Chapter 16 #2
path, going through the wind tunnel that is situated between two of our large stone buildings. He’s walking fast, almost too
fast for me to catch up. Another turn and I lose him as I run around the corner and find no one on the path. It’s dark now
and only the sporadic lampposts provide a faint glow of light. I turn back around and run into Asher.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I turn back around, scanning the path, which splits into three. “I thought I saw him again.” When I turn back to Asher, his lips are pursed. He thinks I’m losing it. I can see it in his eyes. “He’s on this campus, I know he is.”
Asher sighs. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
In the car my eyes fill with tears threatening to spill over. “We couldn’t stop this from happening and now Bryce is dead.”
He doesn’t say anything. “Why is someone doing this to me?” My voice cracks. “I don’t know what to do.”
“There’s nothing connecting you to Bryce right now. No one knows we were there, and maybe like Wes said, they’ll think it
was some kind of drug-induced accident.”
“What if there was another eulogy page down there? Then Grange could somehow get word, and he’ll know it’s me. Two deaths
with two eulogies is no longer a coincidence.” I wipe at the tears sliding down my cheeks.
“He works for Boston PD, which is two hours away. He would have nothing to do with this case.”
“How do you know that, though?” Asher opens his mouth to reply. “And don’t say ‘crime documentaries.’” He closes it.
“You said there are seven names in the journal. Who is the next one?”
“Graham Monterra,” I say.
“Hm, I don’t recognize the name.”
I stare blankly out the window. “He was a senior when we were sophomores. Fine art major.”
“Yikes,” Asher says. “Talk about wasting your money. Paying tuition to paint.”
“He was really good actually . . . Just not to me.” I sigh. “I have no idea where he is or what he’s up to now.”
“I’ll do some digging and find out.”
Asher pulls up to my apartment and I want him to stay, if only to not be alone, but I don’t ask, and he doesn’t offer. He
just parks the car and waits for me to exit. He offers no words of reassurance, no comforting touches.
I get in bed and go through their names in my head, the lullaby that puts me to sleep these nights: Jonah, Ryan, Marco, and
Bryce. Jonah, Ryan, Marco, and Bryce.
Wesley, Wesley, Wesley.
Asher.
It rains hard on the highway as I drive up to Ivy Gate. I have all the information from Ty about which building Holland teaches
in, which office is his, and when his office hours are. I decided after the vigil last night that I would confront him and
try to put an end to this mess. I pull up to the building and sit in the car for a moment, giving myself a mental pep talk.
Do it for Jonah, for Ryan, for Marco, for Bryce. I fiddle nervously with my coat the whole walk up to his office. I can do
this, I can do this. I’m just going to barge into his office and say . . . what?
The jig is up, Miles. No, no one talks like that. Maybe I’ll say something like I know exactly what you’ve been up to, Holland. But that doesn’t feel right either. I stop short upon seeing the name plaque next to the door, which is wide open. He has
office hours for another hour still so of course it’s open: He’s expecting students. He’s just not expecting me.
I take a breath and stroll in, deciding on not saying anything at all.
But he isn’t here. I let out the breath I was holding. He isn’t here, but these are his office hours—Ty confirmed it. Maybe
he stepped out for a minute, maybe I should casually be in here waiting for him when he gets back. I sit at the edge of his
desk, facing the door, for one minute, two, three. I imagine him walking in and the shock on his face when he sees me. Ten
minutes pass and he still doesn’t come back to his office.
I decide to start snooping around, mainly looking for my journal. I go through the books on his bookshelf and the drawers
in his desk. No sign of it anywhere. When I tug on the middle drawer of the desk, it’s locked.
“What are you hiding in here?” I say aloud. I feel around the bottom of the desk for a key or anything to unlock it but come
up short. Frustrated, I walk over to his window to think and watch the dark clouds roll in, casting a shadow over the courtyard
below. And that’s when I see him. There’s Miles Holland in the courtyard with another girl. She’s turned away from me, a student
of his, perhaps. I watch him tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear as he leans in to kiss her. Then he departs, likely coming
back to his office. The girl turns to watch him leave, and it’s Adrienne.
I jump back to avoid meeting her gaze, hitting the edge of Holland’s desk, causing papers to litter the floor. Holland is
the guy she’s been driving up here to see?
What the fuck, Adrienne. I gather up the papers quickly and toss them back on the desk, but one catches my eye.
