Bravestone Academy's Club for Detectives

CHAPTER ONE

Savannah Wagner

Two weeks before

Rosie is late. She realizes that when she opens her eyes, the morning sun is shining on her face. Bravestone Academy’s brick castles shine, revealing to her that she is way past her deadline. She should’ve been up hours ago. Journalists don’t sleep in. They’re up before the sun is. She hits her phone, checking the time. She scrambles, kicking the covers off and hitting the ground running. She accidentally stubs her toe on the dresser in front of her. Her big toe begins to throb in pain and she fights the urge to scream, careful not to wake up her neighbors. Injuries are frequent since her dorm room is the size of a shoebox. 

Her twin bed is stuffed in the corner. A nook is behind her with a tiny writing desk. A dresser sits across from her, but there is no room for a closet. In the beginning, she expected more out of Bravestone. Bravestone Academy is the school for the richest kids in South Carolina. Only the spoiled brats go to Bravestone, with Rosie and her best friend, Max Roswell, being the exception.

Rosie makes her bed, folding the green plaid comforter just neat enough so she won’t feel bad about not making up her bed. She grabs her school uniform, quickly zipping up her skirt and buttoning her white shirt. Today would have to be a no-makeup day because she barely had time to brush her hair or teeth. But those things were more important than makeup. 

At the start of the week, Rosie would go to the Bravestone newsroom and have the weekly news go live. The rich Bravestone students didn’t really care for the school’s online newspaper, but Rosie did. She fought for the reporter position. Since freshman year, she knew it was hers. Now a senior, she has built her legacy at Bravestone around the news. Unlike the usual Mondays, today’s news would have to be delayed. Rosie had a feeling that most of the students wouldn’t care. She was the only one that kept the school news alive. 

She pulls on her black blazer with the Bravestone crest and swings her brown leather satchel across her chest, heading out the door with no time for breakfast. She ignores the grumblings in her stomach as she makes her way through the hallway.

The red carpet below her is creaking at every step. The white walls are now a shade of yellow from the sun beaming through the windows.  Silence still fills the hallways, everyone is either at breakfast or still sleeping in. The silent mornings are when Rosie enjoyed the campus the most. It is where Rosie notices the hidden beauty in the ancient Bravestone Academy.

At the end of the hall, are stairs leading down to the two front doors. Rosie glides through the door, the autumn air prickling her skin through her cotton shirt. In front of her dorm apartment, there is an iron gate leading to the sidewalk.

Leaves crunch beneath Rosie’s shoes as she rushes to the school located next door to her dorm.

The school’s brick building towers over Rosie, making her feel small. The building and its units make up a square, in the center is a courtyard. It stands at three stories high and refuses to shrink. Every year, it seems to grow an inch, and it is noticeable to only Rosie.

The newsroom is in the North Wing of the school, which is an even longer walk for her. In the cool weather of October, it doesn’t matter. The bright yellow and orange leaves dancing make it all worth it.

In the South Wing, there are the admissions offices, dean offices,  some law classes, and the nurse’s office. Through the back exit of the South Wing, it leads to the courtyard. The light gray stone path centers around the fountain. In the center of the fountain is a statue of a naked mermaid. Her eyes watch every student who dares to walk past her.

This morning, she watching over Rosie, and she had a mischievous grin on her face. Rosie scowled at her, wondering what the mermaid was really up to.

She escapes the eyes of the mermaid and finds the entrance to the North Wing. The doors are facing another stairway with the ground floor moving in two directions. The half-cream-colored and wood-paneled walls are shining from the light of the windows. Each classroom door is still locked with their room numbers hanging on a plaque in the center. The newsroom is on the second floor and is the first door on the left.

Not a soul has been to school yet, which adds to the peaceful environment. When Rosie goes up to the newsroom, she realizes that the door is slightly open. Her mind is searching for a reason. She didn’t expect Flynn Wright, her lazy editor, to come prepared on a Monday morning out of all days. Max was all caught up on his articles, so he didn’t need to be here.

When she pushes the door into the room, the air in the room is tense against her bare arms. Goosebumps begin to rise. There is a gentle tapping coming from the floor, but Rosie can’t seem to identify where it is coming from.

The desks are still in the same positions. Hers is the neatest. The computers are still asleep from the weekend. As Rosie scans the room, she notices Flynn hunched over at his desk. Piles of paper are stacked beside him. Rosie’s insides fume with irritation, knowing that Flynn must’ve been passed out and drunk. The usual thing he did on the weekends.

She huffed with anger, “Flynn if you’re going to drink, I don’t want you doing it in the newsroom.” She steps closer to him and starts shaking his unconscious body.

The tapping is closer now. She looks down at Flynn’s feet, noticing a puddle of blood by his shoes. She stops shaking him, stepping away from his body. His arm is laid out across his desk, exposing his sword tattoo. A detail she had never noticed before.

His mouth is oozing out foam and she suddenly feels like the air is knocked out of her. She searches for where the blood is coming from, anything to indicate another possible injury.

On his back, is a handle from a knife sticking out of him. Rosie screams for real this time, sprinting out of the newsroom before she touches any more evidence. She feels nauseous, acid stinging her throat. She fights the urge to vomit in the hallway. She grabs her phone and dials 911, taking a deep yet unsteady breath. She didn’t know if she wanted to cry or be sick or both. Was she sad that he was dead or more shocked?

 That didn’t matter because Flynn was dead. Her only editor was dead, and it wasn’t an accident. It was a crime of passion. Someone wanted to make sure that he stayed that way.