“Vivienne mentioned you, yeah.”
“Great,” said Thomas. “Then we can skip the introductions. You have a minute?”
Reed let out a long-suffering sigh and peered skyward, shutting one eye against the sun. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“I had a feeling you’d say that.”
A few students pushed out through the door and maneuvered around them, deep in conversation. Thomas didn’t move out of their way. Neither did Reed.
“Look,” he said, “I have another class I have to get to, so can we make this quick?”
“Sure. I don’t need much from you. I’m just wondering how you know Miss Farrow.”
“How I—” Reed’s eyebrows shot skyward. “We go to school together, sweetheart. It’s a pretty small creative arts program. Everyone knows everyone.”
His answer didn’t appease Thomas. He’d driven out to New Haven before the sun rose, his unease a hard clot in his veins and his thoughts playing in a feedback loop. He couldn’t stop picturing Vivienne’s tear-tracked face, the glass on the floor and the blood in the sink—her trembling hands as she folded them into an admission:
I’ve been having a hard time.
He doubled down. “The other day, one of her friends made it sound like the two of you were together.”
“Together?Me and Viv?” Reed laughed. “Not a chance. Princess Vivienne is a little too high-maintenance for my tastes.”
“She’s too good for you.” The words sawed out of him, propelled by an irrational, blistering anger.
“Is she?” Reed whistled. “Interesting. I wasn’t under the impression the Farrows paid you to have opinions.”
“I know you’re more than classmates,” said Thomas, ignoring the dig. “You texted Vivienne the other day and asked if she’s ready to die.”
“You went through her phone? Aren’t you just going above and beyond the call of fucking duty.” Reed tucked a wide leather portfolio under his arm, elbowing past Thomas as he did. “On second thought, I’m out of here. I don’t need this.”
But Thomas wasn’t done. He moved without thinking, palming Reed firmly in the chest. The art student slammed into the stacked mortar of the building’s entryway. Several curious heads turned their way, but no one intervened.
“What the hell?” snapped Reed.
“We’re not finished.”
“Relax.” Reed peeled Thomas’s hand off him. “You’re a glorified babysitter, not a private detective.”
“I’m whatever Vivienne needs me to be.”
“Wrong,” said Reed. “You’re whatever Daddy Farrow pays you to be. I mean, don’t you feel even the slightest bit pathetic? You’re like his own personal attack dog. I’m surprised you’re not wearing a collar.”
“Funny,” Thomas said. “Speaking of Vivienne’s stepfather, he’s concerned she’s hanging out with the wrong crowd.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet he is. Let me guess—you assume I’m the ‘wrong crowd’ he was referring to. What a cliché.”
“I haven’tassumedanything. I’m just asking questions.”
“You haven’t asked one yet.”
“You’re right,” said Thomas. “Let’s fix that—who’s Grayson?”
Reed smirked. “A self-important narcissist with a God complex the size of a gas planet.”
“I didn’t ask you to write sonnets about the guy,” snapped Thomas. “I just want to know who he is to Vivienne.”
