The Paladin Prophecy

#10: DON’T JUST REACT TO A SITUATION THAT TAKES YOU BY SURPRISE.

RESPOND

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Elise turned away, her face ashen. This is what had upset her.

“At school?” he asked.

“No,” said Brooke. “Over the summer. While he was away.”

“While we were all away,” said Nick.

“And before that he was living in my room,” asked Will, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” said Brooke. “And, as I said, it doesn’t have anything to do with you.”

“It didn’t have anything to do with any of us,” said Ajay.

“What happened to him?” asked Will.

“That’s the thing …,” said Nick.

“What’s the thing?” asked Will.

“Nobody knows,” said Elise. “Get the check, Nick. We’re outta here.”

Elise had a way of ending conversations.

* * *

They walked back to Greenwood Hall, considerably more subdued than they had been on the trip over. Once in their pod, they spent only moments wishing Will good night before scattering to their rooms. Will grabbed some water from the kitchen and lingered in the great room. On a bookshelf near the fireplace he spotted a Center yearbook: last year’s edition. He took it into his bedroom and closed and locked his door. Alone again, this time for the night.

In the dead kid’s room.

The room had sat empty until they’d known for sure that he wasn’t coming back. Did they change the furniture? Had the boy slept on this same mattress? Spoken on that black phone? Sat in this chair, worked and studied at this desk? Will nudged the desk, dislodging it to the right. The hardwood floor beneath the front legs was a darker color. This was probably the same desk the dead kid had used.

His name was Ronnie Murso. Will had gotten that much out of Ajay before they’d parted for the night. The five of them—Brooke, Ajay, Nick, Elise, and Ronnie—had spent freshman year in Greenwood Hall Pod 4-3. A momentous year, their first away from home, full of stress and upheaval. Will opened the yearbook to the freshman section. He found all their photographs, the usual smiling oblivious head shots. Except for Elise, who stared at the camera with a boldness suggesting she knew the photographer’s every secret.

Then he found Ronnie Murso. He had a long narrow face, a delicate jawline, and straight blond hair as white as straw. His thin-lipped smile looked taut and a little forced. He had intelligent hazel eyes, a hint of vulnerability around them. He looked sensitive, clearly shy. An emo-geek most likely, a bit on the scrawny side. Below each photo sat a small block of text. Self-profiles. Ronnie’s read:

Embrace paradox. Look for patterns.

Beethoven holds the key but doesn’t know it yet.

Hiding inside your Shangri-la you might find the Gates of Hell.

Strange. This was the second mention of Shangri-la since he’d left home. And, wait, Dad also used that same phrase in his last message: “the gates of hell.” To Ronnie’s point: How many mentions in a short period of time constituted a pattern?

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