While I'm waiting for his answer, the noise outside trails off. Another bell rings. Doors shut, and there's silence once more. Mandel stands and strolls toward me. When he puts his hand on my shoulder, I brush it away.

"Let's have a look at your room. I think we may find the answer there."

"My" room is on the eighth floor. Mandel shoves a card into a slot below the handle, and the door slides open. The glass in the window is frosted. Light pours in, but I can't see out. My computer is on the desk. My books are stacked on the shelves. A pair of my boxing gloves hangs from the closet doorknob. The blanket from my room in Connecticut lies neatly folded at the end of the bed. The life I left behind has been painstakingly reassembled. None of my belongings should be here.

"How did you get all this stuff?"

"Your father had it sent here." Mandel picks up a throw pillow that my mother made and gives it a light fluffing. "He would like you to attend the academy. We need you to settle a little disagreement for the two of us."

I assumed that Mandel and my father are enemies. But did Mandel ever actually say that they are? If they've joined forces against me, I'm in serious shit. "What kind of disagreement?"

Mandel tosses the pillow back on the bed. "It concerns the academy, of course. Your father and I both care deeply about the future of this institution. But we have very different opinions about the direction it should take. Your father would like the Mandel Academy to operate just as it did when he was a student. I've proposed a few changes that could bring this school into the twenty-first century. But I need the approval of the alumni and our board of directors. The graduates have chosen sides, and they're almost evenly split. So you get to be the tiebreaker."

"Then I guess you should tell me what the fight's about."

"I believe I've found a way to recruit a better class of student. But as your father has wisely observed, my theory remains untested, and . . ."

I can't f-ing believe it. I've been dragged into some stupid little spat. I take a menacing step toward Mandel. He shuts up but stands his ground. "Hold on-are you talking about the school's goddamned admissions policy?"

"Yes. As it happens, you're the kind of student I'd like to recruit. So your father and I have agreed to a wager. If you graduate from the Mandel Academy, your father will resign from the academy's board of directors. If you don't graduate, then I will step down and your father will appoint a new headmaster."

"What happens if I tell you both to go to hell?"

Mandel nods as if he'd been waiting for that very response. "Your father said you'd never agree. He claims you're not up to the challenge. I think he's worried you are."

He chose the word worried with care. Scared wouldn't have been believable. "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all. You and your father have a great deal in common. I suspect he sees himself in you. Perhaps that's why he's tried so hard to crush you. He knows that you might have the power to destroy him."

Just when I thought that this conversation couldn't get any stranger. "I have the power to destroy him?" I snicker. "You're either bat-shit insane or you've watched too many movies. This isn't Star Wars, Mandel. I'm not Luke Skywalker. My dad's not Darth Vader. And you sure as hell aren't my Obi-Wan."

Something I said just got to him. But Mandel hides his annoyance well. "Let me ask you a question, Flick. What do you know about your grandparents?"

Next to nothing. They didn't play any role in the stories my father told Jude. My mother said she'd never met her in-laws-and based on the few facts she'd been given, she was glad she'd been spared. "I know my dad's mom was a floozy who ran off when he was a boy. His father was a drunk. He died in a gutter a few weeks before my dad entered the Mandel Academy. . . ."

Mandel stops me with a shake of his head. He doesn't need to hear any more. "Some of that is true. Your grandfather was an alcoholic, but he didn't die in a gutter. He died in bed with a steak knife buried in his chest. Your father's fingerprints were all over the handle."

It feels like the same blade was just driven through my ribs. But I don't double over. I laugh. "Are you actually suggesting that my dad murdered my grandfather?"

"No, I'm telling you. It's a fact. My mother recruited your father during her time as headmistress. The academy keeps files on all students, and I've read your father's file many times. He confessed to killing your grandfather, but the judge presiding over the case thought your father had acted in self-defense. After all, the boy had been brutally beaten every day for years. So the judge contacted my mother and asked for her help. He wanted to give your father a second chance."

My father's a crook. I'm a thief. My father was beaten. My dad beat me. His father drank. My dad does too, but I'm the only one left who knows how much. "My grandfather's name-it was Frank, wasn't it?"

Mandel lifts his nose to the air, like a hunting dog that's picked up a scent. "No, I believe it was Doyle. What made you think it was Frank?"

