43. Petra
PETRA
I cannot believe this day has come. Sin and I are working together to solve a string of murders at our posh school out in the wilderness of New Haven. But needs must when the devil drives, as they say, and things are so dire that we’ve decided to pool our efforts.
My feelings toward him are still strained from his antics in the past, but I do my best to push past them. As he had taken some pains to point out, I might be the next victim on the list.
The day after our uneasy truce, I’m called back to the principal’s office. Only this time, they don’t announce my name over the PA speakers.
Instead, the mousy-faced woman who works as Principal Rhodes’s secretary interrupts our art history class to whisper something to Ms. Matthews. The latter beckons me toward them with a worried but concerned look, and my heart shoots up to my throat.
“Your presence is requested at Mr. Rhodes’s office, Petra,” Ms. Matthews says, briefly placing her hand on my shoulder. The touch is friendly and informal without being too intrusive, and for once, I welcome it.
But soon, I find myself following the principal’s secretary down the corridors of St. Anselm Hall.
Dread drops through my stomach like a stone as I trudge down the hall. Once we reach the office, the secretary opens the door and goes back to her desk without a backward glance at me.
I brace myself and enter the Spartan room to be met by the familiar sight of Principal Rhodes, his face looking wooden and impassive, and the detectives, Fiona and Phil, standing behind him.
“Ah, Petra, come in, come in,” Fiona says briskly, as if I have just walked into the dining room where she was setting the table. “I’m sure you can guess why we are here.”
“Is this about Harry?” The words come out jangled and sputtered before I have managed to clear my throat and assume a more aloof tone.
“Bad business all around, isn’t it, Mr. Rhodes?” Phil says in a cordial tone while the principal looks flustered, wiping sweat off his brow in mid-fall.
“Yes, I suppose you could say that. I don’t quite know what to make of it myself,” the principal replies in a tone shiny with desperation.
I can’t even imagine the bureaucratic and PR hell this man is going through, so I focus on the two detectives instead.
“Why don’t you take a seat, Petra?” Fiona replies with a small smile, nodding at the chair next to the polished mahogany table.
I sit down clumsily, the leather of the chair feeling cold against my skin.
Fiona’s piercing gaze locks onto mine, and this time I struggle to find that cool disdain with which I had spoken to these two previously.
“Petra, we understand this is a difficult time,” Phil starts, his voice carefully neutral. “But we need to talk to you about Harry’s murder and how it connects to Edwin. Now, you were close to both of them, correct?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘close,’ but I knew them both,” I respond in a voice that is only slightly trembling. “Like I told you before, Edwin and I were project partners once, and Harry was a classmate.”
“Just that? A classmate?” Fiona cuts in smoothly, and I don’t like the business tone with which she asks this personal question.
“Well, he was also a friend. If that’s what you’re insinuating.”
That brief spark of annoyance was just what I needed to pull myself together, and now I channel that same anger into fucking around with them the same way they were fucking around with me.
Three can play at this game, I think nastily.
“We aren’t insinuating anything, Petra,” Phil jumps in with the we-are-all-friends-here tone that adults use when they think they are getting along with kids.
Fiona, for her part, is already jotting down notes. “Can you tell us more about your interactions with Harry? Anything that stands out, anything unusual?” She has abandoned all pretenses of being my friend and has reverted to being a cop instead.
“Harry and I didn’t have a lot of classes together, but we did hang out occasionally. We sometimes had lunch together.”
As I speak, memories of our shared lunches send pangs of sorrow through my heart, and my resolve to not cry in front of these pricks starts faltering.
“His family moved around a lot.” It feels grossly wrong to use the past tense when talking of him, so I start counting my breaths to retain some sort of composure.
Phil leans forward with a keen look on his face. “Can we revisit the last bit? Did Harry ever tell you about people he knew before he moved to Radcliffe?”
“N-no, not really. We chatted about school and work and shared interests. We didn’t discuss our home lives, to be honest.”
As far as I can remember, he seemed like his home life was more or less stable, like he was the son of a solid, respectable family who fit right into the general milieu in these parts.
“What about religion? Did he speak to you about that?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with this,” I say with a frown. “And the answer is no. We did not talk about religion.”
He jots something down.
