The burner phone disappeared into Sunset Lake with the tiniest splash.
Lavernick Hall was quiet, half the windows dark. I slipped in the back door, stripping off the electrical tape that had kept it unlocked. The security light I’d broken two days ago was still out. There are no cameras here at Helshire.
Climbing the stairs, something released in me at last, like letting an arrow fly.
My first kill, before I’d even graduated.
The hallway was empty, the doors shut, but when I stepped into my room, a voice spoke from the darkness.
“You should really get a lock.”
I didn’t startle. I never startle.
“My life is an open book, dear.”
“Says the girl who doesn’t answer my texts.” Faraday gestured at my phone, on my bedside table. “What if you got mugged out there?”
“Then they couldn’t steal my phone.”
“Except they could, because your door’s unlocked.”
Faraday sounded a bit drunk. She was stretched out on my bed in black jeans and T-shirt, a red leather jacket I hadn’t seen before. The pockets, sleeves, and sides were zippered—half a dozen sets of shiny metal teeth. Her chunky boots sat by the door to my widow’s walk.
Faraday smelled like she’d been at an off-campus party—weed, fire smoke, and the sticky sweetness of spilled champagne. More than one party, probably. She was the sort of girl who knew everyone, but didn’t remember their names.
An old BritishVoguewas splayed across her lap.
“You brought something to read?” I asked.
“In case you weren’t home. I like your shoes.”
Faraday was surveying my all-black climbing gear, my split-sole climbing Ninjas. The chalk bag nestled at the small of my back, out of her view.
I stripped off the top to make her glance away and dropped the bag in my laundry basket, reaching in for a crumpled white Oxford.
“Weren’t you cold out there?” she asked as I buttoned up.
“I was running.”
“How is your hair not a mess? Do you have booze?”
We both looked at my glass-fronted liquor cabinet, the bottles of amaro and vermouth, four kinds of whiskey, a small jury of bitters.
“For you, dear? Always.”
Faraday had beenmy freshman roommate at Helshire.
For incoming classes, the matchmakers at Housing pair each legacywith an ordinary. Most of us have never lived with one before. It’s good practice for the outside world, and forges lifelong bonds between us and the dissolute offspring of wealthy families.
The weakest part of any garment is a loose thread. Faraday was the fraying hem of the Wilbert-Lees of Boston, a sprawling clan of state senators and yacht club commodores, who inherited their furniture and called each other nicknames, but still got drunk at wine tastings.
For two and a half years, I’d insinuated myself into the Wilbert-Lees’ good graces. Faraday’s mother always gave me the same Christmas present—a makeup subscription, delivered in teak boxes. I sent her monthly thank-you notes in my best handwriting.
I was one of Faraday’s few good influences at Helshire. Before me, she’d come back from vacations with an accent; now she came back with gifts.
“Lord, I miss your cocktails,” she said after her first sip. An Old Gal—rye, Lillet, and amaro. Faraday’s tastes ran as bittersweet as mine.
“You had three last night, dear.”