Because my dad called me that once. I must have been about twelve at the time. I remember it was a Sunday, and he'd spent the afternoon alone in his study, quietly working his way through a decanter of Scotch. His silence always scared me. So I stood in the hall with my ear to his door, waiting for him to make a trip to the toilet. When he finally did, I snuck into the room and watered a fichus with the rest of his whiskey. He caught me just as I was returning the decanter to its tray. His punch knocked me off my feet and into a wall. When I slid to the floor, I stayed there. I wasn't terribly hurt-just playing dead while I figured out what to do next. Maybe my brain was a little bit rattled, but I could have sworn I heard my dad whisper, Frank. When he left, he closed the door behind him.

Even Jude never set foot in my father's study. He and my mother wouldn't have thought to look for me there. Who knows how long I'd have lain on that floor if I'd actually been badly injured.

"Never mind. For some reason the name Frank just popped into my head," I tell Mandel. "Do you think my dad really stabbed his old man in self-defense?"

"There's no doubt about it. Your father wasn't cold-blooded back then-far from it. I remember when he first arrived at the academy. I was just a young boy at the time, and he made a big impression on me. I'd seen troubled students before, but I'd never met anyone quite so pathetic. According to the file, his instructors thought he'd amount to nothing. And by the end of his first month here, they were demanding he be expelled. But my mother resisted. She looked past your father's unpromising exterior and saw the potential hidden inside. She made him the man he is today. And until she died, my mother always claimed that he was her masterpiece. And you, Flick-you could be mine."

Jude was right. Our dad lied. The bastard lied about everything that mattered. My father never ran wild on the streets of the Lower East Side. He wasn't a badass; he was an abused little boy. He was nothing before he came here. He was just like me.

"I'm not interested in being anyone's masterpiece."

"That's not the correct response, Flick. You should have asked, 'What's in it for me?'"

Now we're getting somewhere. "Okay. What's in it for me?"

Mandel reaches into his suit pocket and hands me a piece of paper. A page torn from a grade school yearbook. It's been folded and unfolded so many times that it's coming apart at the creases. I don't need to open it. I know all forty pictures on the page by heart. Thirty-nine little schoolboys in blazers and ties-and one ten-year-old in a green felt hat with a red feather sticking out. In the photo, he's thrusting a wooden sword at the camera.

That piece of paper was the one thing I planned to take with me when I went AWOL from military school. It's my most prized possession. I almost lost my nerve when I wasn't able to find it.

"I know what really happened to your family," Mandel says. "Do you?"

"Jude." His name is suddenly the only thing left in my mind.

"Have you put all the pieces together yet? You must have suspected that your father had a hand in Jude's death."

Yes. "But why?"

"Your brother discovered that your father hasn't been the most upstanding citizen-and then Jude made the mistake of confronting him."

The room dissolves as if its atoms are no longer glued together. The only thing I can see through the blur is a bright patch of light. It must be the window. I keep my eyes fixed on it and hope it's enough to keep me tethered to earth. There must be something Jude wants to show me, but I can't let him pull me away. Don't crack up. I plead with myself. Don't go with him right now. Wait until you're alone again. No one's going to help a freak who talks to Peter Pan. Please, please, please! Don't f-ing crack up!

"How do you know?" I have to force the words out of my throat.

"Your father needed the academy's assistance to cover his crime. Which means I have proof. Photographs of the scene. Audio recordings that amount to a confession."

Mandel's face is the first thing I see when the room begins to take shape again. Freckled. Boyish. Friendly. Could he actually have it? The one thing I want more than anything else? The only thing on earth I'd be willing to kill for?

"You've suffered a great deal in the past few months," he tells me. "That's why I'm gambling my life and my legacy on you. Pain destroys the weak, Flick. But it makes the strong invincible. If you survive-and I believe you will-you could turn out to be the finest graduate we've produced in some time."

Screw all his sweet talk. "You'll give me the proof?"

"As soon as you graduate. Then you may use it however you see fit."

"How long will I have to be here?"

"That depends on your performance. Nine of our top students graduate every year, and the ceremony always takes place in September. You'll be eighteen by then, which means you'll be eligible to graduate. But you will have to prove that you're ready for a Mandel degree. Until you are, you will not be allowed to leave the academy."

Nine months. Nine months is nothing.

Mandel slides his hands into his pants pockets. His eyebrows are arched, and he's bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet. "So what do you say, Flick? Will you help me win my little wager?"

I tuck the yearbook page into my back pocket. I'd rather Jude didn't hear my answer. I know he wouldn't approve. "Yes."

