“She couldn’t talk by then,” he said, “the only word I thought I could see her trying to say was blue.”
“Blue?” I ask, “Not a name?”
“Just blue,” Lucca said sadly. “I think.”
“Well, is there anyone named Blue here at school?” Mariya persisted. “Like, a nickname or something?”
I smiled at her, kissing the top of her head. “Let’s find out.”
Lauren’s death has everyone on edge, understandably so. The dining hall is quiet that night, with subdued conversation instead of the usual shouts and laughter.
“Did you find anything in the student records or staff directory?” I murmur to Tatiana, who’d spent the afternoon hacking into school database.
“Nothing,” she sighs, “but it could be a nickname.”
“I still think it was some of the newcomers,” Lucca said.
He’s not the only one. I notice that several of the new freshmen aren’t eating here tonight. Matt Carlson is seated uneasily at Baptiste Fournier’s table.
“I’m going to call my sister,” Mariya says, leaning in close, “Ekaterina’s best friend is a genius hacker out of New York. He might be able to find some connections between the newcomers' families that we haven’t. I’ll bet he can access the security footage from last night. What am I saying? This is Casey. He’ll probably pull some spy satellite images.”
“Casey?” Lucca asks. “Yeah, he’s a strange one but he’s brilliant.”
When Lauren’s parents arrive the next day, it gets ugly fast.
“Dean Christie would like to see Konstantin Turgenev in her office.”
One of her personal guards, a giant with a military style buzzcut, stepped into Professor MacTavish’s explosives class. MacTavish frowns, but he nods to me. “On your way then.”
Mariya is already sitting outside the Dean’s office by the time I get there, she’s frowning at the muffled shouting coming from inside. “I can’t believe she’s letting him scream at her like that.”
“He’s lost his daughter,” I remind her, kissing the top of her head.
“Mr. Turgenev, Miss Morozova, kindly enter.” Dean Christie’s voice is not pleasant. When we enter, she’s lounging behind her desk, an expensively dressed man that I’m guessing is Lauren’s father is on his feet, fists clenched and her mother, a pretty blonde who looks a lot like her daughter is weeping silently on the couch in the corner.
“You were with her, right?” he says aggressively, “You were the first ones on the scene.” Mr. Birch’s eyes are swollen and red, but his face is pale.
“Yes sir,” I said, putting an arm around Mariya’s waist as he glares at her.
“Why didn’t you stop the bleeding?” he shouted, “Why were you so incompetent?”
Mariya sucks in a deep breath. “I tried, Mr. Birch, Mrs. Birch,” she nods to Lauren’s mother. “I did everything I could, I-”
“If you had done it right,” the woman sobs, “she would still be here!”
“Enough!” The Dean said sharply. “I told you that I would allow you to speak with the students who were with Lauren when she passed if you didn’t attack them. Mr. Turgenev went searching for the assailants as soon as help arrived and Miss Morozova handled first aid and directed the other students to assist until Dr. Giardo got there. She did chest compressions for twenty minutes. They are not to blame.”
I’m furious and trying to control it. Mariya doesn’t believe the Dean, I can tell. She still blames herself. Birch lunges at us and I shove him back before the guards can step between us.
“This is no longer productive,” Dean Christie says coldly. “You two may leave. Thank you.”
Walking back to our rooms, I keep my arm around Mariya. “You know this isn’t your fault,dorogoy,sweetheart.”
“I remember Lauren’s face so clearly,” she said, “she was trying so hard to keep breathing. She’s not going to be the only student they attack. Whoever this is, they’re just getting started.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
In which we watch Murder on the Orient Express. The Kenneth Branaugh version.