It’s an invitation to a gallery opening in Boston the first weekend of January, exclusively showing works by Graham Monterra.
I catch glimpses of the campus art studio and the phantom smell of oil paint mixed with weed just from reading his name.
“Oh my god.” Shaking, I take my phone from my pocket and take a picture of the invite on his desk. Why would he have this
if he wasn’t planning to go after Graham? I peer out the window to see they’re both gone. He could be back up here any minute.
I lose all the nerve I built up to come in here and now the thought of seeing him alone in his office scares the shit out
of me. I bolt from the room and back to the parking lot without running into him. I get a text from Asher.
I know where Graham is.
So do I.
I send him the photo of the gallery opening.
Where did you find that?
On Miles Holland’s desk
My phone immediately starts ringing with Asher’s number on the ID.
“Asher, we have a problem,” I say upon answering.
“Yeah, we do: You’re at Ivy Gate without me. And on top of that, Sam said the police are asking for a list of every person
that came to the Halloween party.”
“Okay, then we have a few problems. Adrienne is seeing Holland. I just watched them kiss from his office window.”
“Wait, what? Your roommate?”
“And cousin,” I say. “It’s fucked, Asher, fucked.”
He sighs through the phone and I can imagine him running his hand through his hair like he does when he’s stressed. “Well,
did you talk to him?”
“Um, no, I was a little taken aback by my cousin betraying me to stick around and chat. But I went through his office and
he had that gallery invite on his desk. He also has a locked drawer that I bet my journal is in.” I look up at the stone building.
“I should go back in there. I came all the way up here to face him.”
“No,” he says. “Just get out of there and we’ll go back together.”
“Sloane?” a familiar voice says from behind me, and I turn to see Austin Reems walking toward me. “I thought that was you.”
“Austin, hey.” I go back to the phone conversation. “Asher, I have to go.”
“Sloane, don’t—” I hang up.
Austin’s pale face is pink in the chilly weather. “What are you doing up here?”
“Oh, I was just meeting with a professor,” I say. “Probably going to head back to Pembroke.”
“What? No! You should come out with me and Ty tonight. It’s drunk bingo night at the Winchester. All of the old townies come
in for it, so it’s always me, Ty, and a bunch of knit-blanket-smelling grandmas that probably live in asbestos-filled attics.
Sometimes there’s even a fight.”
“Between you and Ty?”
“No, usually Ty and the grandmas. You’ll just have to come witness it for yourself.”
It has been a while since I saw Ty. And maybe after a drink or two I’ll get the courage to stay here until I talk to Miles. Maybe even go right to his town house. Asher would lose it. “Okay,” I say. “I’m in . . . Also, what the hell is asbestos?”
Austin puts a puffy-coat arm around my shoulder. “What you do every day, sweetie. As best as you can.”
“Get ready with me while I tell you about the gruesome murder that happened at Pembroke College,” Marissa’s voice rings out
from my phone. I can’t believe she’s using his death for likes, and worse than that, it’s working. This video has over a million
views.
I frown to myself as I lie on Ty’s couch, watching Marissa beat her face with foundation while she dishes out all the information
regarding Bryce’s murder. I painfully watch the entire five-minute video, hoping she might provide some new information. But
the only thing I gathered from the video is that she wears too much makeup.
An email notification flashes on my screen. I pull the tab down over the video and my stomach drops at the message.
Were you in my office yesterday, Sloane? I would recognize your perfume anywhere. Vanilla and honey.
MH
I shudder. Yeah, I’m getting the hell out of Ivy Gate.
Last night after four sangria pitchers and two bingo wins, I found myself back in Ty’s apartment with two plants.
Asher called me again to make sure I didn’t see Miles.
I told him I won two plants at bingo, and named them Ernest Hemingvine and Oscar Wildflower.
I don’t really remember what we talked about after that; in fact I think I fell asleep while on the phone with him.
I can only hope I kept some of my other budding thoughts about him to myself.
I ignore the creepiness of the email as I angrily reply to Miles.
I know everything you’ve been up to. You won’t get away with it.
I make it to Renner’s class just in time to avoid another disappointed glare. The first drafts of our short stories are due
before winter break and today is a peer review of what we have done so far. Renner pairs us off into groups of two and I’m
thankful I don’t end up with Annica. My peer reviewer is a girl named Sasha with blue hair and a lip ring.
“Mine’s not totally fleshed out yet,” I say, handing the pages to her. I had added on to the story. While on the front lines