Chapter 8
I walk into the Bean before Renner’s class on Tuesday and almost do a double take when Detective Grange is standing at the
register, ordering. What the hell is he doing here? Is he here for me? I should just leave. I should, but he starts to turn
and I’m frozen.
“Miss Sawyer.” His deep, velvety voice sounds shocked to see me. Maybe he isn’t here for me after all. “I was just on my way
to your apartment.”
Okay, never mind.
“Oh.”
“I wanted to have a follow-up conversation with you about last weekend’s incident.” He nods to the table in the corner by
the window. Our table. “Can we sit?”
“I actually was on my way to class—”
“It won’t take long,” he says with a smile.
“Okay,” I concede. “I’m going to grab a coffee really quick.”
“Of course. I’ll wait over there.”
I debate running out of here but know that won’t do me any good.
I have about five minutes before I have to go over there to decide if I’ll lie or tell the truth about the journal.
I go through the pros and cons of each in my head.
I get my coffee and nervously sip from the iced latte as I approach him.
I hope he can’t see my hands shaking. When I sit, he’s staring out the window.
“This is a lovely campus,” he says.
“It is,” I agree.
Grange clears his throat. “But I am not here to talk about Pembroke.” He digs through the briefcase he brought with him. “I’m
here to talk about this.” He lays a piece of paper on the table and pushes it toward me. It’s Ryan’s eulogy, the one I wrote.
“Do you know what this is?”
He knows I know what that is, and I’ve made up my mind about my approach. “It’s a copy of a page in my journal.”
“You don’t sound too surprised to see that I have it.” He cocks his head to the side.
“Colton told me you had it—he knew I wrote it based on what it says. I expected you’d come see me about it.”
“Hm.” Grange considers for a moment, looking a bit annoyed that Colton said something to me before he could. That I had time
to prepare. “Can you explain to me how this came to be in Ryan Austi’s pocket the night he died?”
“I honestly don’t know. I didn’t give it to him if that’s what you’re asking.”
Grange studies me. “You and Ryan were not friends, I take it?”
“We . . . had a disagreement three years ago. But we were both over it.”
“You were?” he asks, glancing down at the page.
“Yes. I wrote that three years ago. I don’t know how or why he had it and I—”
“I looked into you,” he says. “History of substance abuse, arrested for drinking and driving, involved in an inappropriate student-teacher relationship last year.”
How does he even know about that? “Are you accusing me of something?”
“Just pointing out that you have a history of making bad decisions. If you made another one at that party, I’ll find out.”
I visibly swallow at the threat, and he begins to pack up.
“I didn’t give him that note, and I had nothing to do with his death, I swear.”
Grange puts the note back into his briefcase and stands. “If you ever happen to remember anything else from that night, please
give me a call.” But what he really means is if I ever happen to want to confess, give him a call.
I purse my lips and nod, exhaling a shaky breath as he passes.
I’m fifteen minutes late to Renner’s class when I walk in. My classmates are all busy on their laptops, besides Annica, who
is mouthing “Where were you?”
“Sloane,” Renner says when he sees me sneaking in. “See me after class.” Somehow his words are scarier than Grange’s.
I open my outline for my short story. The one I never started. I watch the cursor blink on a blank document. It’s just an
outline, Sloane, it’s just the bones. I type out the words: “Introduction, Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action, Conclusion.”
My hands hover over my keyboard as my mind wanders back to my conversation with Grange. He knows there’s something sketchy
about the whole situation and his focus is entirely on me.
I don’t blame him. It was all too coincidental.
I exit out of the outline and go into my email to pull up the one from Miles.
He’s now a professor at Ivy Gate, and he is the only person who knows about my journal.
Is it possible that he would be the one to photocopy a page of it to give to Ryan Austi?
But why? For revenge? I ruined his marriage and got him fired from Pembroke so he .
. . what? Stole my journal to copy the pages and give them to my exes?
Could he have been there at the party that night?
There’s only one person that might know.
The class begins to pack up when senior seminar ends and I walk up to Renner’s desk in the front of the class, preparing an
excuse.
