Chapter 7 #3
“Uh, no, Neve. But I pay attention to sports on this campus, you know that.” The words have bite, then she winces, and swallows hard. “I just… I want to make sure one of them didn’t do it. Because if they did, and they think you’re a witness, they could come after you.” Her tone is softer now.
I take a deep breath in. “But we don’t really think the hockey players are out here stabbing people, do we?
” As I say it, I refuse to remember it. Like if I keep pushing away the blurry, dark image of Jackson on the ground, it didn’t actually happen.
Or maybe it did, and I only read about it somewhere, but I never experienced it myself.
I never got caught up in the middle of it.
Even with all the denial and the compartmentalizing I’m doing, I feel unsteady on my feet.
I don’t think poetry is the only thing I’m going to be skipping today. I’ve got History of Psych at eleven, but I doubt I’ll make it. Despite my bullshit on the weekends, I rarely ever miss class, so I make the decision I can just let it all go today.
But only today. Tomorrow, I’m putting it all behind me.
Maybe.
“I don’t know,” Cynthia says, her voice quiet. “But I’d prefer it if you stayed at the apartment today. Casper will be working, right? So you’ll be… safe.”
Usually, I’d give some smartass remark like, Okay, Daddy, but she’s right. If I’m not going to class, I don’t really want to be seen on campus at all, and I’ve not yet been brave enough to check what the media has been posting about Jackson’s death.
I can only hope me and the boys are kept out of it. If they’re as important as Cynthia says they are—and she’d know far more than I would—then they’re likely protected. Hopefully that protection, logistically, extends to me, too.
If not, Jackson’s friend will be messaging me, and I don’t want to talk to Will ever again. This looks too much like all my fault.
As I think it, the sound of the truck’s engine last night in the parking lot plays in my head.
I mentioned it to the cops, didn’t I? Who was it?
Surely that will have to be on camera? And if that was the killer, it can’t have been Sylvan or Faust, which means I wasn’t caught up between two murderers last night.
I take a deep breath, squeeze my fingers around the frosted glass of my latté, and nod once, as if I’ve made a decision.
“Okay,” I tell Cynthia, who is still watching me from her perch on the couch. “I’m going to stay in bed, wait until this blows over—”
“Someone was murdered at one of the biggest schools in the country, Neve. It’s not going to blow over.”
I narrow my eyes. “They’ll keep it quiet for their sake, and besides, you know what I mean. I’m going to take today to chill. You be careful out there and let me know if you talk to this pottery girl.”
“My first class. She always seemed like a bitch, but we can be worse.” She winks, and it makes me feel a little better. “I’ll come here right after, bring you lunch—”
“You don’t need to—”
“Stop trying to be polite.” Her voice is hard. “Let me help you, and we’ll go from there. Besides, you always need to eat more.”
I ignore the well-meaning jab and swallow the knot in my throat. “Thank you, Cyn.”
She gives me a sympathetic look, and I want to run around the coffee table and hug her, but I don’t want to start crying. It’s not something I do often, but once I start, it turns into an obnoxious wailing sound, and I don’t need to take any more of Cynthia’s emotional energy than I already have.
Without another word, I head to the kitchen, set my glass in the sink to rinse out later, then hole myself up in my bedroom, grateful Nolan’s money helped me decorate it to be a cozy, comfy, fantasy-laced daydream with a vampire’s edge.
A gauzy white canopy, red silk sheets, white pillowcases, a lamp shaped like a ribcage with a black shade.
Long, sweeping vanilla curtains over my window, fuzzy rugs on the floor.
Golden candlesticks with red and white candles, skull and staircase art in frames nailed to the wall (Nolan’s doing).
A black-painted bookshelf with all of my fantasy novels lined up, gathering dust, and too many plush dragons to count.
The attached, mostly-white bathroom has a black shower curtain, fuzzy black rug, and all of my towels are black.
My closet doors are closed, and beaded black and white rosary tassels hang along them.
While last night I might have been living in my comfy basics, my wardrobe can look fucking lethal if I need it to.
But not now.
Not today.
Today, I leave the lights off, inhale the incense-scent of my perfume that constantly lingers inside my room, push out of my slippers, and dive into my bed, closing the canopy around me.
I wiggle under my covers in my gray sweats and white tank, the robe-cloak still loose and warm over my body, and I snatch my phone off the charger and let the cord thump to the hardwood floor.
I take a breath before I unlock my phone, all of my notifications set to DND. Not because I’m extremely popular, but because I like to avoid too many responsibilities.
After the anticipation threatens to eat me alive, I unlock my phone.
I turned off the badges for notifications on my phone too, but a quick swipe down and I can see everything I missed.
I feel relief course through me when I don’t note any missed calls, but my scalp prickles as I realize that not only has my brother texted me three times, but a number I don’t have saved did, too.
Surely the police won’t text me? They told me to watch for calls. But maybe they’re trying to connect with us college students better?
I ignore everything and open my email first. I rarely use it for anything now that I’m not coaching clients, so it’s a distraction, but I want it.
There are marketing emails from Free People, another from Coach Outlet, and then…
My stomach twists.
A campus safety email. Sent right before Cyn and I started talking.
Campus Safety Advisory: Ongoing Investigation
I delete it, unread. Fuck.
Then I bite down on my back teeth and open the texts from Nolan first.
Brotherrr
Did you call any of the ones I sent you?
Brotherrr
I’m going to take that as a no.
Brotherrr
Okay, you have until 12:00 pm to get back to me or I’ll retain them and have them call you. I might be at your door, too.
I almost laugh out loud, but I roll my eyes instead. It’s just after nine, so I have time to keep ignoring him.
Now, though, I need to read the other message.
There are two possible people in my mind.
The police station, or Will. I never saved his number, don’t remember it, and I already deleted all of his texts.
The unknown number’s area code is local, and Will isn’t long from Thunder Bay from the vague facts I recall of him, so he’d probably have a different area code.
Either way, if it is him, that means I’m in the news. But in that case, wouldn’t more people have texted me? At least a few? Or even my mother?
I squeeze my eyes shut tight a second, wiggling further down in my sheets, then tap back to my messages, and quickly open the unknown one before I can read the preview and chicken out.
My pulse races as I scan the words.
Just eight.
A period at the end.
Unknown
When I knock on the door, answer it.