-
recurring dream slipping back to the dark corners of her mind. She
glanced at the clock and groaned, realizing with a sinking feeling that
she’d forgotten to reset her alarm.
Rolling off the bed, she disturbed her cat that had been sleeping
in a ball on the second pillow. He lifted his gray head and stretched,
yawning to show off his needle-sharp teeth as she snagged her
bathrobe from the foot of the bed and threw it on. She didn’t have
time for a shower, much less a jog.
Instead, she threw water over her face, tossed a couple of extra-
strength Excedrin into her mouth, and washed them down by tilting
her head under the faucet. After yanking on jeans and an oversized
sweatshirt, she found an old Trail Blazers cap. Then she searched for
her keys, scrounging in her purse and in the pockets of the jacket
she’d worn the day before.
Her cell phone rang, and she found it plugged in to the charger
on the floor near her bed.
Flipping it open, she saw Shay’s face on the small LED screen.
“Where are you?” her sister demanded.
“I’m on my way.”
“It’s too late. We’re almost there!”
“Already?” Jules tugged on one sneaker as she glanced back at the
clock. “I thought you were leaving at nine.”
“The pilot called. There’s a storm or something. I don’t know. He
has to fly out earlier.”
“Oh, no! Make him wait.”
“I can’t! Don’t you get it? She’s really doing it, Jules,” Shay said,
and some of the toughness in her voice disappeared. “Edie’s getting
rid of me.”
That was a little overly dramatic, but so was Shay, through and
Jules finished lacing her running shoes. “Then tell her to wait.”
“You tell her,” Shay said, and a second later Jules heard her
mother’s voice say, “Look, Julia, there’s no reason to argue with me;
this is beyond my control. I told Shaylee that she has to go whenever
the pilot can fly her safely to the school, and he says they need to go
earlier because of the storm.”
“No, Mom, wait. You can’t just send her to—”
“I damned well can. She’s underage. I’m her guardian. And she’s
got a court order. We’ve had this conversation before. Let’s not rehash
“It’s either this or juvenile detention again. This is her last chance,
Julia! The judge ordered her to make a choice, and she, smart as she
is, took the school. It was also her choice to hang out with that criminal
and take part in a crime. Her boyfriend wasn’t so fortunate; he
didn’t have a rich father to get him a lawyer. Dawg will be going to
prison for a long time, so your sister should count herself lucky!”
The connection was severed, leaving Jules to worry from the middle
of her messy bedroom. She couldn’t believe her mother was actually
shipping Shaylee off to a distant school for troubled teens, one
that was in the middle of no-damned-where. She flew out of her
condo and waved to Mrs. Dixon, her neighbor, as the woman carried
her wet newspaper into her unit.
Once inside her old Volvo, she drove toward Lake Washington
and the address she’d gotten from Edie earlier, the spot from which
Shaylee was to be picked up by seaplane for her ride to Blue Rock
Academy in southern Oregon. Edie had given Jules the address the
Jules floored it.
However, the freeway was a parking lot, and the latest traffic report
blaring from Jules’s radio didn’t make her feel any better. Apparently
everyone who owned a car in the state of Washington was
sitting on the I-5 freeway in the drizzling rain, as evidenced by the
line of blazing taillights stretching ahead of her Volvo. Jules peered
wearily past the slapping windshield wiper as the traffic crawled north.
Still fighting a headache, she drummed her fingers on her steering
wheel and wished she knew a faster way to get to Lake Washington.
She’d battled rush hour down in Portland, Oregon, when she’d
worked at Bateman High, but since losing her teaching job last June,
she’d been spared the annoyance of rush hour. In her current position
as a waitress at 101, a high-end restaurant on the waterfront, she
covered the night shift and usually avoided traffic. One of the few
perks of the job.
The radio did little to calm her nerves, and the windshield wipers
slapping away the rain only added to her case of jitters. Jules was too
late. Shay was going to fly off without a good-bye, and there was nothing
anyone could do about it. Not even Edie could fix this. A judge
had ruled that Shay was to be sent away for rehabilitation.
She tuned the radio to a station where songs from the eighties
were peppered with rapid-fire traffic updates from Brenda, the serious
reporter who rattled off trouble spots on the freeway system so
fast it was hard to keep up.