“And what about the days leading to the fall ball?” Fiona asks this next question. “We were told that Harry asked you to the dance, but you refused. Is that correct?”
“Told by whom?” I snap at her. “And yes, I did turn him down then, but there were no hard feelings. Obviously. Harry wasn’t the kind of guy to hold grudges.”
Though my voice is still level, inside I’m fuming. How dare they ask these disrespectful questions about my friend?
Fiona’s eyes narrow at my heated response. “Petra, I know you’re frustrated and possibly scared. But you have to understand how this looks. You were seen with both victims shortly before their deaths. So it’s in your best interests to provide us with as much information as possible.”
“I can’t pull new information out of thin air, can I?” I almost snarl at her. “And I was with someone else at the ball. Trust me, enough people must have noticed me.”
After all, I had been adorning the arm of Prince Sin Arnoult.
“So I don’t understand the point of throwing these questions at me—”
“We’re not accusing you, Petra,” Fiona cuts in before I can continue my rant.
“But given your connection to both victims, we have to consider all possibilities,” adds Phil, and I wonder if this is a standard line they are so used to throwing out that they don’t even realize when they are speaking in turns and completing each other’s stanzas.
At the same time, I have just remembered the paintings I had seen in the crypt, the ones depicting the alleged sacrifices conducted by the Ouroboros Society.
I remember the painting that had come true most recently: the savagely mutilated body with blood spurting out of all orifices, and how Harry’s body was desecrated in the same way.
“Now, you mentioned in your initial statement that there was no discernible difference in Edwin’s behavior in the days leading up to his death.” Phil’s casual question snaps me back to the present. “Would you say the same for Harry?”
“Yes! His death came completely out of the blue. I mean we couldn’t know something like that would happen. How could anyone know?” There’s an almost hysterical edge to my voice, but I’m beyond caring at this point.
This time, both the detectives nod thoughtfully before Fiona says, “All right. If you think of anything, please let us know. You already have my card.” Here she pauses, her eyes probing mine. “Anything else you think we should know?”
Why do I have this nagging feeling that they doubt my innocence? How on earth could they think I’m capable of something so brutal?
“Sure, if I think of anything, I’ll tell you,” I say, trying to steady my voice. “Can I go now?”
Phil gives me a bracing smile, though it doesn’t really do much to loosen the tight knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.
“Of course, of course!” he exclaims magnanimously, escorting me to the door while Fiona starts looking up something on her phone and Mr. Rhodes stares out the window with a conflicted expression.
“Thank you, Petra,” Phil says warmly as I step outside. “We really appreciate your cooperation. Stay safe, and don’t forget to reach out if you remember anything else!” With those last words delivered in the high-pitched register of a TV commercial, he shuts the door behind him.
On my way back to class, Sin accosts me by the lockers.
“How did it go?” His eyes are wide in shock and concern, but the arm he puts on my shoulder is warm.
“They think I know more than I’m letting on,” I reply in a shaky voice, though I’m not as spooked by the detectives’ questions as I am with the thought of possibly more crimes looming on the horizon.
“I wouldn’t worry so much, Petra,” Sin responds in an offhand manner, the previous tension vanishing from his face. “Sounds like they are just pulling at straws for now.”
“How can you be so sure?” We have fallen in step, and our feet automatically lead us to the east wing—where stands the willow tree guarding the secret path to the crypt.
“Well, they must be under a lot of pressure to find a suspect, right?” Sin says in a reasonable tone, as if we are discussing a simple math problem and not the gruesome deaths of our classmates.
“But they don’t have anyone in custody yet, so obviously they’re freaking out and trying to strong-arm all his friends in the hopes that somebody would crack. ”
“Okay, but that would work only if the killer” —how strange the word sounds— “were one of us? You don’t think it’s a student, do you?”
“Maybe, maybe not. That’s what we’re going to find out,” Sin replies in a firmer tone, and I can see that he is mulling something over. There is a faraway look in his eyes that I have come to recognize by now.
“What are you thinking?” I ask curiously.
At this point, we have reached the shaggy canopy of the willow, and already I can feel myself relaxing. Birdsong weaves through the air here as starlings, warblers, and larks fly in and out of the tree’s knotted enclave.