Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
When I came back to my spot in the library from the bathroom, my things were scattered across the table. Stuff was everywhere, books strewn open, pens all over the floor. Even blood. Sheets of notebook paper were smeared with it and stuff ed in my backpack. I took a step back.
The sheet on top bore a message written in black ink.
If you’re smart, you’ll keep your mouth shut.
A shock of cold ran down my back. A threat? Someone was threatening me. My mind shot to one person: Grant. But why would he do such a thing?
Well, that was at least less opaque. To stop me from looking into him, from tarnishing his reputation. From telling the council that he had something to do with Maya’s death.
My nerves were shaky and on edge. I went for a walk to clear my head but, on returning to the library, promptly fell asleep at a table. I woke with a start.
Hours later, when I saw Max again, I dug in my bag. “I want to show you something.”
But the notes weren’t there.
Max’s brow raised. “What is it?”
I shook my head, digging deeper into the bag. “They’re not … they’re not here.” I shook my head. “He must have taken them back. Stolen the evidence.”
“What do you mean? Who stole what back?”
“Grant.”
At once, every muscle in Max’s body seemed to tighten. “What did he do? Did he threaten you?”
“I’m not … I’m not sure it was him.”
“Who, then? Basile?”
I shook my head. Was I even sure it had happened at all? What was happening to me?
I noticed the flare of Max’s nostrils, the cord running through his neck.
He’d been on edge lately, too, and just itching for a fight.
And I didn’t know what had really happened to the letters.
Maybe they’d fallen out. Maybe the janitor came by and threw them away while I was asleep.
I couldn’t imagine spilled blood was exactly welcome in a school library.
“I made a mistake,” I said. “It’s fine.”
His eyes met mine, all liquid concern. He cupped my chin in his palm with a tenderness that surprised me. “Are you sure, Cella? If he did something to you, I swear to God, …”
“Really, it’s nothing.”
He released me and started pacing.
“Max, tell me you’re not going to do anything. Max!”
In his charcoal T-shirt, black hat, and jeans, he was the perfect impression of a thunder cloud. “Sorry, I was caught in a daydream in which I pulled every bone from Grant’s body. What were you saying?”
“Please, don’t do anything.” I regretted saying anything at all, especially with him all worked up like this. With monumental effort, he forced himself to take a breath and nodded. “Fine. At the very least, we’ve got to tell Dr. Robetresse.”
“No. She has enough to deal with, and I don’t want him to think he’s getting to me. He’s just scared. It’s his future at risk, and he’s …” I swallowed. “He’s just protecting it.”
“And what if he does something else ‘to protect his future’?”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
He growled, his eyes set on a spot in the distance. “Neither am I.”
Field Journal of Luce Montgomery
Basile was weird tonight, and for a moment, I thought about calling the whole thing off. It’s not like our little rendezvous in the field were doing me any favors. I still haven’t found the fungi, and I’m running out of time.
I stayed up after he fell asleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hands kept creeping to my neck when we were intimate.
Cradling it, wrapping his fingers around it like he could crush the life in his hands in an instant.
I knew I was going to see a different side of him eventually, no one was that perfect, but this one was rougher than I expected.
Crueler. His hands tangled in my hair and pulled so hard my eyes watered.
But every time I think about ending things, something stops me.
He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. It’s not just the theory that draws people to him.
For all his fame and adoring fans, he doesn’t seem all that attached to living.
He talks about death a lot, hovers on its precipice, flirts with its borders.
That seems to speak to a lot of the young people following him.
“Why should I be afraid of death?” he asked in one of his videos, filmed standing on the railing at the top of a building, with the hazy glow of city lights below.
He spread his arms wide. “A philosopher fears death least of all men. For, as Plato says, it’s only in death that a true philosopher finds what he desires, the truth.
” Then he took off his shirt and bared the tattoo inked in black across his back.
Saluta mortem. Greet death.
The comments went wild.