“Keep trying,” Cyrus said. The knife point began to metronome back and forth, as if counting down.
I’d managed to free my hand from the boxing wraps, but nothing useful was in reach. “I don’t know, Uncle.”
He shook his head—this wouldn’t do at all.
“Think,” he said.
Why was the arrow afraid?
Because its cousin was a quiver.
Cyrus couldn’t blame me for killing Peter: Grandmother’s orders. But forgetting him was unforgivable.
“Why did the blind man fall down the well, Jessica?”
And there it was.
“Because he couldn’t see that well,” I said.
Cyrus laughed, low and soft, with his mouth closed. His eyes were brighter than ever. “See, Jessica? I knew it was in there, with all your other memories of him.He’sstill in there.”
“He’ll always be—”
“The chalk bag,” Cyrus said.
I blinked once, my brain resetting. Another riddle.
“That one?” I asked, looking at the desk.
“Yes. Peter left handprints all the way up. A single set of marks, to show that he was climbing alone.”
“He was.” My hands were clean that night.
“But his chalk bag was in his dorm, not with his body. As you can see.”
Cyrus stepped aside—the bag sat there on the desk. No blood, no damage from a seven-story fall.
“Ah,” I said.
Later that night, I’d hidden my bag from Faraday, but I shouldn’t have taken it home. I should have dropped it on Peter’s body.
“Where did the chalk on his hands come from?” Cyrus asked.
“From me. He showed up without any.”
“That was kind of you, giving him a chance.” Slowly, he lowered the knife to his side.
Silence was safest, but I had to ask. “Did you know ahead of time?”
“I voted on it,” he said.
“Oh.” It took me a second. “Grandmother puts things to a vote?”
“In cases like this, yes. And she allowed me an indulgence. Stand up.”
I obeyed, letting the box slip to the floor.
Cyrus lifted the knife again, and drew the edge across his thumb.