“Miss Sawyer.”
“Hi, if this is about the outline, I’ll have it to you by tonight. I’m sorry. I was having computer issues over the weekend
and couldn’t finish it during class.” I figured that was better than saying I was so stressed out about almost being a murder
suspect that I couldn’t get it done.
“And the reason for being late today? Also computer issues?”
“No, just . . . running late.”
“You know, I was on the board that decided to let you move forward in the writing program here.” I nod, unsure of what to
say. “Don’t make me regret it.” With that he goes back to his grading in a silent dismissal.
Annica is outside the classroom waiting for me. “Where were you?” she asks.
“I ran into that detective from the party; he had more questions for me.”
“About what?”
Part of me does not want Annica and Dani to know the details of the journal. Honestly, the less people that know the better.
“Just going over the timeline of the night again.”
“Oh,” she says. “Will they call me too, do you think?”
I didn’t think of the fact that they could call her again for questioning, maybe even about me and this journal entry.
Miss Labrant, has your best friend ever had any murdery tendencies that you’re aware of?
“No,” I say. “I don’t think they will.”
When I walk past the door to our world literature course, Annica stops short.
“Sloane, where are you going?”
“I’m not feeling good,” I lie. “I’m going home to rest for a little bit.” Another lie.
“Okay . . . will we see you later?” she asks.
“Um, maybe. Let me know if I miss anything important.”
“Will do,” she sighs, and heads into the lecture hall as I leave the building, but not to go home.
I sit at one of the long center tables in the Ivy Gate library, looking up at the vast collection of books that line the walls
going up six floors. My foot nervously taps on the ground as I search for Cam, the freshman who stood outside the frat house
front door all night watching everyone who went in. A girl two seats to my right gives me a pointed look at the sound my foot
makes before giving me a “Shh!” I stop tapping and resort to biting my cheek.
Cam walks in ten minutes later, just like Ty said he would. He takes a seat three tables down and I walk over and sit across from him.
“Cam?” I say when he doesn’t look up.
His brown eyes flick up to meet mine. “Yeah?”
“I’m Sloane,” I introduce myself.
His eyes widen with recognition. “Oh, yeah, I remember you, you were at the party. Ty’s friend.”
“Yeah,” I say, happy that he remembers me. If he remembers me, maybe he’ll remember Miles. “I have a question for you about
that night actually.” I dig around in my bag for my phone to show him a picture.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hear a voice from beside me. It’s Colton Austi. “Cam, let’s go.”
“Wait, wait,” I whisper. “I just want to talk to you guys about that night.”
Colton crosses his arms and huffs in irritation. “You want to talk about how you murdered my brother?” He says it loud enough
to earn a few looks from other students.
“I did not push Ryan,” I bite out.
“But you wrote that note?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then it had to be you.”
I sigh and pull up the photo of Miles. “Do you recognize this professor?” I ask him.
“No.” His eyes remain on me.
“You didn’t even look,” I say. He makes an exaggerated show of looking before once again saying no. I show Cam next. “You
were at the door all night. Did you see this man walk in?”
“I don’t think so,” Cam says. “He doesn’t look familiar. Why?”
“Because he’s the only person who knew about the journal that page came out of, and right now my journal is missing. I thought
maybe—”
“I should post all over my social media that you’re a murderer,” Colton interrupts. He doesn’t care about my explanation.
His mind is already made up about me.
“Um, okay, well, that would be considered, like, libel or slander or something, because it’s not true?”
“You did the same thing to Ryan.”
“And I regret doing that, but what I said was true.”
Colton grits his teeth, and nods at Cam again to follow him. “You won’t get away with this,” he says to me before walking
away with Cam in tow.
I stay seated in the library trying to collect myself, wondering how I went from being a normal college senior to a murder
suspect in one short month. The Netflix series about my life is now looking like one of those serial killer documentaries
where my friends would all give interviews, saying things like “She just seemed so normal!”
I let my head hit the table with a thud.
“Shh!”