G
regory Bolton cursed and swiftly silenced the ringer on his cell phone. The incoming number displayed on the caller ID did not match the one he’d nearly finished dialing prior to the interruption.

“I’m coming.” He answered the phone in hushed tones. “Just give me another minute.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have another minute, Mr. Bolton.” The voice of Noel Rubenstein, the Bolton family attorney, crackled over the line. “We needed you back in Manhattan yesterday.”

Gregory peered behind the shade of his bedroom window in Wigglesworth Dormitory overlooking Massachusetts Avenue. The street was completely deserted save for a black Lincoln town car parked directly below. “I had to make sure all of my ‘affairs are in order’ like you said,” he muttered, turning back from the window, “and to figure out a way to tell—”

“To tell who what?” the lawyer interjected sharply. “Mr. Bolton, was there anything ambiguous about my instructions to say nothing to nobody? No e-mails, no texts, and no phone calls except to answer this number and this number alone.”

“Right,” Gregory mumbled, casting around his room. His eyes fell on the far wall, where his bookshelf stood next to his dresser.
“But what about…a note,” he said, sliding his copy of Jane Austen’s
Persuasion
off the shelf.

“A note?” Mr. Rubenstein yelped. “You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Please tell me that you did not just suggest setting down your reasons for leaving
in writing
. Do you have any idea what could happen if anyone were to
find
such a note?”

“What if I left it,” Gregory started, almost as if speaking to himself, “where only some
one
could find it…and only if she knew where to look?” Setting the novel on his desk, Gregory flipped to a particular section toward the end.

“Mr. Bolton,” the lawyer began while Gregory uncapped a pen with his teeth. “If you do not cease whatever it is that you’re thinking about doing immediately and get in this car—which, I might add, is draining the paltry remainder of your father’s funds by the minute—then I will come up to fetch you myself.”

“Uh-huh,” said Gregory, fixated on the yellowed pages of the text.

“I mean it,” Mr. Rubenstein barked. “Your father authorized me to use whatever means necessary, and I would have absolutely zero qualms about dragging you out of that dormitory by your hair—”

“All right, all right, I’m coming,” Gregory conceded, though he’d made no move toward his bags. “Just remind me again: it’s okay to leave my laptop as long as I turn it off, right?”

“WHAT?” Mr. Rubenstein sputtered, sounding apoplectic. “I said to
pack
the computer—that was the very first thing—have you even been listening to me at
all
, Mr. Bolton?”

“Not entirely, to be honest—no.” Gregory almost smirked. His laptop, ready to go in its case, sat behind him, leaning against the rest of his things by the door.

“Young man, just because your father—Oh, shit—” A string of expletives exploded from the lawyer’s end of the line.

Gregory froze, gripping his pen. “What?”

“The
Times
article just went live,” Mr. Rubenstein spat. “The media vultures must’ve wanted to make this morning’s edition—”

Gregory frowned, staring at the book on his desk.

“—a miracle the reporters aren’t here already,” Mr. Rubenstein continued ranting. “Now Mr. Bolton listen carefully for once in your life, because this is my final offer: if you are not down here within the next sixty seconds, this car is leaving without you, and you can find your own way back to New York and fight off the reporters—and who knows, maybe also the authorities—all by yourself. I hear the Chinatown bus is cheap.”

Gregory closed his eyes. Then, standing, he threw his backpack over his shoulder. “See you in fifty-seven seconds,” he said, hanging up his phone. Frantically he scanned the surface of his desk, his eyes alighting on a stack of Post-it notes. Plucking one, he stuck it onto the cover of
Persuasion
and then quickly scrawled a message.

A moment later he’d gathered his bags. Pausing, he looked at the book in his hands and then up at the door. It would take only several more precious seconds to cross the common room and exit into the hall, where he could easily slip it into the metal drop-box on the door directly opposite his suite.

Shaking his head, he turned and propped the book prominently on the top of his bookshelf, where it could be discovered by anyone—or make that some
one
—who might take the time to examine his collection. Then, with one last look over his shoulder at the slim volume, he left.

ONE

J’accuse
…Who?

T
o my darling Campus Scandalmongers:

My how the rumor mills have been churning! While I may not have all the answers re:

WHY
a certain campus “It” boy is still mysteriously missing after vanishing in the middle of the night; and

WHO
is the person responsible for the “Ivy Insider” articles attempting to trash the Hasty Pudding, one of the oldest, most elite clubs on campus; and

WHAT
is going on with The
Crimson
—The Pudding?—The Economy!—The Country!

I
can
dispel one particular rumor right now: no, my new position as interim managing editor at the
Crimson
will NOT detract from my weekly duties as
FM
’s favorite advice columnist! I am pleased to report that with the proper delegating—and dismantling of the historically short-lived blog formerly known as FlyBy—I still have plenty of time to provide the guidance you so desperately need. And what could be more topical this week than:

How to Survive a Scandal Unscathed

1. Fire everyone in charge.
Check! The Ad Board already took care of this one. For those who haven’t seen it yet, the
Crimson
released a
formal apology
penned by the staff member whose oversight led to the disastrous publication of the Pudding’s Punch Book, a private document in which club members recorded their, shall we say,
unflinching
, opinions of prospective members. Luckily there’s a new sheriff in town: that’s right,
c’est moi!

2. Disappear in the dead of night.
Campus “It” boy Gregory Bolton has successfully dodged answering any questions regarding his finance-maven father’s
dodgy
behavior in the hedge fund industry by leaving campus on the eve before that scandal broke, and has yet to respond to anyone’s—including this advice columnist’s and serious girlfriend, Alessandra Constantine’s—attempts to contact him.

Have
you
heard from him? If so, let us know he’s okay by e-mailing
[email protected]
and remember: innocent of hedge fund fraud until the SEC takes you away!

3. Deny, Deny, Deny.
Instead of lying, try denying—Bill Clinton style! How many clever interpretations can you future politicians/defense lawyers/Ponzi schemers invent? It was
borrowing
not
stealing; checking the answers
not
cheating
; résumé
perfecting
not
padding
…. “No, I did not have sex with that woman! At least not on Tuesday.”

4. Frame someone else/Catch the true culprit.
Used up the last of the toilet paper? Made a mess of the common room? Not to worry: just blame
your
roommate! Duh, that’s what they’re there for! But, on the flip side, if your conniving, toilet-paper-hogging roomie blames you, by all means, catch them in the act! (Note: TP hoarding is not advised.)

5. Pray that something bigger comes along.
Fortunately for the Ivy Insider (whoever he or she might be), something even
more
interesting is happening in the
real
world (yes, that thing that occasionally occurs outside of Harvard’s much-touted ivy-covered walls). Boltons, Bankruptcy, and Bailouts, oh my! Have hedge funds ever been hotter?

Other books

Hot Mess by Anne Conley

Scream of Stone by Athans, Philip

Keeping Secrets by Suzanne Morris

The Same River Twice by Ted Mooney

Fishboy by Mark Richard

A Question of Honor by Charles Todd

Night Of The Beast by Shannon, Harry

Blackout by Rosalie Stanton

Beatles by Lars Saabye Christensen

The Lady and the Cowboy by Winchester, Catherine