Legacy of Lies

THE VELVET LEDGER

POST #001

Good morning, my lovelies.

Every day, we walk the halls of Ashcroft Academy pretending we know one another.

We know whose father donated the science building, whose mother appeared on the cover of Vogue, and which family names can open doors the rest of us aren’t even allowed to knock on.

We know the athletes, the scholars, the future senators, and the pretty little heirs who’ve never heard the word no unless it came from someone too unimportant to matter.

Or at least, we think we know them.

But what happens when the blazers come off and those perfect families return to their mansions?

That’s where the interesting secrets live.

And lucky for you, I’ve always been terribly good at finding them.

Let’s begin with Ashcroft’s favorite golden boy.

Quinn Sinclair.

Football captain. Honor student. Future NFL star. Grandson of Patrick Sinclair, whose name hangs above our stadium in letters large enough to be seen from space.

Quinn has everything, doesn’t he?

The perfect smile. The perfect girlfriend. The perfect family.

But perfection is fragile.

One little crack, and everyone gets to see what’s underneath.

So, Quinn, while your classmates are still congratulating you on Friday night’s victory, perhaps you’d like to explain why your father transferred $250,000 to the family of eighteen-year-old Noah Whitaker three days after Noah was found bleeding beside Briar Ridge Road.

Better yet, tell us who was driving the black Sinclair Range Rover that struck him.

Your family’s money might have kept your name out of the newspapers.

It won’t keep it out of mine.

Welcome to The Velvet Ledger.

At Ashcroft Academy, everyone has a secret.

I intend to collect them all.

Until tomorrow, my lovelies.

—The Velvet Ledger

Quinn’s POV

My phone started vibrating at exactly seven in the morning.

By the time I opened my eyes, it had apparently developed a personal vendetta against me.

“Turn that thing off,” Theo groaned from the other bed. “Some of us were having a beautiful relationship with sleep.”

I reached for my phone, knocking over an empty water bottle in the process.

Fifty-three notifications.

Six missed calls from Charlotte.

Three from Dad.

And one message from Coach that simply said, See me before practice.

Well, that wasn’t concerning at all.

Dad’s latest message appeared at the top.

CALL ME. NOW.

I sat up.

Charlotte’s messages were worse.

Quinn, what is this?

Please tell me it isn’t true.

Everyone’s seen it.

Call me before I come over there.

A link followed.

I clicked it.

The screen went black before a gold crest appeared. An open book, a red slash across its pages, and three words underneath.

THE VELVET LEDGER.

I read the post.

Then read it again.

By the third time, my stomach had twisted itself into something resembling a pretzel.

Noah Whitaker.

Briar Ridge Road.

The Range Rover.

Three years.

I’d spent three years trying not to think about that night.

Apparently, someone had decided I needed a reminder.

My phone rang.

Dad.

I answered.

“What did you do?” he demanded.

Good morning to you too.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me, Quinn.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Who did you tell?”

“Nobody.”

Dad went quiet. Grant Sinclair didn’t shout when he was furious. He lowered his voice until every word sounded like it had been approved by three attorneys.

“The details in that post were never public.”

“I know.”

“Then somebody talked.”

“Apparently.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Wasn’t laughing.”

Across the room, Theo sat up. He’d stopped complaining about the noise.

Dad exhaled. “The website will be removed. Until then, you say nothing. Not to your teammates, not to Charlotte, and certainly not to the administration.”

I stared at the post.

“You can’t just make it disappear.”

“Watch me.”

My phone buzzed against my ear.

An unknown number.

Ask him if Noah walks yet.

My chest tightened.

“Dad?”

“What?”

“Does Noah walk?”

Silence.

Just two seconds.

Long enough to make my stomach drop.

“Who told you to ask that?”

“You said he recovered.”

“He did.”

“Then answer me.”

“Quinn, you were fifteen. You don’t understand everything that happened.”

“I understand that somebody got hurt.”

“You know what happened that night.”

“No,” I said, looking at the message again. “I know what you told me happened.”

“That’s enough.”

“For you, maybe.”

“Do not start this.”

