“I’ve never given Luke the time of day, so…”
“Whatever,” I laugh again.
“But honestly, that’s not you. You usually jump in headfirst.” She’s right. “Do you think you’re pulling back because of what you feel for Luke, and it’s freaking you out since you’ve never felt this way before?”
“Oh.” I start to say something, then stop. “Maybe?”
Georgia bumps my shoulder. “Then maybe think about it.”
“Gah, everything around here is about thinking,” I groan playfully.
When we walk into the bakery, the smell of fresh bread fills the air. Jenny’s behind the counter, and I order quickly. A coffee for me and Georgia, and a breakfast sandwich for Luke and me. Georgia gets a pastry. He’s always bringing me food, so I’m sure he’ll be hungry after practice.
I ask Jenny how her date went the other day before I step aside so others can order.
“You’re buying him food now.” Georgia’s brows lift. “That’s domestic. That’s relationship behavior.”
“Shut up.” I can’t wait for her to fall on her ass over a guy. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of that.
“Emily P.,” Jenny calls out.
Georgia’s head snaps toward the counter. Mine too. Her hand drops from her braid.
It’s a girl with hair so black it’s almost blue when the light hits it. She’s a whole vibe with her smoky eye makeup, dark lipstick, the kind of cool that takes effort to look effortless. She’s drowning in an oversized cashmere cardigan, vintage band tee, and designer boots scuffed just right. Paint-stained fingers grab her coffee.
It’s her.
Emily, last year’s victim, possibly this year’s killer. She turns with her coffee, catching us staring. She gives a small, polite smile, like you do to strangers, and settles in at a window table.
She takes out a sketchbook and starts drawing, just like any other art major passing time before class. But this isn’t where her college is. She’s supposed to be in Chicago.
She looks normal. Peaceful. Her charcoal moves in dark, jagged strokes that don’t match her expression at all.
“That’s her,” Georgia breathes.
“I know. You think we should?—”
“Class,” Georgia is quick to remind me.
Every instinct screams “follow,” “watch,” and “confront.” See, headfirst.
“We have to get to class. Then we tell the others.”
We grab our food and coffee. Emily doesn’t look up from her sketching as we pass.
“She didn’t appear to recognize me.” I say this when we’re farther away from the coffee shop, heading back toward campus. I suppose I’ve gotten it into my head that whoever killed Coach Murphy knew Luke and I were in the boathouse that first night. They’d quickly moved the body before we could return.
“I mean, Lana could get actress of the year at this point with how she’s pretending to not know anything.”
“She’s really good at it,” I say with a dry laugh. “Lana’s really pretty. She should use her talent for acting.”
“Do not tell her that. It will go straight to her head,” Georgia says.
“I’ll keep that in mind when she and I are at our next slumber party together.”
When we hit campus, students linger in groups on the sidewalk.
A girl ahead of us stops walking, stares at her phone, and turns to her friend with her hand over her mouth. I hear morephones going off and small gasps coming from different small groups.
