Chapter 7 #2
Daan clucks in concern, waving us in. “Yes, yes. Come inside.” He steps back, disappearing into the dim interior to make room for us.
The entryway is small, a tiny white-tiled foyer with walls painted duck yellow and covered in framed prints of the German countryside and men in lederhosen.
One stairway leads up, another, on the other side of the entryway, heads to the basement.
A tiny table off to one side holds a red cup full of highlighters and markers from the last party, used in a completely pointless gesture to indicate of-age drinking status.
The movie-based gunfire is louder inside. “Emile,” Daan shouts up the stairs. “Der Mann is nicht einmal Deutscher. Er ist Osterreicher. Turn it down!” He rolls his eyes with a hint of his normal exasperation.
“Did Lennie tell you she was coming over?” Chessa asks with a frown, once the door is closed behind us. “You were asleep last night when I got back.”
I shake my head. Morales’s voice whispers in my head: she called you. Seven times early this morning. Did I have a voicemail on my phone from Lennie, telling me she was on her way over? Or texts?
Daan scrubs his hands over his face. “I should have stayed with her last night instead of going back out after I dropped her off at home. She was upset. About that strange man in the bar and—”
Devon. Fuck.
“That’s where the police should be concentrating,” Chessa interjects. Yet another reason why I need to find Devon first. I have no idea what he might say to the police.
“—you,” Daan finishes. His gaze moves past me to land on Carter.
Heat surges up my neck and into my face. Jesus, it would be nice if my love life—or lack thereof—wasn’t the absolute center of every conflict.
An awkward silence holds for several beats too long.
Then Chessa shifts to face Carter. “Thank you for picking Jo up at the police station and bringing her to us.” Her tone is polite but formal. “We’re going to my parents’ house now that she’s here. My dad is coming to get us as soon as I text him.” She nudges me. “Mom is making Belgian waffles.”
Daan gives a snort. “Such a thing does not exist,” he whispers to me. “Brussels waffle. It is a Brussels waffle.”
“And we’re going to hang out there until the police are done with…
” She pauses with uncharacteristic uncertainty.
“Until they let us back into Branwick,” she finishes with more confidence.
Fake it till you make it. That’s always been her motto.
She says it on the first day of class every semester.
To me, to herself in her mirror. A surge of affection for her washes over me.
I’ve been to Chessa’s house before. Dr. Monroe and her husband are warm and welcoming; Chessa’s twin sisters are adorable and eager to have guests for their performances.
Baton, puppet, karaoke, whatever. They are eight years old and not picky about their audience.
It’s from them that Chessa got her nickname. They couldn’t say Francesca.
Plus, I’d get to keep an eye on Chessa and Daan, hopefully long enough to convince that extra-paranoid part of myself that they aren’t in danger. Not as long as I am there to protect them. The thought of it makes the tension in my shoulders ease.
Going to the Monroe house today would be a welcome respite, like pulling the covers up over my head and pretending the outside world doesn’t exist.
Except … that’s exactly what it would be like.
Hiding. Pretending the monster on the other side of the blankets doesn’t exist. And yes, while I’d be able to protect Chessa and Daan and—oh, God, the Monroes—with my presence for now, that would also mean I wouldn’t be doing a damn thing to stop them from being in danger in the first place.
Not to mention every other person on this campus that someone has decided I’m responsible for.
In fact, going over there might actually put the Monroes in more danger, depending on how closely I’m being observed by whoever the fuck this is. I can’t take that risk.
Damnit. I need to find him. Or her. Or them. And stop them. Before anyone else gets hurt. I certainly can’t count on the police to do it. They have no idea what they’re dealing with.
I look over to find Carter watching me steadily, waiting, it seems, for my answer rather than following Chessa’s directive. That makes my heart squeeze with … not love, I don’t know what it is, but something.
“I think I should stay on campus,” I say, bracing myself.
Chessa’s mouth falls open in surprise before she catches herself. “Why in God’s name would you do that?”
“I don’t want to look like I’m trying to run from the police,” I point out.
She scowls at me, pushing her glasses up on her nose from where they’ve slipped. “You’re not leaving town,” she argues.
“No, but it might look like I have something to hide, and I’m not going to give them that.” And I need to be here to try and figure out who is responsible.
