“Not just me . . .”
As if summoned by his words, the club’s front doors opened and a trio of figures rushed across the threshold, stopping short of the velvet rope that cordoned off the club. The one in the lead flagged a set of tickets toward the bouncer.
Sharyn Karr looked flushed and breathless. She wore a loose Army jacket, but it was no costume, just casual streetwear. Her long blonde hair had been tied in a ponytail and tucked through the back of a ball cap, the brim of which was pulled low over her eyes.
What’s she doing here?
He guessed the fire must have driven her and her friends over to the Lemmy. Still, Sharyn did not strike him as someone who would blithely go club-hopping after such a tragedy. He noted the furtive glances she cast back to the door. Her two friends did the same.
Something’s up.
Duncan remembered his earlier regret about waiting too long. Clearly the opposite was true.
I waited just long enough.
9
12:44 a.m.
Sharyn crossed past the velvet rope as it was lifted away—then balked at entering the packed club. The Lemon Grove had a capacity of eight hundred. The Halloween party looked to have surpassed that limit, or maybe the artificial fog only made it seem so.
Her two friends stuck close to her shoulders.
“We’re the only ones without costumes,” Naomi noted.
“Not that anyone can tell through this mist.” Tag waved a hand before his face and covered a cough with his fist.
Despite several hits off his inhaler, he still wheezed heavily. Recognizing Tag needed to catch his breath, Sharyn led them onward and searched for a place to retreat and regroup. As they crossed deeper into the club, the music thundered, rising from a DJ booth on the far side, where a helmeted figure waved an arm to the beat. It all made Sharyn dizzy, especially the spinning dazzle of lights.
A hand suddenly snatched her elbow, while someone shouted at her.
She seized the offender’s thumb and bent it backward, breaking the grip and raising a yowl. She shoved off the attacker—a figure in a uniform.
Naomi shouldered protectively in front of Sharyn. “Maxwell, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Never grab a woman like that.”
The tall figure stepped back, bumping into someone outfitted in rugby gear. “I was only trying to get your attention.”
Sharyn refocused on her assailant and recognized Duncan Maxwell. From boots to cap, he looked authentically like someone from the British army.
“Sorry,” Duncan apologized, rubbing his injured thumb. “Still, I’m chuffed to see you were able to use my tickets.”
Tag cast Sharyn a scathing look. “You got the tickets from this pompous ass?”
Clearly Tag still held a grudge from quiz night.
The rugby player shoved forward. “Who you callingpompous, mate?” The man clapped Duncan on the shoulder. “Though, you did get theasspart right. I’ll give you that much.”
Sharyn saw it was Archibald Bailey, another student. She took a deep breath and fought down her pounding heart. The night’s tension—the fire, the bloodshed—strained her nerves.
Before she could break away, Duncan stepped closer. “I heard there was a fire at the Old Library. Is that true? Did you see it?”
He clearly only meant to engage her in conversation, but something must have registered on her face—something wounded, maybe guilty.
Duncan moved closer. “Do you know what happened? How it started?” His voice lowered. Yet, it remained deep enough to be heard past the music. “You must’ve been one of the last ones in the building when it closed.”
“I... I don’t know what happened,” she stammered. “And Professor Wright was still inside when I left.”
Naomi touched her elbow in warning.
