He’s too smart to confess anything through a text, sure, but I’ve started to study him, I’ve been his teammate for months now, and maybe I can figure out where his lies bleed into reality.
Sylvan
I know you’re braver than that. Tell me what you’re really asking.
I take a breath as I read his text twice.
He doesn’t want to do this with me.
Not whereshe’sconcerned. Because the truth is, I don’t care that bodies are dropping. I’m not even that mad our game was canceled today, so long as it doesn’t become a regular thing.I’m not upset about a single man who has been murdered at Drayton.
What I am worried about?
If Sylvan Connor is a serial killer, what stops him from coming afterhernext, and makingmeinto a murderer?
He wants us to be with her tonight, and I agree she shouldn’t be alone, but should she be withhim?
Another text comes through.
Ryles
Should we be worried?
I’ve gotten similar texts from Lynsky and our second string left winger, Talon. What they’re really asking isn’t about the murder. I don’t think any of the boys are afraid, even if we should be.
They’re asking about the season. Our future. The playoffs next year.
Some of them don’t have any dreams of going pro. Others, it’s the only thing they’ve ever wanted.
Come to think of it, as much as Sylvan Connor is one of the best freshmen in the division, I have no idea what he actually wants for his future.
I ignore Ryles, making a mental note to text him and all the others back before it gets too late because like it or not, I’m the captain. Then I focus on my texts with Connor.
Come to my place. We’ll ride together.
He sitsat the round table in my study, his posture ramrod straight in the airy room cast in black and gray. Silver marble floors, black oak wooden table and chairs, built-in bookshelveslined with fantasy novels I used to have time for when I was a kid. There’s a black banker’s lamp on the table, and I imagine Neve sitting there, despite the fact she’s never stepped foot in this room. It’s upstairs, past my bedroom, and we never got that far.
I lean against the closed door, and Sylvan’s icy eyes flicker to the floor-to-ceiling window dead ahead, sunrise throwing shadows along the sharp panes on his face.
Over the scar on his hand. The one he must consistently try to hide, but that’s just caught my attention. I missed it entirely practicing over the summer.
I assume it’s from hockey, but as I think over the murders of the past couple of weeks, I’m not so sure.
Jackson.
Will.
Mitchell.
Now, allegedly, Ace. The latter hasn’t been confirmed but the rumors are growing louder. I don’t check social media, but Ryles texted me to ask me if I knew the man.
I didn’t.
But one of the last people to speak to him alive sits in front of me now, in the quiet of my study.
“Your place is stunning.” Sylvan savors the words as he turns to face me, one ankle over one knee. He’s in a long, black wool coat, a gray cashmere sweater, and he’s absolutely beautiful.
I know what Neve sees in him.