"Excellent! However, there are two conditions to which you must agree before you're officially admitted. Graduates may pursue any career of their choosing, but they must always remain in the employ of the Mandel family."

It's a meaningless formality. I have no intention of pursuing a career. "Fine. And the second condition?"

"Our students are a special breed. Everyone here is gifted in one way or another. But many arrive lacking discipline and self-restraint. Over the years, we've found it essential to keep a close eye on our students until they acquire those two traits. On the first day you arrive, a small chip will be inserted beneath the skin of your forearm. It will allow the academy to monitor your location. As soon as you graduate, the chip will be removed."

"What?" This is a problem. "There's no f-ing way I'm going to let you put a chip in my arm."

Mandel makes a show of sympathy. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid the chip is non-negotiable. But I do understand your reluctance. It's a terribly old-fashioned method of keeping our less disciplined students in line. A pharmaceutical option would be more state-of-the-art. We're looking at ways to update the system, but for now, the chips remain a necessity. However, I can assure you that your father will not be able to access the data. And I don't waste time tracking students who don't cause trouble. I'd let you in without a chip, but I don't think you'd want to stand out from your schoolmates." He sees I'm still not convinced. "Tell you what. Why don't you take a little while to think about it? Have a hot shower in your private bathroom. Change into some clean clothes. You'll find everything you need is here in this room. I even took the liberty of adding a few items to your wardrobe. I'll drop by in an hour to hear your final answer. If it turns out to be yes, there are a few people downstairs who would love to give you a proper welcome. Believe it or not, Flick, you already have fans."

He leaves me sitting on the bed. Once he's gone, I take it all in. The mattress is firm. The room's furniture is simple and elegant. My mother would have called the pale shade of gray on the walls something like Nimbus or Dove. It's all so incredibly tasteful. There won't be much suffering in a room like this.

I don't trust Mandel. I don't buy a bit of his flattery. And the tracking chip is disturbing as hell. But at the end of the day, none of that matters. Mandel knows that my father killed Jude-and he says he has proof. And there's nothing-nothing-I won't do to get it.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE WAKE.

I'm getting drunk enough to enjoy my own going-away party. The people I pass either gawk or get out of the way. It's not every day that a rich-looking kid is spotted staggering through the projects with no coat and a bottle of his father's favorite Scotch in his hand.

"Thirty-thousand dollars a pop," I inform a young lady. She steps off the sidewalk, into a patch of mud. You know you're a mess when girls ruin their shoes to avoid you. "And you just piss it out the same evening!" I shout at her back.

A seven-foot hulk in a black North Face coat and knit hat emerges from the lobby of one of the buildings. In the darkness, he looks like a bear standing on its hind legs. And I'm trespassing on its territory. Suddenly the bear takes off toward the west, moving more quickly than you'd think possible for a beast of his size. I have a feeling he'll be back with friends.

"Go get 'em!" I call out. "I'll wait right here for you!"

I drop to the ground with a thump and sit with my back against a tree. I take a swig from the bottle and gag. You'd think Scotch this expensive would taste like something other than whiskey. I wonder if stealing a thirty-thousand-dollar bottle of liquor is grounds for expulsion from the Mandel Academy. Seems highly unlikely. I guess I'll find out in the morning.

Scotch or no Scotch, Mandel can't be too happy that I slipped out of his little cocktail party. Six of his favorite alums had shown up to check out the horse he'd backed. And these weren't your average gamblers. A lady senator. A CEO. Two big-shots from Goldman Sachs. A businesswoman who'd flown in from China. And some dude with a scraggly beard and camouflage pants. Everyone else chuckled when he told me he "works from home." I knew they were all there to place their own bets. So Mandel made sure I'd been cleaned up and decked out in the finest duds. As soon as we stepped into the alumni lounge on the first floor, the guests began examining my physique and picking my brain. I suspect a few of them wanted to pry open my mouth and have a good look at my teeth. Or make me drop my trousers, turn my head, and cough. I kept my pants on, but they still seemed to walk away satisfied. When they began to pair off to compare notes, I grabbed a bottle from the bar and headed straight for the exit. Now that I think about it, there's got to be plenty of security at the academy. Mandel must have let me leave because he figured I'd be back. But if he was really smart, he'd have stopped me. His cameras probably caught me with a bottle in my hand, but nobody saw the contraband tucked into the waistband of my fancy new pants.

