A Deadly Inheritance

by Kelley Armstrong

Genres: Young Adult; YA Contemporary; YA Social Themes

Synopsis

After discovering she's an heiress to a billion-dollar corporation, seventeen-year-old Liliana finds herself at a new boarding school where she must navigate secret societies and a deadly competition. Not to mention two handsome boys.

The Reappearance of Rachel Price meets The Inheritance Games series in this new YA thriller from bestselling author Kelley Armstrong.

In the wake of her mother's death, Liliana Chamberlain's estranged (and very wealthy) grandparents swoop in. Or their lawyer does. Her grandparents aren't ready to meet her, but they want her to have the life her mother walked away from, starting with Westdale Academy, the elite boarding school her mother attended. It should be a Cinderella dream come true, but Lili has serious misgivings. Yet she doesn't have a choice, being under eighteen and dead broke.

Westdale Academy is a school of secrets as well as intriguing classmates, including Hollywood golden boy Theo Dubois and the mysterious Maddox Moreno. As she gets to know them all, Lili realizes there's more to the school than elite-level networking. Something deadly.

For the new girl at school, investigating the deaths of past students — including Maddox's own sister — is a very dangerous game. Do those deaths have something to do with why her mother fled Westdale at the cost of her inheritance?

When a fun night out turns bloody, Theo is the prime suspect, and Liliana must race against time to connect the past with the present and discover the truth behind her inheritance.

