Chapter 2
I took the long way back to my dorm.
I’d chosen a quiet night for Peter’s test, the Monday before midterms. No late movie at the Commons. No big parties out at the Terraces. Just a few couples walking in the cold, student security guards studying in their heated booths. Moving silently in black, I saw them before they saw me.
My muscles ached to run. Since I was little, I’d expected my blooding to be exhilarating, like bursting from underwater to gasp fresh air. But killing Peter had been too easy. A few goading words and two tossed pebbles. Always first with the mind.
The burner phone disappeared into Sunset Lake with the tiniest splash.
Lavernick Hall was quiet, half the windows dark. I slipped in the back door, stripping off the electrical tape that had kept it unlocked. The security light I’d broken two days ago was still out. There are no cameras here at Helshire.
Climbing the stairs, something released in me at last, like letting an arrow fly.
My first kill, before I’d even graduated.
The hallway was empty, the doors shut, but when I stepped into my room, a voice spoke from the darkness.
“You should really get a lock.”
I didn’t startle. I never startle.
“My life is an open book, dear.”
“Says the girl who doesn’t answer my texts.” Faraday gestured at my phone, on my bedside table. “What if you got mugged out there?”
“Then they couldn’t steal my phone.”
“Except they could, because your door’s unlocked.”
Faraday sounded a bit drunk. She was stretched out on my bed in black jeans and T-shirt, a red leather jacket I hadn’t seen before. The pockets, sleeves, and sides were zippered—half a dozen sets of shiny metal teeth. Her chunky boots sat by the door to my widow’s walk.
Faraday smelled like she’d been at an off-campus party—weed, fire smoke, and the sticky sweetness of spilled champagne. More than one party, probably. She was the sort of girl who knew everyone, but didn’t remember their names.
An old British Vogue was splayed across her lap.
“You brought something to read?” I asked.
“In case you weren’t home. I like your shoes.”
Faraday was surveying my all-black climbing gear, my split-sole climbing Ninjas. The chalk bag nestled at the small of my back, out of her view.
I stripped off the top to make her glance away and dropped the bag in my laundry basket, reaching in for a crumpled white Oxford.
“Weren’t you cold out there?” she asked as I buttoned up.
“I was running.”
“How is your hair not a mess? Do you have booze?”
We both looked at my glass-fronted liquor cabinet, the bottles of amaro and vermouth, four kinds of whiskey, a small jury of bitters.
“For you, dear? Always.”
Faraday had been my freshman roommate at Helshire.
For incoming classes, the matchmakers at Housing pair each legacy with an ordinary. Most of us have never lived with one before. It’s good practice for the outside world, and forges lifelong bonds between us and the dissolute offspring of wealthy families.
The weakest part of any garment is a loose thread. Faraday was the fraying hem of the Wilbert-Lees of Boston, a sprawling clan of state senators and yacht club commodores, who inherited their furniture and called each other nicknames, but still got drunk at wine tastings.
For two and a half years, I’d insinuated myself into the Wilbert-Lees’ good graces. Faraday’s mother always gave me the same Christmas present—a makeup subscription, delivered in teak boxes. I sent her monthly thank-you notes in my best handwriting.
I was one of Faraday’s few good influences at Helshire. Before me, she’d come back from vacations with an accent; now she came back with gifts.
“Lord, I miss your cocktails,” she said after her first sip. An Old Gal—rye, Lillet, and amaro. Faraday’s tastes ran as bittersweet as mine.
“You had three last night, dear.”
“That’s ages. Please come and live with us next year.”
“We’ve discussed this,” I said. “And isn’t your house full?”
“I’d bump Salinger for you. Turns out, he thinks the moon is fake.”
“A History major thinks the moon landing was fake?”
“No, the moon—and he can’t make drinks for shit.”
I took a sip of my cocktail. For our senior year, Faraday had snagged a gorgeous Victorian at the edge of campus, the home of the retiring dean of students. She’d interrupted the faculty bidding war, paying an enormous sum for one year’s rental.
