I sipped the tea he left for me, a rich, nutty rooibos with milk and a hint of peppermint, and took a deep breath.
I started slowly. I looked up Dean Morren’s interviews with the press, watched his videos—a good portion of the nearly four hundred of them—until the sun went down outside the window. The breeze that drifted in was cool; an owl hooted. A group of coyotes barked and howled in the distance.
Dean Morren went to college, but not here, and he definitely wasn’t a member of Phi Kat. As a matter of fact, he was pretty anti-Greek life, even made a video mocking college frats after news of hazing at a school on the East Coast.
I stumbled on a clip of him from one of those prank shows where the hosts run after you on the street and shove a microphone in your face. “What’s your tattoo mean?”
Dean shrugged. “It’s just some math thing I used to be into.”
A math thing?
But still, even when it felt like it was right there in front of me, itching at the back of my skull, I couldn’t find any connection to him and Phi Kat, nor any other math organizations around the country.
I had just put my head down on the desk when Max stumbled over with a mess of notes of his own, mind maps and arrows of jotted-down questions going every which way, looking just as frustrated as me. “This is hopeless,” I groaned. “At this rate, half the school will be dead before we even land in the right direction.”
He stared at his notes. “I think I have an idea.”
“What?” I hurried after him, but when he was excited about something, that long loping stride was a force to be reckoned with. He finally stopped in front of Maritza’s cottage.
“Dani?” I asked, “Youwant to talk to Dani?”
He was absolutely the last person I thought would suggest such a thing, given that every other time I suggested it, his answer had been an emphatic “Absolutely the fuck not.” Lately, he didn’t so much as stray onto that side of campus.
“I know, but Dr. R said she’s stronger now. Maybe she’ll be able to talk to us. She’s the only one who knows for sure what happened, so let’s come right out and ask her. Ask if she’s seen this symbol before.”
My hands instinctively wrapped around my torso. “I hope you’re sure about this.”
When we walked into Maritza’s cottage, Dani was awake. More surprising than that, instead of on the bed, she was sitting at the round wooden table near the kitchen. A piece of paper was in front of her, a black crayon in her hand.
“Come in,” Maritza said, “we’re just having lunch. She seems to have regained some of her strength.”
Her eyes were still ringed in purple and her arms and legs were still scarred, but color had returned to her cheeks. There was no blood dripping down her arms. I couldn’t even see any bandages.
Max’s eyebrow lifted, footsteps halting. “Are you sure about that? Is it safe, I mean? Considering last time …”
Maritza nodded. “It’s perfectly safe. She’s on a strict regimen of medication to keep her moods stable. Even more now, since Luce.” She looked away.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Dani,” I said quietly. She let Maritza spoon soup into her mouth, still drawing with her crayon.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Maritza said. “Her new medication makes her more docile.”
Dani stared straight ahead like a zombie. What she was doing couldn’t in good faith be considered drawing; she was etching a thick black mark into the paper over and over again.
When I touched her, she flinched. It was only slight, but I was so surprised I nearly lurched back in alarm.
I sat down in the chair farthest from her, warning bells ringing in my ears.
“That’s a nice drawing,” Max prodded. “Cella draws a bit, too. Don’t you, Cella?”
“Yes,” I said, trying and failing to mask my nervousness with a cough. “Just doodles, really. One of my objects is part of a leather journal.”
A hiccup of laughter escaped from the seemingly lifeless girl in front of us. My shoulders went rigid.
“Why is that funny, Dani?” Max asked, leaning forward. My breath squeezed in my lungs. All I wanted to do was get in my truck and never look back. But I forced myself to stay in my seat.
Dani didn’t answer. She continued scribbling, running her crayon over and over the same mark on the paper.
I looked over at Maritza, who had retreated to the kitchen but was watching with keen interest. “Does she do this often?”