Release date: March 24, 2026

Publisher: Tundra Books

Print pages: 432

Sample

Prologue
APRIL 5, 2005
Texts to unknown number.
Rosalyn Chamberlain has fled Westdale
Academy
As head of the Lilith Society, she kept a journal.
Get it before the Liliths add it to the archives
Remove & destroy entries as needed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter
Two
We !y commercial. That’s what Cecilia says, though it just
means we !y on a normal plane—as opposed, apparently, to a
private jet, because, as she explains, they’re a bad look these
days. Oh, Chamberlain Enterprises has one, of course, but they
don’t use it when anyone might be watching.
Flying commercial does not mean !ying “coach,” which
seems to be the word for the section where most people sit.
We’re in "rst class, and the luxury of that is completely lost on
me, as someone who’s never even !own before.
When the meal arrives, Cecilia waves hers away, whispering
to me, “It’s terrible. I’ll feed you properly later.”
The !ight attendant hovers, tray outreached toward me,
and my stomach growls loud enough for Cecilia to hear it. With
a look that might be a !ush of embarrassment, she takes the
tray with thanks and hands it to me.
“When did you last eat?” she asks softly.
“I had lunch.” I won’t mention that it was an apple from the
box of “healthy snacks” my cafeteria puts out for free. When
you’re trying to keep a roof over your head, you calculate the
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exact amount of food you need to get through the day without
fainting. In my case, it’s two bananas, one apple, and a packet of
ramen mixed with canned tuna.
“How did my grandparents !nd me?”
Cecilia stiffens before catching herself. “Hmm?”
“How did my grandparents !nd me?” I repeat.
Silence stretches so long that I glance over.
Finally, she says, “Your mother sent me a photo every year
at the holidays. When I didn’t get one this year, I worried. I
had . . . reason to believe she was last in Chicago. I hired investi‐
gators, but it took a while to !nd you.”
“So it was you who found me. Not my grandparents.” I focus
on cutting into my chicken. “Are they meeting us at the
airport?”
“Your grandparents are in Europe. Your grandmother isn’t
well.”
“Ah.”
That might explain why they sent their lawyer instead of
coming to Chicago themselves. It doesn’t explain why there’s
been no mention of even speaking to them. I’m pretty sure
phones work in Europe.
“So what happens now?” I say. “Am I being whisked off to
some grand estate to be raised as a proper heiress?”
“No, whisked off to Westdale Academy, to receive the best
possible education, for admission to the best possible college.”
I take a bite of chicken. “I’ve already been admitted to
college. With a full scholarship.”
“A state college.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You applied to three top-tier schools. Stanford. Harvard.
Yale. I believe my alma mater was your !rst pick. Stanford for
business, yes? An MBA?”
A DEADLY INHERITANCE
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I say nothing, but my stomach !utters.
She continues, “You received early admission offers to all of
them. All. But the top-tier ones didn’t come with full scholar‐
ships, which you needed. So why did you apply to them?”
I cut a baby carrot in half. “Just dreaming.”
“Well, you don’t need to dream anymore. Stanford is yours.
I can accept the offer on your behalf.”
I stop, carrot halfway to my mouth. I’d only applied to those
schools to see if I could get in. The thought of actually going to
my top pick? And not having to worry about the cost?
I can’t even process that. I’m not sure I dare. Maybe being
the granddaughter of billionaires should have hit harder, but
it’s too big. When I was younger, I thought a billionaire had ten
million dollars. Then I realized it was a thousand million, and
my brain couldn’t even conceive of that. How does anyone have
that much money? Why does anyone have that much money?
I don’t want to think about having billionaire grandparents.
But going to Stanford? That’s an actual dream, one that has just
come true in the most casual way possible.
Well, you don’t need to dream anymore. Stanford is yours.
Cecilia continues, “What you’ll get at Westdale is more than
a top-notch education. It’s about making connections.
Networking.”
“Not my thing,” I mumble as I quickly eat another carrot.
Her voice drops, softer. “It needs to start being your thing.
You also need to spend time with kids like you. Kids who are
accustomed to rubbing elbows with heiresses.”
Rich kids, she means. I shiver as I think of the well-off
students at some of my better schools. The popular, stuck-up
ones who didn’t even see people like me. Imagine a school full
of them.
“I’m #ne in a regular school,” I say. “I’m already accepted at
Stanford, so I don’t need this Westdale place.”
KELLEY ARMSTRONG
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“You do,” she says, her voice still soft. “I’m afraid that’s non-
negotiable. But trust me when I say it won’t be as bad as you
think.”
“You went there,” I say, remembering what I saw online.
“As did your mom. I actually went because of her. We grew
up together—my dad is head counsel for Chamberlain Enter‐
prises, and while I had the grades for Westdale, I didn’t have
the family connections. Your mom got me in, and I loved my
time there. We both did. I know it sounds like some posh
boarding school full of snobby brats, but Westdale is . . .
unique.”
“How?”
Her lips quirk. “Do you want the full story or just the parts
that concern you?”
“Full story.”
“Okay, then.” She takes a deep breath. “Let’s go back to the
late 1800s. Higher education in the South is pretty much
nonexistent. You won’t even see a public high school until the
1900s. Southern families who want a good education for their
kids send them north. But there’s also a push for the New
South. Industrialization, education, progressive thought,
moving away from the . . .” She makes a face.
“The antebellum South.”
“Yep, and the founders of Westdale saw an opportunity.
Start a private boarding school at home. A prep school—
preparing students for college. Headhunt top teaching talent.
Focus on progressive politics. Build something to rival
northern prep schools. Which they did. Initially, it was about
fifty students over four years of high school, extremely exclu‐
sive, only the wealthiest Southern families. As Westdale’s
reputation grew, it stopped focusing on the South and
expanded to include three feeder schools—outside Atlanta,
New York, and Los Angeles. Westdale itself became only for
A DEADLY INHERITANCE
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seniors and only for select students from those feeder
schools.”
I frown. “How does that work?”
“Prospective students attend one of the feeder schools,
which are still very exclusive. The best of those are accepted to
Westdale for their senior year, making it the most exclusive
program in America. To get in, you need the money and connec‐
tions to be accepted by one of those three feeder schools and
then you need to apply to Westdale like you’d apply to college.
Grades "rst, followed by service work and athletics. That leaves
a maximum of forty kids, all seniors, all valedictorian-level
students, like you.”
“That’s . . . daunting.”
Her eyes sparkle. “But maybe a little exciting, too? Westdale
doesn’t have any silver-spoon kids coasting through life. No
spoiled socialites who major in partying. These kids are driven.
Ambitious. Top performers, every last one.”
“Is the school business oriented? Are they all from corporate
families?”
She shakes her head. “That was one of the early mandates
of Westdale—that it would recognize excellence in all areas.
The unity of commerce, science, and art.” She catches my look
and smiles. “You like that.”
