“That’s not information we’re able to share,” the shorter one said—or started to, anyway. He was interrupted by a quiet sound of satisfaction from his partner:
“Welp,” DiNapoli announced, his beefy hands buried in my underwear drawer, “here we go.”
I looked over, my mouth falling slightly open in abject shock: there was Greer’s watch—the vintage Rolex, big and heavy and elegant—gleaming quietly in the morning light.
I gasped, I couldn’t help it. Duncan and Dave looked on in horror. Greer stared at me for a moment, a thousand different expressions flickering across her face. “Linden,” she said finally, and her voice was almost preternaturally calm. “What thefuckare you doing with my grandpa’s watch?”
“Greer,” I said, gaping back at her. “I have no idea. I have no fucking idea! Somebody planted it in there. Somebody’s setting me up. Come on, you’ve gotta know somebody’s setting me up.” It sounded ridiculous. Itwasridiculous, like something out of a campy film noir. “Greer,” I said again. “Come on.”
But Greer wasn’t listening. “Can I have it back?” she asked the security guards. Her voice was very small. “My watch, I mean.”
The shorter one shook his head. “We need to photograph and log it as evidence first—”
“Evidence?” I was almost shouting. “It’s notevidenceof anything.”
“—but you can file a claim with the university, and it’ll be returned to you once the disciplinary hearings are done.”
Greer nodded. “Okay,” she said, rubbing a hand over her face. She looked exhausted, the hollows under her eyes bluish in the pale light of morning. “Thank you.”
My heart was racing. “Greer—”
“Don’t, Linden.” She barely spared me a glance before turning back to the guards. “Can I go, then? Like, do you need me to…” She trailed off, waving a hand in a way that presumably meantact as a witness for Linden’s summary execution.
“Sure,” one of them said, looking to his partner for confirmation. “I don’t see why not.”
“Great,” she said. “I guess I will…do that, then.” She turned back to Dave and Duncan. “I’ll see you guys around, I guess? I don’t even—”
“Greer!” I tried again, and this time she whirled on me.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, “and honestly, I don’t really want to know. But you’ve been acting weird ever since we started hanging out again. And I’ve been trying to tell myself it’s fine, that it doesn’t matter, that I’m just grateful to have you back in my life, but now—like, is that why you wanted to get back together? So you couldstealfrom me?” She shook her head. “Did you hurt Bri too?”
“Of course not,” I said, momentarily dizzy. “Stop.”
“We’re going to need you to come with us to the dean’s office,” DiNapoli announced, putting a hand on my arm. I resisted theurge to jerk away, but barely. I felt like I was floating somewhere up near the ceiling, watching this whole thing happen to someone else.
“I’ve gotta get out of here,” Greer said, so quietly it might have only been to herself. “I’ve gotta go.” She grabbed her phone off the nightstand and brushed past the security guards, the swish of her hair the last thing I saw before I turned around to face whatever was about to happen next.
20
Saturday, 12/14/24
The sky was just turning from black to gray outside the window of my bedroom when my mom knocked on the door, light from the hallway spilling across the carpet. “I’m heading out,” she said softly, “but I left the coffee on.”
“Thanks,” I managed, blinking into the sleep-stale dimness. “What time is it?”
“It’s early,” she said. “The mutual aid group is handing out coffee and doughnuts at Mass and Cass, but I should be back by lunchtime.” She paused. “You going to be all right?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, trying to muster my most convincing smile. I was seven days into a ten-day administrative suspension, due back on campus right in time for finals—assuming, of course, that I was ultimately cleared of any wrongdoing, which wasn’t at all a sure thing. Greer wasn’t answering any of my texts.Nobodywas answering any of my texts, actually, with the exception of Coach Lyons, who’d written a terse email letting me know that my involvement on the team next semester was contingent upon the findings of theDisciplinary Board. “My entire life is contingent upon the findings of the Disciplinary Board,” I’d muttered uselessly, then sent the message to the trash without bothering to reply.
“Okay,” my mom said now, hovering in the doorway a moment longer. She was plucky, but I could tell she felt outmatched by the accusations against me, by the hugeness of the Harvard machine. I couldn’t blame her—I felt outmatched by it too. “Eat something, will you? There are some corn muffins left from yesterday, whenever you get up.”
“I will,” I promised. “Have fun.”
Once she was gone I rolled over and stared at the wall for a while, which was the same way I’d spent most of the week since I’d gotten kicked out of housing. I dozed for a little bit longer. I sulked. I imagined alternate lives for myself: I could go back to working at Market Basket, I thought, where I’d been a checker for a couple of summers. I could coach peewee lacrosse, although actually probably not if I had a criminal record. I could light out for the open West like Jack Kerouac, though I wasn’t entirely sure how I’d pay for gas or what I’d do once I got there. I was pretty sure Market Basket was only a Massachusetts thing.
I was reaching for my phone to GoogleCalifornia grocery store chainswhen the buzzer rang. “Hello?” I asked, shuffling down the hallway with my blanket around my shoulders like a cape and pressing the button on the intercom.
“I have a confession,” Holiday announced, her voice crackling through the ancient speaker. “I drove down Cambridge Street the other day. And theLive Poultry Fresh Killedsign is in fact gone.”