The house was beautiful, but the stairs creaked and Faraday’s friends kept party hours. Better the single-sex corridors of Lavernick Hall, the floors silent, everyone in bed by two.
I didn’t even have to lock my door.
“You haven’t mentioned why you’re here, Faraday.”
“Do I need a reason to hang out in your room when you’re not around?”
“Yes.”
She waved her free hand, searching for words. “It’s complicated, dear. The sort of thing better discussed while drunk.”
I took another sip. “I think you’re there, dear.”
“It’s my brother.”
“Marlow, or Oscar?”
“How do you remember everyone’s name? It’s uncanny.”
“Because I love you.”
Faraday rolled her eyes, but she lapped up any sign of affection. The Wilbert-Lees were more prone to intrafamily lawsuits than sentiments. When she called me dear, I mirrored her, and she mirrored me back. A wearisome loop, but it worked.
“Marlow was careless. Dad’s old business partner convinced him to sign something. Now our CallHome shares are deluded.”
“Diluted,” I said. Since their father’s death, Marlow had dumped most of the Wilbert-Lees’ money into their most profitable endeavor, a company that gouged prisoners’ families for phone calls. A dollar a minute added up.
“Whatever.” Faraday’s eyes began to twitch. “We’re in trouble, Jessica. Things will go away. The horses, Paris, my house next year. Maybe even my tuition!”
I made an astonished sound. When bad things happen to rich people, you must pretend there’s been some kind of mistake.
“The partner was being misleading when he made Marlow sign those documents. And I thought, maybe…”
I took a slow drink, waiting for Faraday to finish.
“Your crowd,” she finally said. “The legacies, the calm people.”
“Calm?”
“None of you gives a shit. I mean, you dress well and get good grades. You use the right forks, the right grammar. But deep down, you don’t care.” Faraday knuckled her eyes, growling at the world. “God, I wish I didn’t care.”
“Faraday,” I said. “Are you asking me to fix this?”
“Not you, Jessica. You’re my friend and that’s messy.” She sat up straighter, finally looked me in the eye, a brave little girl facing the monster in her closet. “But yes. It needs fixing.”
A second shiver of completion went through me. Two and a half years of trains to Boston, of sneaking flasks of whiskey to Faraday’s dying father, of thank-you notes for makeup I didn’t use, and here she was asking for help at last, on the very same night as my blooding.
Blind coincidence, sweeter than any design.
“Of course, dear. I can find someone.”
“Oh.” Faraday almost sounded disappointed. Like she hadn’t quite believed I was one of them—one of us. Despite my last name, my cool stares, my generations-old, exquisitely made, invisibly mended clothes, she wanted me to be her ordinary friend.
I took her hand.
She swallowed. “I wouldn’t ask, except…”
Houses. Horses. Tuition. Paris.
I heard it then, from the hallway, a sound bubbling up. Girls studying for midterms together, glancing every few minutes at their phones.
Ping. Ping.
“It’s going to be okay.” I kissed Faraday’s hand.
She didn’t answer, just heaved a complicated sigh.
Down the hall, the bubbling had spilled out into the corridor. Doors were opening, whispers flying like little scrapes of sandpaper.
I could feel the storm front of tragedy surging, about to interrupt this moment of connection.
In my careful planning of Peter’s test, I hadn’t thought about what came next. The checklist of emotions to perform—frantic questions, shocked silence, fast breathing. Dilated eyes. It was so much work, so much mess, pretending to care.
“I’ll always be here for you,” I forged ahead with Faraday. “We’ll fix this together.”
A tear rolled from her left eye. “Thank you.”
From outside, the sound of my name reached us, whispers breaking into soft cries as more girls woke up.
Even Faraday heard it now, and our eyes unlocked. We turned to face the door.
“What the hell?” she murmured.
I shrugged, like it had nothing to do with me, and squeezed her hand one last time. It was a soft hand, trusting and warm.
As the frantic knocking finally rattled my door, I found myself wondering what Faraday would wear to Peter’s funeral.