One month in this place had hollowed her out until she no longer trusted her own screaming instincts.
She imagined trying on the moneyed confidence of her classmates, the aggressive hubris of Stasie O’Connor and Hudson Graves, the passive sangfroid of Taiwo Daniels and Liam Blackwood. If she could wear that self-assurance like a costume, maybe she would finally feel like she belonged here—and maybe she could actually figure out what was wrong with her.
“Hey,” Stasie snapped as there was a knock on the door. “Are you leaving or what? My friends are here.”
“No,” Ellory said decisively, climbing into her bed and putting her back to her sputtering roommate. Her exultant smile followed her down into the darkness of her dreams. A little confidence felt good.
Interlude
It was a common misconception that Warren University had no evidence of secret societies.
Most knew of Skull and Bones, the infamous underbelly of Yale University. Fewer could name the Porcellian Club at Harvard, the Quill and Dagger at Cornell, or the Ivy Club at Princeton, a university that bannedsecretsocieties but allowed forseniorsocieties, so-called eating clubs, with even stricter membership. But none could name a single society, public or otherwise, at Warren University, despite their robust annual Club Festival, which added new booths every year.
Like every member of the Ivy League, Warren produced politicians and actors, CEOs and lawyers, famous faces from families well acquainted with the Fortune 500. But unlike every Ivy League, there was nothing to unify the illustrious alumni beyond the same prestigious degree, no complicated handshakes or coded greetings, no engraved rings or exclusive clubhouses, no typed invitations on vellum paper or Deer Island retreats.
That was because Warren University knew what all the other universities, with their media references and society Wikipedia pages, did not: how to actually keep a secret.
9
Ellory had spent her first month in Hartford exploring the area in search of the perfect bookstore, and she had found it in Cover Story. Located ten minutes away from campus—twenty-five if she was walking—it was an independent bookstore up a short flight of stairs painted to look like classic books:PersuasionandMoby-Dick,The Age of InnocenceandThings Fall Apart,Les MisérablesandThe Count of Monte Cristo. Beyond the mint-green-and-pearl-white awning, rustic cedar bookshelves were packed with titles, all sorted by category. The armchairs scattered throughout the space were also bookshelves, lined with tomes in the arms and base. Plants atop the shelves kept the open room smelling like a garden, and the front windows allowed a steady stream of sunlight inside to help them grow.
From the moment Ellory had first stepped inside, she’d felt comfortable. Safe. When she wasn’t on shift at Powers That Bean or pulling her hair out over homework at the Graves, she was here in this cozy harbor, tracing the spines of beloved stories or buying one of the ever-changing homemade bookmarks that decorated the front counter. It was like Cover Story had an enchantment within its walls that forced her shoulders to relaxand her anxieties to fade.
“We can have lunch after this,” Tai said as she led Ellory inside the stacks, her braids decorated by a powder-blue crochet turban-beanie. “But clearly you’re under way too much pressure right now and need some chill vibes.”
Music was playing in the bookstore, a classical song Ellory didn’t recognize but knew was from aLooney Tunesrerun. Bubblegum-pink hydrangeas and silver-lavender Russian sage glanced down at them from the pots, adding extra flashes of color. Ellory’s hand was in her pocket, brushing against her phone, and her mind was fixed on the pictures that still waited in her camera roll to unbalance her again. When Tai had heard the whole story, she had insisted on this trip before Ellory could even suggest it, diagnosing Ellory with an acute case of stress brought about byspending too much time in the presence of that shit stick, Graves.
Meanwhile, that shit stick Graves hadn’t contacted Ellory since dropping her off at Moneta the night before. That was normal, and yet she could still feel the echoes of their time together: His fingers around her wrist, palm kissing her pulse point. His eyes on her face like she was the answer to a question he had yet to ask. His pointed absence for the rest of the night. Every time she forced these snapshots of midnight delirium to the back of her mind, they pinballed to the forefront, gliding through the lateral fissure of her brain to attack her. And she couldn’t tell if it was stressful or frustrating or even meaningful, this unexpected shift in her understanding of Hudson Graves, but the chasmal potential of it sent restless energy zinging through her body.
She exhaled slowly, pushing herself to focus. She had bigger problems than Hudson Graves right now.
Tai disappeared into the graphic novels section, and Ellorywalked on. The store was filled but not overcrowded; every so often she would pass someone tucked into an armchair or sitting on the floor between shelves, reading or having hushed conversations with a companion. A bulletin board half her size spanned one wall, brimming with colorful advertisements for tutoring and babysitting services, for local bands and comedy shows, for African hair braiding and psychic readings. Someone was blocking the right-hand side, adding a new graphic poster to the noise. It took her a moment to recognize that fluffy brown hair, those broad shoulders, those thick biceps.
Liam Blackwood turned at the sound of his name. His face lit up when he caught sight of her, that model smile firmly in place. He wore a thick cream cardigan with oversize brown buttons over a coffee-colored polo shirt with off-white stripes. A pair of relaxed-fit khakis in the same shade as his shirt completed the outfit. She half expected a pair of sunglasses to be hanging from his collar and artificial wind to tousle his chestnut waves, but he instead had a slate-gray jacket thrown over his arm and white tennis shoes on his feet. No wind. No pretense. Just Liam, as chipper as a puppy.
“Ellory Morgan,” he exclaimed, “how the hell are you?”
She had no idea how to answer that question, so she nodded toward the bulletin board instead. “What are you doing?”
Liam turned back to the board as if he’d forgotten that it was there, even though his hand was still on the flyer he’d pinned to it. It appeared, Ellory gathered from squinting around his thick fingers, to be an advertisement for an upcoming lacrosse game. “My duty as captain,” he answered. His brown eyes twinkled as he watched her. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in coming to one of our games?”
“I’m not really a sports person.”
“Are you a dinner person?”
Ellory raised her eyebrows. “They eat dinner during lacrosse?”
“Afterward, you and I could grab some.” Liam’s charm was like a physical touch, sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. He was a hard man to dislike, and he clearly knew it. “I’m interested in figuring out what kind of person you are.”
“I’ll think about it,” she managed. “Right now, the only thing I’m interested in is books.”
Liam accepted this answer easily. “Well, you’re in a great place for it. How did you find this bookstore?”
Ellory lost track of how long they stood there, talking about Cover Story and the first time they’d each stumbled inside. That turned into a conversation about favorite books, which dissolved into a playful argument about which Jane Austen novel had the best film adaptation, which somehow swung into a debate on whether dogs or cats were superior. She laughed harder than she could remember laughing in a while, and she did not miss her apprehension at all. This close to Liam Blackwood’s inherent light, there was no room for shadows.
“I have to hit up the rest of the businesses on this block.” Liam sighed. When he checked his watch, a quick glance at the face told Ellory they’d been talking for a little over an hour. “But can I at least get your number? You know, so you can share more of your wrong Sherlock Holmes opinions.”
“Smooth,” Ellory said, but she still gave it to him. A smile tugged at her lips. “Elementarywas a masterful Sherlock Holmes adaptation, and I will die on that hill.”
