Michele Martinez - The Finishing School

They hurried along the dark hall in the opposite direction from the way Melanie had come. When they reached the main staircase, Melanie gave Lulu her cell phone and physically turned the girl so she was pointing downstairs. “Go. And don’t you dare come back.”

Lulu started down but then turned, throwing a pleading look over her shoulder. “You’ll protect her? Promise?”

“ Yes . Now, get out of here. And be quiet about it.”

Melanie watched Lulu creep down the stairs until the girl’s slender form disappeared from sight, and then she turned resolutely back. But what she saw froze her in her tracks. A flashlight beam, bouncing wildly off the walls, kicking up strange shadows. Two figures struggling. Melanie drew her gun and advanced stealthily. Clinging to the darkness along the walls, she moved forward until she could see them clearly. They were standing in front of the door to the development office.

“Want me to fucking kill you?” Hogan said. In the crazed violence of the sound, Melanie just barely recognized the psychologist’s laid-back voice. He had Carmen by both arms.

“No.”

“Then don’t try that again, stupid bitch. Nobody can hear you with what’s going on downstairs anyway.”

Hogan pushed Carmen away roughly and fished in his coat pocket. Melanie tensed, thinking he might pull a gun, but he brought out a set of keys and inserted one into the lock. In a second they were inside. Melanie crept right up to the door, listening. Hogan didn’t turn on the light. Instead the beeps and groans of a computer sounded, and a blue glow emanated from the frosted-glass window. Hogan had booted up the computer. Melanie looked at her watch-7:29. In just one minute, ten million dollars would flow into Holbrooke’s account, Hogan would force Carmen to execute the commands transferring it out, and then he would have no further use for her.

“Hurry up,” she heard Hogan tell Carmen. “Pull up the account. I need to be in it when the money comes.”

Melanie realized that giving her phone to Lulu had been a big mistake. Now was the moment to call 911. But in the time it would take Melanie to search out another telephone, Carmen could die. She looked down at the gun in her hand and back up at the office door. At least she could stop that from happening, even if she had to do it by herself.

PATRICIA WATCHED from offstage, struggling to compose herself before walking out in front of the audience. The auctioneer brought down the final gavel, and she knew it was over. Not the auction, but everything. The scheme. Her relationship with James. Her hopes of wresting victory from the jaws of defeat. The taste of this long-awaited moment was like ash in her mouth.

She strode up to the podium in the glare of the spotlight and smiled. She was one of those people who always managed to function as long as she had a goal in mind. Her object now was clear: to avoid getting caught, to stay out of jail. The status quo, which an hour ago she despised as a humiliating second best, already seemed precious to her, lost and irretrievable.

“Members of the Holbrooke community,” she began, and tears welled in her eyes at the thought that she might never utter those words again. She looked out over her audience-so rich, so beautiful, so lavishly attired. If they found out the truth, they would no longer defer to her, no longer count her as a power in their world.

Patricia stopped, overcome, and looked down at her hands twisting wretchedly before her. The audience held its collective breath, and in the long, pregnant pause that followed, Patricia resolved things in her own mind. She wouldn’t give in. She refused to let this happen. She saw a way out. She would reveal the plot, pretend she’d stumbled across it, play the hero safeguarding the school’s millions.

Patricia squared her shoulders and began again. “First let me say that your generosity overwhelms me. This has been a tragic week for our school. All of you-alumnae and parents-could have chosen to turn your backs on us in our hour of need, in the wake of these shocking events. But you didn’t. Instead you embraced Holbrooke, with goodwill, with open arms and open checkbooks. Tonight we have raised over one million dollars from the auction alone!”

Applause and cheers roared through the auditorium. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” she intoned, until the din quieted. “I will now read the names of the donors in Miss Holbrooke’s Inner Circle. Every family on this list has contributed at least two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the endowment campaign. I would ask that each family stand as your name is announced to receive the thanks of the Holbrooke community. You have played a singular role in financing our school’s future, and we acknowledge your generosity tonight with humble gratitude.”

Patricia’s voice rang out calm and commanding as she read the names on the list. She paused for the perfect interval between names to let each family savor its moment of glory. When the last family had been acknowledged, she held up her hand with dramatic effect.

“Now the big moment has arrived, although with an unexpected twist. I ask Roger and Enid Van Allen to please come to the podium.”

The Van Allens rose from their seats of honor in the front row and proceeded to the stage amid thunderous applause. Roger, bent, frail, and in his late seventies, was helped up the stairs by Enid, forty-five and glamorous, a fourth wife. Patricia embraced each of them, then turned back to the microphone.

“As I know you are all aware, Roger and Enid Van Allen have pledged the astonishing sum of ten million dollars to the endowment campaign for the purpose of constructing a new building to house our Upper School.”

The audience rose en masse for a standing ovation. Patricia looked out over the crowd, knowing that this was her last chance to turn back. But she wouldn’t. She’d made her decision.

“Thank you, thank you,” she said, indicating with a downward motion of her palms that they should resume their seats. “Now I would ask our audiovisual coordinator, Mr. Greenblatt, to please open the line to our bankers.”

After a bit of earsplitting feedback, a man’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, this is Mrs. Andover. You’re on air at the Holbrooke gala. Can you please identify yourself for the audience.”

“Kyle Chin with the Private Banking Group.”

“Mr. Chin, you’re aware that ten million dollars is slated to be transferred from the Van Allens’ account into the Holbrooke endowment campaign account.”

“Yes, ma’am. Say the word, and I’ll make the transfer.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

A collective gasp ripped through the crowd.

“What?” Roger Van Allen exclaimed.

Patricia cast her eyes all the way to the back of the auditorium, to the spot where James stood watching her. He’d guessed what she was about to do. He must have, because he immediately turned on his heel and fled. So much for their so-called love affair. Neither one of them had gotten what they bargained for, which made them even.

Patricia resumed her speech without missing a beat.

“I can’t transfer the money tonight as planned for a very good reason. Every Holbrooke family should rest assured that when misfortune threatens our school, I am here to combat it. I stand vigilant to keep the school’s resources, and your daughters’ futures, safe from every foe. Tonight it has come to my attention that an important safeguard put in place to protect Holbrooke’s endowment account may have been compromised. Mr. Chin, I am therefore instructing you to immediately shut down the account so that nobody-repeat, nobody-can access it.”