“How badly was he hurt?”

Dad’s voice hardened. “This conversation is over.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.

Another message arrived.

He lied to you too.

Then another.

That must sting.

“Okay,” Theo said. “Either your dad just grounded you over the phone, or something’s seriously wrong.”

I turned the screen toward him.

He crossed the room, took my phone, and read the post.

His expression changed.

“Quinn.”

“Yeah.”

“Is this about that summer?”

I looked away.

Three years ago, I’d been fifteen, convinced that being a Sinclair meant nothing truly terrible could happen to me.

I’d learned otherwise on Briar Ridge Road.

Theo sat beside me.

“You disappeared for almost two weeks that summer. Then Noah never came back to school.”

“I wasn’t driving.”

He looked at me.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I wasn’t.”

“But you were there?”

I swallowed.

There were things I remembered about that night with awful clarity. Headlights cutting across the road. Someone shouting. The smell of wet asphalt.

And there were things I’d spent three years trying to convince myself I remembered incorrectly.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “I was there.”

Theo didn’t push immediately.

That was one of the reasons he was my best friend.

Finally, he asked, “Who was driving?”

I shook my head.

“Quinn.”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

I stood and grabbed my uniform shirt.

“Does it matter?”

“Considering someone’s accusing you of being involved in a hit-and-run? Yeah, I’d say it matters.”

I buttoned my shirt with shaking fingers.

Theo watched me.

“Your dad said Noah recovered?”

“That’s what he told me.”

“And you believed him?”

I turned toward him.

“I was fifteen, Theo. My father told me Noah was going to be okay. What was I supposed to do?”

He didn’t answer.

Because there wasn’t a good answer.

Not one I wanted to hear, anyway.

My phone buzzed again.

Charlotte.

I started typing a response, then stopped.

Dad had told me not to talk to her.

Three years ago, I’d done exactly what my father told me.

I’d kept quiet.

I’d let him handle everything.

And I’d spent the next three years wondering whether I’d made the worst mistake of my life.

I opened the anonymous messages and took screenshots.

Then I forwarded them to my personal email.

Theo raised an eyebrow.

“What are you doing?”

“Keeping copies.”

“Your dad won’t like that.”

“I’m starting to think Dad doesn’t like a lot of things.”

I opened Charlotte’s messages.

I’m okay. I didn’t write that post, and I need to talk to you. In person.

I sent it before I could change my mind.

Then I opened my browser.

Typed Noah Whitaker’s name.

The results were mostly old football statistics and a few school photographs.

Nothing about his accident.

Nothing about his recovery.

Nothing about where he’d gone.

It was as though Noah had simply stopped existing after that summer.

Theo leaned over my shoulder.

“Find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Quinn, you’re not seriously thinking about investigating this yourself?”

I looked at the empty search results.

For three years, I’d accepted my father’s explanation because questioning it meant admitting how frightened I’d been that night.

Now someone knew enough to threaten me with it.

And worse, they knew something about Noah that I didn’t.

“I’m going to find out what happened to him.”

Theo stared.

“Your dad’s going to kill you.”

“Probably.”

“Coach might beat him to it.”

I almost smiled.

Theo stood and grabbed his blazer.

“Fine. But you’re not doing it alone.”

I looked at him.

“You don’t even know what you’re getting into.”

“Neither do you.”

Fair point.

We stepped into the hallway.

Every conversation stopped.

Students stood outside their rooms, phones in hand, whispering as we passed.

A freshman near the staircase nudged his friend.

“That’s him.”

I stopped.

The boy went pale.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m aware.”

Theo caught my arm and steered me toward the stairs.

“Excellent strategy. Threaten freshmen before breakfast.”

“I wasn’t threatening him.”

“You used your murder voice.”

“I don’t have a murder voice.”

“You absolutely have a murder voice.”

Under different circumstances, I would’ve laughed.

Instead, I looked down the staircase at the students gathering below.

Three years ago, someone had convinced me silence was the safest choice.

This morning, the entire school knew my secret.

And I was done letting my father decide which parts of that night I was allowed to remember.