Free Wrath - 4 by Robin Wasserman

one had noticed Adam turning his back on the rivals, attacking his own teammate instead. Or if someone had noticed, hopeful y it would be written off as a tragic but inescapable episode of friendly fire for which no one need be held accountable.
    Whatever happened next, it would be worth it for the satisfaction he’d received from the sound of Kane’s head smacking against the floor and the rush of power coursing through him like a drug.
    Adam wouldn’t soon forget it.
    And, he knew, neither would Kane.
    The letters were red, almost glowing against the shiny black paint of the freshly washed BMW.
    Red like blood, Kaia thought, shivering, even as she berated herself for reacting, determined not to give him—and whoever it was, it must be a him—the satisfaction.
    She looked up and down the massive driveway. There was no one in sight, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. The floodlights cast shadows across the grounds that seemed to flicker and shudder at the corner of her eye.
    You’re imagining things, she told herself. But she hadn’t imagined the sound of breaking glass that had drawn her outside. And she hadn’t imagined her car—the front window broken, and those letters spray-painted across its side. The floodlights cast it in a spotlight, and though she knew she should hurry inside, she couldn—t turn away.
    She’d take it to the garage in the morning, she decided, forcing herself to think analytical y, in hopes that would stop the trembling. She’d go early so the maids wouldn’t see it and report back to her father. If she told Daddy Dearest that there’d been a flat tire, he would pay as much as she asked, and she could tack on an extra hundred to ensure the mechanic would keep his mouth shut—no reason to spread her humiliation across town.
    Kaia whipped her head to the left, suddenly certain she’d glimpsed a pale face peering out from the shadows. But there was no one there. She backed away from the car, edged toward her house, slipped inside, and locked the door. Then she entered in the code for her father’s state-of-the-art alarm system, the one she’d always mocked him for buying when there was nothing around for miles but the occasional coyote. Even if some lunatic did stumble upon Chez Sel ers and set off the howling alarm, who would be around to hear it?
    She decided it was probably best not to dwel on the emptiness outside, or the miles separating her from Grace’s lackluster police department, which was largely staffed by local, part-time volunteers and closed up shop at five P.M. Instead, Kaia curled up on the couch, tucked a cashmere throw around her shoulders, and flipped on the TV. She turned up the volume, hoping to drown out the silence that seemed to hold far too many soft, rustling noises that could be footsteps, or a hand brushing up against the window.

    Forget it, she told herself, peering out the window into the night. You’re being paranoid .
    But it wasn’t paranoia if someone was real y out to get you, right? And someone must be. Why else would he have scarred the car with his angry red scrawl, branding her with the word that kept pounding in her ears no matter how much she raised the TV volume.
    WHORE .
    Before Harper had trashed their friendship, Miranda had had plenty of opportunities to see Kane. Now, most of the time, her only hope was a glimpse of him in the hal s or across the cafeteria. Basketbal games, however, provided a two-hour stretch of uninterrupted Kane-gazing, which almost made the endless boredom and inevitable postgame headache worth it.
    Tonight she was wishing for boredom. Most of the crowd seemed invigorated by the brawl, but Miranda stil felt sick at the thought of Kane lying on the court, bloodied and pale.
    He’d pul ed himself up, limped over to the bench, and sat down next to the other players penalized for the fight—he was obviously intact, she reassured herself. But stil she worried, mostly about whether she—d be able to push