I pull out the course catalog and flip through its pages for the third time tonight. Mandel says the catalogs can't leave the academy. But I think he's being a little too cautious. No one would ever take this shit seriously. I mean, who's gonna believe that the prestigious Mandel Academy offers classes on assassination techniques? (Wish I had a pencil handy. I'd circle the hell outa that one.) So despite my sticky fingers, his secrets are probably safe. Too bad. I was hoping I'd be able to skip all this BS and persuade Mandel to make a trade. His catalog for my dad's ass. But there's no way he'll go for it. I guess I'll have to learn how to skim credit cards and clean crime scenes after all. But at least I'll be able to make it through high school without touching Moby-Dick. I cackle and close one eye so the words on the catalog's pages stop squirming. There isn't a single art class listed. No literature, either. No sex education. Nothing useless. It's all business all the time at the fabulous Mandel Academy. No wonder the alumni have the personalities of cyborgs.

The more I read, the more nauseous I get. Finally I have to put the catalog down and wash the vomit back with a glug of Scotch. I'm cold. Starting to drift off, but my eyes pop open. A little boy is standing a few yards away, snapping my picture with the camera on his crappy phone.

"Hey, what time is it?" I shout.

The kid jumps about three feet in the air. He probably thought I was dead.

"What time?" I repeat. "Look at your goddamn phone."

"Eight," he squeaks, and runs away.

"That's what I thought." My eyes flutter shut again.

I left military school seven months ago, but there's an alarm in my head that still goes off at eight every evening. That's when they turned on the Wi-Fi for an hour. You were supposed to cram all of your Internet research into sixty short minutes. I could have slept through every class and still been named the school's valedictorian. So I used the time to talk to Jude.

He was always there when I logged on-even on weekends when he must have had better things to do. We chatted about stupid stuff. Boxing and girls and dirty southern slang I'd picked up from my fellow cadets. Never once did he give me any reason to suspect that he had something planned. Then the night before I went AWOL, I found a message in my in-box. He'd sent it just before two o'clock that afternoon. You're coming home soon, it said. I know something. He won't hurt you or Mom again.

My fingers couldn't type fast enough. Don't do anything! Swear you won't!

I hit send and waited for a response. I was still waiting when the lights went out. Sometimes I imagine my message floating around cyberspace for the rest of eternity.

The next morning, I left for my daily cross-country jog with sixty-five dollars and three sets of clothing hidden under my tracksuit. I hopped the fence at the mile mark and waded through part of the Okefenokee Swamp until I hit the highway.

An old lady at the bus stop let me borrow her phone. A maid answered at my parents' house. I asked for Jude and hung up when she started to cry.

I didn't come to New York first. I went to Connecticut instead. To the Beaumont Funeral Home-the only mortuary in my hometown that my father would trust with his youngest son's corpse. It was late when I got there, and the entrance was locked. I started searching for a way inside. I would have broken a window or kicked down the door if a woman hadn't shown up with a key. I don't recall her name. I can't even see her face in my mind. All I remember is the black box she was carrying.

"You're the brother, aren't you?" she asked. "The one who went missing."

I must have managed a nod.

"They said you might come here," she added. "We're supposed to call your father if we see you."

"Don't," I croaked.

"I wasn't planning to," she said kindly. "I made up my mind about that when I saw your brother."

"What happened to him?" I asked.

"They say he fell. Down the stairs in your house." I could tell she didn't buy the story.

"Can I see him?"

She held up the black box. "They just finished cleaning him up a little while ago. I haven't started his makeup yet. I don't think . . ."

"Please."

She sighed for my sake and unlocked the door.

Jude was lying on an embalming table. I could see his freshly washed hair sticking out from beneath the sheet that covered the rest of his body. It was the only time I'd seen my brother so perfectly still. I stood at his side and slid the cloth down to his shoulders. The face I saw wasn't the one I remembered.

I thought I recognized my father's handiwork in Jude's broken nose and shattered bones. But if my dad's fists could inflict that kind of damage, he must have been holding back all those times he beat me. I couldn't figure out why he'd let loose on Jude. And I knew I'd never be able to prove that he had. In fact, if it hadn't been for Jude's email, I might have bought into the story that his death was an accident. But I knew. I only had a single small clue, but I knew my brother must have died trying to help me.

"He used to be handsome," I said.

"He looked like you. They gave me a picture," the woman whispered behind me. I thought she might have been crying. I couldn't turn around.