“Jo, you have no shoes,” Daan says reprovingly. “This is not smart.”
“I have my gym bag in a locker at Wibberley from that cycling class this summer,” I say.
Assuming athletic center staff hasn’t cut the lock off.
It’s been a while. Turns out I don’t like working that hard to go absolutely nowhere.
“And your feet are freakishly tiny,” I remind him. “So your shoes wouldn’t even fit me.”
Daan lifts his chin. “My feet are appropriately sized for my height, they are—”
“—just narrow,” Chessa and I finish this familiar refrain simultaneously, and for a moment, everything feels normal.
“Exactly this, yes,” Daan says with an offended sniff, as he always does when this topic comes up. “It is not my fault Americans have peddles for feet.”
That wrings an exhausted laugh out of me. And I want to reach out and hug them both, hold them tight and keep them safe. But that’s not possible, not yet. “I can crash with Ryann over at Quimby, if I have to,” I say. “She has a single this year. Or Bekah at Proctor. They won’t—”
A muffled buzz sounds, with a vibration against my side. Followed by another buzz nearby, then another. From upstairs, the loud chirp of a text on a phone at full volume.
Chessa steps back and pulls out her phone from her jacket pocket. “It’s a campus alert,” she says with a frown, scanning the screen. “About a death on campus.” She rolls her eyes. “Way to go with the timely communication, guys. Everyone’s already talking…” She trails off, her eyes widening.
Uh-oh. “What is it?”
Daan peers over Chessa’s shoulder. “They say there is no cause for alarm as the death is likely related to personal dispute.”
Well, fuck. That, combined with the rumors about my “detainment,” is going to make me look like suspect number one.
“Police are investigating but, in the meantime, everyone is to exercise caution,” Daan continues. “Keep doors locked, do not allow … oh.” His gaze shoots to me. “Do not allow nonresidents access to your hall or room, even students you may know.”
With that direction, Beecher admin might as well have posted my picture with a Wanted filter.
Fantastic.
“It’s fine,” Carter says. “If Jocasta wants to be on campus, she can stay at my place for now.”
I turn to stare at him, but he meets my eyes without flinching.
What is this? I’ve never been to his place before.
Of course, he’s not ever been to mine, either.
It’s sort of been one of those things we don’t talk about because that would mean having an actual conversation about what this is …
or was. Is this part of his new “friends” initiative?
I wonder what the woman from last night would say about it.
In spite of everything, the idea of seeing where he lives—I bet everything is notoriously tidy—sends a little shiver of anticipation through me.
Chessa snorts. “Yeah, I’m not sure you’re the best choice in a time of crisis, friend, given how often you cause them.” Apparently, tragedy loosens Chessa’s filter to the point of non-existence. “Do you know how hard she—”
“That’s great. Thank you, Carter,” I say loudly over Chessa.
He nods, but a muscle ticks along his jaw.
Chessa clicks her tongue in disapproval, shaking her head at me. She grabs one of the markers from the cup and then my hand to scrawl her number on my palm, the black ink fresh and bright in contrast to the tattoos I got when I was sixteen. “You call me.”
“No phone,” I remind her.
She sighs. “You better give me your number, then,” she says to Carter after a moment. “In case I need to reach her.”
I grimace. I feel like a fifteen-year-old with a strict parent overseeing a first date. Except I didn’t date at fifteen—still too busy trying to feed myself without killing people—and, by that point, my mother would not have cared.
But Carter complies without argument, and it does make sense. Until I get my phone back or buy a new one, I’ll need to rely on someone else for communication.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” he says, turning and stepping back onto the porch without waiting for my response.
In the new silence, with just the three of us, Daan draws in a deep breath. “Just be careful, Jo. I cannot … Lennie … not you as well.” His eyes go shiny and then tears spill over. “Fuck.” He turns away and then rapidly ascends the steps.
A pang of loss for Lennie, for all of us, throbs in my chest, followed immediately by a pulse of anger.
The Old Ones. My father. Fucking everything up as usual. I have to fix this. Now.
Chessa walks with me to the door. “If you insist on doing this, just … keep your head down. Don’t do anything stupid. The police are always interested in anyone who’s too interested. And they’re already looking hard at you.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“And as for that”—she flicks her hand in the direction of Carter heading down the sidewalk—“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Yeah. Me too.