Chapter Thirty-Three
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
I don’t sleep.
Claudia probably wouldn’t do anything tonight, not when she’s had me asleep across from her every night since I got here. And especially not the night before her recital. Still, I stay awake. Fingers curled around the handle of the switchblade, watching her chest rise and fall in the dim glow of the moon. The tension she carries with her wherever she goes finally melts away, her arms splayed out in front of her, cradling a frayed Piglet doll to her chest.
It’s the most beautiful she’s ever looked, and I can’t fucking stand it.
I wish I could shut down the part of me that still feels drawn to her. The part of me that wants to push her hair back from her forehead and run my fingertips along the bare skin of her arm and watch goose bumps bloom. I’m weaker than I give myself credit for. All it took was a girl with big brown eyes and lips that made my toes curl for me to lose sight of what I was here for.
She was already in bed by the time I got back. Earlier in the day, I would’ve been relieved that she was finally giving her body the rest it deserves, but now it’s just a nuisance. I have to wait until the morning to search her stuff.
The ticket, I reminded myself over and over again as I trudged back to Kincaid, ignoring the dozens of pissed texts from Hunter. I had bigger things to worry about than a guy with blue balls. The ticket on Claudia’s desk proves she wasn’t in Luster that night. All the signs—luggage tags and photos and credit card charges, the way no one questioned a dead girl reappearing—point away from here.
Claudia is a liar. But maybe, maybe, maybe she’s not a killer.
Lying there, alone in the dark, gives me time to think. To wonder what her role in all of this is. Gabe’s narrative is easier to piece together. A desperate kid who once had it all, looking for his chance to get it back. Gabe once had a taste of what it was like for things to come easy, and he thought he could have the same thing now. If he got rid of Solina, the fellowship would be his. Not getting his hands dirty by preying on someone with more to lose instead.
But if that’s true, then what happened the night of the bonfire? Had Gabe called campus security on me before leaving me on that bench? Waiting for them to find me and have me expelled by morning? And if it is, why did Claudia save someone she was supposed to be sabotaging?
The sun has barely risen when her alarm goes off. Our room is still dark, only a few bits of light peeking through the blinds over my bed. I flip over before she can spot me, keeping a close eye on her in the pocket mirror I stashed underneath my pillow, next to the switchblade. Pulling the comforter up to my shoulders, I angle the mirror so I can watch her rummaging through the closet. She spends ten minutes pulling out blouses, skirts, and dresses, holding each option up to her body in the mirror before ultimately throwing it onto a rapidly growing pile on the floor.
In the end, she decides on a simple black dress with bell sleeves and a ribbon-like collar. The recital isn’t until ten, but according to the clock on my nightstand, she’s showered and dressed with freshly manicured nails and a full face of simple but eye-catching makeup by eight. She stalls by the door, one hand on the knob and the other holding her coat and purse. She inhales sharply and exhales softly. Walking herself through that same breathing exercise she showed me the night of the storm. Without thinking, I match the pattern of her breath. Instead of relaxing the tightness building up inside me, all it does is make the room feel smaller. Every second she’s still here feels like the walls are closing in. Like I’m seconds from lunging and demanding she tell me everything she knows.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I throw the sheets off, but I don’t move yet. I wait five minutes, then another and another, prepared to dart back under the covers in case she comes back because she forgot something. Almost half an hour has gone by when I slide off the bed and dead bolt the door. With the door locked and Claudia gone, I head toward her side of the room and start pulling everything apart.
Searching through Claudia’s stuff isn’t as nerve-racking as searching Hunter’s and Gabe’s had been. There’s no ticking clock holding me back. I can take my time. Read through all the papers on her desk and flip through every notebook in her backpack.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for, or what I should expect to find. More drugs, maybe. A threat from Gabe written on the back of a napkin. A plan to sabotage Solina. But all she’s hiding are half-finished mugs of tea and bloodstained sheet music.
Claudia’s space is neat but sparse. Nothing sentimental, just the essentials. Except for the framed photo on her desk. I pick up the ticket again, examining it more closely this time. The date is still the same, but I can see it with new clarity now. Everything else I found on Hunter, Poppy, and Gabe is concrete. Geotagged photos in the Alps, credit card charges in California, or a flight across the country. A paper ticket doesn’t hold the same weight.
This wasn’t proof. I just let myself believe that it was.
Setting the frame back on the desk, I turn my attention to Claudia’s bed. I tear off the sheets and dig in the crevice between the mattress and the frame, but don’t find anything except dust. The drawers of her nightstand are mostly empty. Extra charger cords and throat lozenges. Nothing under her bed except an empty suitcase.
“Come on ,” I mutter after opening the last empty suitcase pocket. There has to be something. Unless she and Gabe have mastered covering their tracks.
All that’s left is Claudia’s closet, and there’s not much there to begin with. A two-drawer dresser shoved into the closet for extra space. One blazer instead of the standard two. Three uniform skirts—two plaid, one wool. One Kingswood pullover sweater. Two pairs of jeans, a couple of sweaters stacked on top of each other, and two coats—a thin black peacoat and a denim jacket.
There’s nothing beneath the stack of sweaters or hidden in the drawers of the dresser. Nothing behind it either. Nothing in her blazer or hidden in the lining of her skirts. Nothing tucked inside the sweaters or the pockets of her jeans.
The denim jacket is all dust and crumpled dollar bills, but the black peacoat has plenty to find in each pocket. A set of car keys in one, an empty wallet in the other. Loose change and receipts from a grocery store in Spokane. A note from her mom telling her to call once she got to campus, signed with a lipstick kiss print. I’m ready to call it a bust when my fingers catch on something as I set the coat back on its hanger, something sharp beneath the fleece inner lining.
Setting the coat back down on the ground, I turn it inside out. Two hidden pockets, one on each side, just below the armpit. The first pocket is wide open and empty. The other is zipped shut, and as I run my fingers along the edges of the pocket, I feel that same sharpness. Not sharp as a knife or the edge of a key, but something thinner. I hold my breath as I pull the pocket open, preparing myself for the possibility of nothing and everything.
There’s only one thing in the pocket. A folded-up postcard.
The world falls out from under me as I unfold the card, already knowing what it says. Neon-yellow-and-green eyes staring up at me, hands folded in prayer. A phone number that leads nowhere, and a message I know like the back of my hand.
IT’S NOT TOO LATE TO SAVE YOUR SOUL