“All the more reason not to turn my back on him.”
“Do you hear yourself?” He tossed his glasses onto the desk. “He’s not a kindred spirit; he washauntingyou. You can’t develop a kinship with something that isn’t corporeal.”
“Well, I did, okay. And this isn’t the first time.”
In his chair, Colton went unnaturally still. Instinctively, she traced her fingers over her knees, where the scars bloomed in pale, white starbursts beneath her stockings. Colton tracked her movements, the deep well of his stare impossible to read. Out in the corridor, a group of students shuffled in and out of view, arms laden with books.
“Did you know,” Colton said, “thatThe Divine Comedywas first transcribed into English in the year 1802? In the years since, there have been more translations printed in English than in any other language.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not,” he insisted. “Listen, as is the case with any iteration, not every translation is precisely the same. But these two books in front of me?” He shut the book he’d been annotating and placed it on top of another in a short, identical stack. “They were both done in 1949 by a mirror editor, for the same mirror imprint.”
“I don’t want to talk about your homework. I want to talk about Nate.”
He continued on as though she hadn’t interjected at all. “Theoretically, these two books should be virtually identical. But in this alternate version of Alighieri’s work the final words in the tercets show an occasional variance. That means the source material was different. Whitehall wants me to write a paper convincing him that two different Dante Alighieris experienced two different visions of Hell, but it’s a waste of time.”
She slumped into the deep spine of her chair. “Because it has nothing to do with Nate?”
“Because,” he said, “there may be an infinite number of worlds, but there’s only one Hell.”
He said it like it was a fact. Like he’d personally visited, just to confirm. Their gazes met and held. If he’d been trying to illustrate a point, he hadn’t succeeded. The long tether of her patience snapping, Lane rose to go.
“Never mind.”
“Wait.” Colton mirrored her movements, tailing after her as she pushed into the maze of books. His shoulder clipped the stern bronze of a bust, nearly toppling it from its pillar. “Where are you going?”
“Back to my dorm.” The broad double doors of the stacks spat her out in a spiral stairwell, her descent marked by thin iron balusters. Conscious of him tailing just a half step behind her, she said, “It’s becoming increasingly clear to me that you don’t plan to take me seriously.”
“Iamserious,” he insisted, keeping pace. “Wednesday, look at me. I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
He cut her off at the bottom step, jogging ahead of her and catching his hands on the railings. In the windowless light of the atrium, his stare almost looked earnest. Almost.
“Every time you open your mouth,” she said, “another half-truth comes tumbling out.”
“I know.” He scrubbed a hand through his curls. “I know, and I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I’d tell you everything if I could. It’s just that some secrets aren’t mine to give away.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I made a promise.” The tendons in his throat moved in a swallow. “I took a pledge. And there are measures in place to make sure that pledge is honored.”
A pair of upperclassmen entered the stairwell, and Colton was forced to step aside to let them pass. Delaney listened to the patter of their shoes on the stairs, the fading trickle of voices down the steps. Overhead, the doors to the stacks swung open and clicked shut.
When they were gone, she peered down at Colton. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
An unfunny laugh cracked out of him. It ricocheted through the space like gunfire.
“Don’t laugh,” she bit out. “I’m serious. Should we be going to the police?”
“Thepolice?” His voice was hard. “Jesus, Wednesday. What exactly do you think is happening here?”
“Three boys are dead.” The words cracked out of her. “That’s what happening. What if you’re next?”
“Why would I be next?”
“Because your name is on the wall.” When he didn’t answer, she doubled down. “I’m booking a ticket to Chicago,” she said. “And I’d rather not go alone.”
The elusive invitation hung in the air between them. She expected him to refuse—to give her a dozen cryptic reasons why not. Instead, something wordless flashed through the bottomless well of his stare.
