Page 1 of The Honor Society

PROLOGUE: THE PROCTOR

THE HONOR SOCIETY LEDGER

Account: Dean William Schmidt

Debt Owed: Protection rendered, evidence destroyed, reputation preserved.

Outstanding Balance: $30,000

Interest Accrued: One affair. Three lies. Zero remorse.

Status: Delinquent.

Collection Due: Immediately.

"No... please! Stop! I just need more time!"

Blood pooled beneath the dean's polished loafers, spreading across the concrete in lazy ribbons. I flicked my knife against the palm of my leather glove and sighed.

"Damn," I muttered. "You're a bleeder."

He folded over, clutching his stomach as crimson dripped from his mouth onto the four precise puncture wounds I'd carved into his thigh, my obsidian blade doing an excellent job of slicing right through.

One for each point of the M.

Beautiful, really.

So clean. Symmetrical.

I'd always appreciated precision of a good cut, it made the mess of everything else seem less…bloody. He trembled so hard his expensive watch rattled against the concrete.

"We covered this up for you once already, Mr. Schmidt." I crouched until we were eye level. "Thirty thousand dollars. We destroyed evidence I'd argue was priceless. Your wife got to live long enough to watch her son graduate without discovering what kind of man she'd married."

He whimpered. Good. Cry all you want.

"And yet..." I tilted my head. "You invited your mistress to the graduation party."

"I—I made a mistake." He stuttered. He’s an idiot.

"You made several." I slid the knife across his jaw. “And it seems to be a nasty habit.” I sheathed my knife. “Now, you have two options.”

His eyes lifted hopefully.

"You sell one of your classics, repay your debt, and handwrite a lovely thank-you letter to the Society for its continued generosity..."

I smiled.

"...or I walk you to your car, buckle you into the driver's seat, cut your brake lines, and send you toward the docks."

He paled but said nothing, like the dude’s actually thinking about it.

"You'll survive the impact." I glanced toward the water and shrugged. “For about a minute.” His breathing turned ragged. “Eh, knowing you.” I shrugged. “Maybe thirty seconds. Panic has a funny way of shortening a man’s lifespan.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. "They'll know," he whispered. "If I sell the car... they'll know."

I sighed. “So, you’d rather die, then?”

"No, damn it!" His head snapped up. "Just... let me think for a minute."