A Society Of Bad Girls

Future Insider! Don't miss out! Sign up to my mailing list and get a free prequel short story as well as Wicked Six character sheets! Hope to see you soon. Margot A Society Of Bad Girls THE WICKED SIX OF ALL SAINTS ACADEMY PART ONE MARGOT DREW DELANEY SWARM Publishing ISBN (kindle) 978-1-9911971-3-9 Copyright © 2023 by Margot Drew Delaney All rights reserved. A Society of Bad Girls is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents, except those clearly in the public domain, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, names or places is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Contents Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 1. Dear Reader 2. Acknowledgements Prologue THE STRATFORD GAZETTE 2 January 1996 ONE DEAD AND ONE REPORTED MISSING AT ALL SAINTS ACADEMY Stratford, Ontario. Police were called to All Saints Academy yesterday morning to attend to a dead body. The victim’s name and cause of death have not yet been released, but locals are already speculating it's related to the illicit New Year’s Eve party held the night before. Alison Brown reports. Bordered by a chapel on one side, the Stratford River on the other, and an expanse of forest known informally as Wilder Woods at the rear, an air of cloistered mystique surrounds All Saints Academy. A private, all-girls Catholic boarding school often admired for its beautiful campus and firm hand disciplinary approach, All Saints is currently the focus of police attention after a body was discovered on the premises on New Year’s Day. The coroner’s office is investigating cause of death and while the victim has been identified, they have not yet been named. Many students return home for the Christmas and New Year holiday period with only a skeleton staff remaining at the school. This year however, a larger than normal group opted to stay on campus, possibly because of an (unconfirmed) New Year’s Eve party. Staff deny this took place, but several Stratford residents witnessed evidence of festivities, including the manager of a local bar who refused service to several costumed teens attempting to purchase alcohol in advance of the “All Saints Party”. Further, according to statements from multiple All Saints students, a classmate disappeared at some point during the evening and has not been seen since. The school board insists that reports of a missing student are merely schoolgirl rumors. They also remain tight-lipped about the death on campus. The police will not release any information until they have conducted a preliminary investigation, but with a forensics unit and two detectives spotted at the scene, the police appear to suspect something criminal may have occurred at All Saints. An unexplained death and reports of a missing student. Was there a murder at All Saints and is a killer now on the loose? 1 Abi, May 2005 This line is a problem. I'm on deadline and we haven't moved in at least two minutes. I glare at the guy at the front. The holdup. The pebble in the conveyor belt. Dude is reading out every single menu item, mulling over every type of beverage they have as if he's never done this before. Do we all have to be part of his decision-making process? Sure, I could abandon my quest and return to my laptop, but where's the fun in that? The lady in front of me burps under her breath. Louder than intended, I'd guess. I fight the urge to giggle. Over-tired hysteria bubbles just below the surface. Finally, we move. She puts in her coffee order—nothing complicated, thank god—then steps away and it’s my turn. "Refill, please." I push over my cup. "Sure." The barista takes it; gives me a look. Yeah, yeah. I'm already bouncing. But that's the point. I'm strapped to a caffeine-fueled rocket but I do my best work right here. Dancing that line between razor focus and jittery chaos. I push my glasses to the top of my head and rub my eyes, wishing I’d brought eyedrops. Too many late nights, not enough sleep. My standard end-of-semester situation. But I’m nearly done. One more then I’m free. From school, at least. Glasses back, the world switching from blurry to sharp, I notice the manager of The Good Roast—Colin by day and Coco Caramel four nights a week at the Deluxe downtown—behind the counter, three towers of plastic-wrapped coffee cups in his arms. “Abi, what’s-a-shakin’?” he says. I smile. He’s in his fifties and equal parts cool and goofy. “If you put out the coffee of the day as self-serve, you’d free up your staff,” I offer, hoping I don’t sound like an asshole. I’ve paid my waitressing dues and I know all too well the hell of pushy customers. “You'd get your fix without having to wait, you mean?” He grins. “I already tried.” He rolls his eyes. “Nightmare.” “It didn’t go well?” “People are idiots. You’d be amazed.” I laugh and glance over at indecisive guy, now by the pickup station and looking as if he already regrets his choice. “No, I believe you.” “So how’s my future star reporter, apart from suffering from impatience?” He winks. “Still percolating, Col, still percolating.” We do this, our not particularly witty schtick, at least once a month. Two years ago, week one of my journalism program, I'd walked in here and Colin had immediately asked what I was studying. He’d circled the air near my face and said, “What industry are you unleashing this onto?” (Later, he did an impression of me; a funny mix of ferocity and excitement.) In response, I'd lifted my chin and announced my intention: To be an award-winning, lie-destroying, truth-revealing journalist. At this,