Not that it helped.
Basically, it seemed, every freeway was a snarled mess this miserable
“Come on, come on,” Jules muttered, glancing at the clock on the
dash of her twenty-year-old sedan. Eight-seventeen. The height of
rush hour. And she was supposed to be on the dock by eight-thirty,
or it would be too late. She flipped on her blinker and bullied her
way into the lane that was curving toward the Evergreen Point Bridge
that spanned Lake Washington.
A semi driver reluctantly allowed her to squeeze in, and she offered him a smile and a wave as she wedged her way into the far right
lane and nosed her car east. She was nearly clipped by a guy in a
black Toyota who was talking on his cell phone.
“Idiot!” She slammed on her brakes and slid into the spot just as
the first notes of “Billie Jean” by Michael Jackson filled the interior of
her Volvo. “Oh, God.” She pushed the radio’s button to another preset
station, but the strains of the song reverberated through her head.
In her mind’s eye, again she saw her father, lying in a pool of his
own blood, his dying eyes staring upward as the song played over
Jules nearly smashed into the pickup in front of her.
“Oh, Jesus.” Calm down. Don’t kill yourself getting there! Adrenaline
from the near wreck sang through her veins. Jittery, she took
three breaths, then, with one hand, fished inside her purse for a bottle
of painkillers. The stuff she’d taken earlier hadn’t worked.
She found the bottle and popped off the cap with her thumb. Pills
sprayed over her, but she didn’t care, washing two tablets down
quickly with the remains of yesterday’s Diet Coke that she’d left in
the car’s cup holder.
The bad mix of caffeine-laden syrup and headache medicine made
her wince as the refrain of “Billie Jean” kept pounding through her
brain. “You’re a head case,” she told her reflection in the rearview
mirror. “No wonder you’re out of work.” Well, technically she had a
job waiting tables, but her teaching career was over. Her recurring
nightmare and blinding headaches had taken care of that.
In the mirror, beneath the bill of her cap, she caught a quick
glimpse of gray eyes that held a hint of rebellion—that same disguised
mutiny that was so evident in her younger sister.
At least Shaylee wasn’t a hypocrite.
Jules could hardly say the same of herself.
A siren wailed in the distance; then she spied an ambulance
threading through the clogged lanes of freeway traffic, going in the
God, her head throbbed.
Even though it was a cloudy day, the glare got to her.
She found her pair of driving shades tucked in the visor and
slipped them on.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered at the truck belching exhaust
in front of her.
It took another twenty minutes and one more near collision before
she reached her exit and eased along a winding road that
hugged the shoreline of the lake.
She rounded a sharp curve and pulled through the open wrought-
iron gates of a private residence. With a long, brick driveway, the
building that appeared through the spruce and fir trees was more
castle than house, a huge stone and brick edifice that rose three full
stories on the shores of the lake.
She parked near the front door, next to her mother’s Lexus SUV.
Then, without locking her car, she dashed through the spitting rain
to the porch. Under the cover of the porch, she rang the bell and
waited near the thick double doors.
Within a few seconds, a fussy-looking, wasp-thin woman answered.
“Can I help you?” The woman was dressed in black slacks and
a sleek sweater tied at her tiny waist. Ash-blond hair, salon cut and
teased, increased the size of her head and masked her age. Perfectly
applied makeup accentuated her sharp features. Her smooth skin
screamed face-lift, and she glared at Jules as if she’d been interrupted
from doing something very important.
Jules realized that in her decade-old jeans topped by her favorite
UW sweatshirt, sunglasses, and faded baseball cap, she probably looked
more like a bank robber than a worried family member. But, really,
who cared? “I’m looking for Edie Stillman. She’s with her daughter,
and they were going on a seaplane to—”
“I believe they’re at the dock,” the woman said with a smooth,
practiced smile that didn’t hide her disapproval. Nor did she ask for
any kind of ID or what Jules’s part in Shaylee’s departure was. She
waved a disinterested hand toward a stone path leading around the
house. “But I think you may be too late. The plane’s about to take off.”
Over the steady beat of rain, Jules heard the distinct sound of an
engine sputtering to life. Hell! She was already running in the direction
the woman had pointed as the engine caught and roared with
the sound of acceleration.