Ten minutes later I watched with some wonder as the taller guard—the last name on his badge said DiNapoli—used the key card looped on a Harvard University lanyard around his neck to unlock one of the small brick gatehouses that dotted campus, which the security guards who weren’t assigned to specific buildings used as a home base when they weren’t out on their rounds. “You better make this quick,” the short one warned. “I mean it.”
“In and out,” Holiday promised seriously. “Nobody will even know we were here.”
“Right,” DiNapoli grumbled. “Sure they won’t.”
The shorter one scowled. “If we lose our jobs over this—”
“Respectfully,” Holiday interrupted, holding up one finger, “if you lose your jobs over this, it will be because you couldn’t wait to light up a J until you clocked out of your workplace for the evening, not because I caught you at it.”
She sounded exactly like her mother—actually, she sounded exactly likemymother—in a way that made me laugh; I stifled the sound of it into a cough as best I could, though not before DiNapoli shot me a dirty look. We were not making any friends here today, that was for sure.
Holiday, for her part, didn’t seem particularly worried about that. “We’re looking for footage from one specific camera outside Hemlock House,” she told him, nodding at the computer on the desktop. “From one specific date.”
All four of us were silent for a moment as DiNapoli entered the appropriate values into the computer, Holiday sitting down at the desk to scroll through the results. I was peering over her shoulder when the shorter guard jabbed me in the side with one elbow. “Hey,” he said, pointing at me accusingly. “Aren’t you the kid who ate the goldfish?”
I winced even as Holiday snorted to herself, dragging the video footage along. “I didn’teatit,” I tried, turning to frown at him. “I mean, I didn’t, like,chew—”
“But you did in fact swallow a goldfish.”
“I mean, technically.”
“I don’t see what’s technical about it,” the guard argued smugly. “You either swallowed a goldfish or you didn’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “You know what, dude—”
“Shut up,” Holiday said softly. “There he is. Hunter Hayes.”
“Seriously?” I turned and looked back, as relieved for the interruption as I was excited she’d found him. I squinted at the screen, watching as Hunter strolled up the path and hopped up the last two steps, catching the door before it shut behind a guy who’d justkeyed himself inside. Judging by the time stamp, he must have come directly here after I—technically—drank the goldfish.
The security guards watched as Holiday dutifully deleted the picture of them from her phone. “Off the cloud too,” one of them prompted, and she nodded.
“Gentlemen,” she said, holding a hand out. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Neither one of them shook.
“He was there,” I said when we were alone again. It was hard not to feel pleased with myself—for once in our entire relationship, I’d been the one with the killer instincts. I’d known there was something off about Hunter this whole time, and this proved it. “It was him.”
“That’s our opportunity—” Holiday agreed.
“All three things!” I crowed.
“It’s good,” she admitted, “but it still isn’t ironclad.” She thought for a moment. “You guys have parties at the lacrosse house most weekends, right?”
“Looking to meet a nice guy?” I teased.
Holiday snorted. “I would truly rather renounce Judaism, join an order of nuns, and live out my days cloistered in an abbey singing hymns in Latin all night and day.”
“Sounds peaceful.”
“It does,” she agreed, “but anyway, no. I want to get a look inside Hunter’s bedroom.”
“Seriously?” I frowned, a little uneasy. Last time we’d snooped around in a suspect’s room, we’d almost gotten caught. As it was, we’d wound up jammed nose to nose in a closet. I couldn’t imagine getting that lucky a second time. “That’s…risky.”
“It is,” Holiday agreed, “but I don’t see another way to get the kind of unequivocal proof we’re going to need if we want to go to the cops with this.”
“Unequivocal proof like what? A signed affidavit? A journal entry that details precisely what he did and how he did it?”
“Greer’s watch,” she countered, ticking the option. “A piece of paper with his handwriting on it that matches the note. Truly, any number of things.” She shook her head. “Anyway, we can’t tomorrow, obviously, but if there’s a party on Saturday—”
“Why can’t we tomorrow?” I asked her—or started to, anyway. I was interrupted by Duncan bounding down the steps of the science building, Harvard beanie slightly askew on his curly head.