“It’s interesting.”
“That is de"nitely one word to describe Westdale.”
I think it through, looking for more questions to ask. “So by
now, being the start of second term, they’ve all applied to
college.”
“A formality really. Anyone who gets into Westdale is guar‐
anteed to get into the college of their choice.”
“Then why go to Westdale?”
“Prestige, but it’s also a reward. Once they’re in, they can
KELLEY ARMSTRONG
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relax and enjoy their !nal year, while making meaningful
connections for their careers.”
“Everyone just hangs out and enjoys a top-notch education
they no longer need for college?”
“Why not? They’ve worked hard. Now they get to relax and
do that very important networking.”
I shake my head. “Students like that don’t relax.” Students
like me, I mean, though I don’t say it. “They competed to get in,
which means they want something only Westdale can offer.”
A "utter of her hand. “Some of them want to be named
Optima, but that’s not important—”
“What’s Optima?”
A long pause. Then, as if reluctantly, she says, “Each year,
one student joins an elite group that’s made up of all former
winners. It doesn’t concern you.”
“I’m disquali!ed because I’m enrolling late.”
“No, but you don’t need to run for Optima.”
I bristle. “Because I’m a public school student and not on
their level? I couldn’t win, so I shouldn’t run?”
“No, because you don’t need it. You’re a Chamberlain.
There’s nothing you’d get from making Optima that you don’t
already have. You can just relax and focus on making friends
and getting used to your new life.”
With that, she opens her phone. Conversation over. In other
words, whatever this “Optima” thing is, she’s not talking
about it.
Which means I de!nitely want to know more.
A FTER THE FLIGHT , a driver conveys us to a hotel. I’m still
unsettled—okay, maybe also a little grumpy—from the Optima
A DEADLY INHERITANCE
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conversation. Being introverted means I can be mistaken for
non-competitive, when nothing could be further from the
truth. It doesn’t even matter whether I want the prize; I just like
to win. If there’s a competition at this school for the best of the
best, then I will want to prove that I could be that student, that
I’m at least a serious competitor. I’ll especially want to prove
that I can do it without the privileges—boarding schools,
tutors, job-free summers—the others have enjoyed.
My mood lifts when we reach the hotel, where I get a suite
bigger than my entire apartment. The bathroom has a bidet, a
toilet, a sunken tub, and a massive shower. There are four TVs—
for the tub, the bed, the living room, and . . . the front hall.
Under what circumstances is someone watching TV in the front
hall?
After Cecilia leaves, I imagine Mom being here. I picture her
rolling her eyes at the luxury but enjoying it, too. Enjoying it
because it was a reminder of her old life.
She’d seemed so at home in our unending string of rented
houses. She’d walk through each and say, “This is good, Will. I
can make it work,” and Dad would take her hand and say, “We
can.” Then they’d throw themselves into turning those run-
down places into homes: Dad painting and "xing, Mom
scouring thrift shops for curtains and artwork, and "lling the
house with the smell of baking.
I always "gured this was how they grew up. Making do with
what they had. I knew Dad did, with a single mom and zero
support from his absent father. I presumed Mom’s life had been
the same and that when Dad brought home some little luxury
for her—fancy chocolates or soaps—she loved them because
they were something she’d never had. Except now I know she’d
grown up in a world where people probably never ate corner-
store chocolate or used drugstore soap.
Had she been faking contentment for Dad’s sake? I honestly
KELLEY ARMSTRONG
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don’t think so. I look back, and I don’t remember ever glimpsing
anything else.
Maybe, if you’ve had it all, you don’t mind leading a simpler
life. Your idea of what’s important changes. And what was
important to Mom had been Dad and me. Oh, she had her own
interests—reading, shopping, volunteer work—but she’d
always joked that she belonged in an earlier time, one where a
woman could aspire to a career as a mom and wife and no one
would bat an eye.
The new story seems to be that Mom was a young woman
from a wealthy family, who left Westdale and was disowned for
a teenage pregnancy, but she never regretted it because she was
in love with my dad. She embraced her new life and didn’t look
back.
That’s the happy answer. The easy answer.
But is it the truth?
When things got bad after Dad died, Mom still never went
to her parents for help. For billionaires, a few thousand dollars
to get back on her feet would have been like tossing pennies
into a fountain. I can see her refusing to give them the chance to
say “I told you so.” But for my sake, she’d grovel. For me, she’d
swallow her pride.
So why hadn’t she done that? And does the fact she hadn’t
mean I really shouldn’t be here?
For now, I think I need to trust her best friend and
remember that I don’t need to deal with my grandparents.
When the dust settles, though, and no one’s watching, I‘ll start
digging, because I have a lot of questions to answer.
Investigating will wait until I have a laptop, which Cecilia
has assured me will arrive tomorrow. For now, I use the tempo‐
rary phone Cecilia gave me to send emails to anyone who’ll
miss me at school. Then I do something I haven’t done since
Dad died, and we gave up our rented houses for tiny apart‐
A DEADLY INHERITANCE
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ments: I take a bath. I !ll that tub to the brink and pour in
lavender bath salts.
I stash the other two bottles—sage and lemon—in my
backpack. When we took road trips, we’d sometimes stay in
“nice” hotels. Mom always took whatever toiletries we didn’t
use, reasoning that we’d paid for them.
I spend way too long in that steaming, lavender-scented
bath. Then I hop into the shower to wash my hair, because if
they’re giving me both options, I’m using them. Afterward, I
pull on the thick cotton bathrobe and shuf"e into my huge
bedroom with its huge bed.
I’ve seen movies where fancy hotels like this put a chocolate
on the pillow. I get an entire box from a local chocolatier. I pop
one piece, and it’s amazing.
I wash down a second chocolate with bottled water. I have
!ve choices. Five. Of water. The one I pick is from the south of
France. Drawn, I’m sure, from a mystical well, the whereabouts
of which are known only to one monk, who guards the secret
with his life.
I pull back the sheets and, again, I have to pause, this time
to run my !ngers over them. I’ve read about things like
Egyptian cotton and gazillion-thread count, and I have no idea
whether that’s what this is, but I have never even felt sheets like
this. Crisp and soft at the same time.
I shed the bathrobe, slide into those sheets, and smile like I
haven’t smiled in months. And that’s before I feel an envelope
on the other pillow. I pick it up to see “For expenses” written on
the front. Inside are . . .
Hundred-dollar bills. A sheaf of hundreds, along with a few
twenties for variety.
For expenses? Like what? The sudden need to buy a
designer handbag? I shake my head and tuck the money under
my pillow.
KELLEY ARMSTRONG
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I should say something like “I could get use to this.” But I’m
not sure that’s a good idea. At least not until I’ve answered my
questions. Because if there’s a reason Mom never went home
again, then I’m only going to be living the life of an heiress until
my eighteenth birthday, when I’m legally free. Until then, I’ll
enjoy what I can, while I can. ...