My jaw tightens all over again. The fists I'd unclenched in the driveway close again, knuckles going white.
I pocket the phone. Go upstairs. My bag from morning skate is on the floor beside the desk where I dropped it on the way in, the strap tangled.
In my room, the recorder sits in the top drawer of my desk. Her recorder. The one she set in my open palm, her fingers stopping just short of mine. I've picked it up three times. Each time the plastic warms in my hand before I set it back.
My voice is on there. Her voice. The exact syllables oftourismandborrowed name. And then her voice, steady, coming back with the scout's name and my turnover count andwhich observer.
I open the drawer. Small. Black. The red light off. She could have asked for it back. She could have texted Cole. She could have come to Elm House and knocked on my door. She hasn't.
I close the drawer.
And last week, Cole told me that the woman my father just flagged as a threat had information she could have used and chose to bury. She had the story. Anonymous sourcing, sealed records, the kind of exposé that writes itself. She killed it.
The calculation doesn't balance. I turn it over once, looking for the angle, the play, the reason, and there's nothing there. Just a choice she made that doesn't fit the grid.
Parasite.That's the word I threw at her when she was fourteen, standing in Cole's hallway with her chin up and her eyes cataloging every damn thing in the room like she was memorizing the exits. Cole's new stepsister. Small. Quiet. Her hand gripping the strap of her notebook against her chest, knuckles pale, the same way mine grip things when the room feels wrong. Eyes that moved across every face in the hallway and stopped on mine two beats longer than anyone else's.
I looked, and then I looked again, and that second look lasted longer than I ever fucking meant it to.
Chapter 8
Cole
The dining hall at one-thirty is half empty, and the quiet is the only thing I can fucking stand about it. The room hums with the low drone of trays on metal rails and the hiss of the espresso machine, a few scattered voices bouncing off the high ceiling like they're trying to find a way out. I need the silence.
I get there first and claim the corner booth, the wraparound one in the back where the bench bends ninety degrees, with a clean sightline to the entrance and the coffee station. I set out three trays before I even sit down. One for Dante across the table. Mine in front of my spot. The third beside mine: turkey wrap, apple, water. Exactly what Maya orders when she remembers to eat, which is never unless I fucking make her.
Three trays. I look at them lined up on the table. I adjust the napkins. I slide into the booth and watch the door, my knee bouncing under the table until I force it still.
Dante walks in at one-thirty-two. Alone. He spots me immediately and crosses the room without slowing, covering the floor in six clean strides. He slides into the seat across from me, reaches for the coffee, and takes a long sip before he says a fucking word.
His shoulders are locked, the tension running across the top of his back in a hard line I can read from here. He carries it in his traps, in the set of his jaw, in the way his fingers grip the cup.
"How was Marco?" I ask, because I have to start somewhere.
His jaw flexes slightly before he swallows. "Fine. Family stuff."
"The restaurants?"
"Cole." My name. Flat. One word. That's the line.
"Okay," I say, and I take a bite of my sandwich so I don't say anything else stupid.
Maya shows up at one-forty-five. I texted her twenty minutes ago.
Me: Dining hall. 1:30. You need to eat.
Maya: I'm editing.
Me: Bring the laptop. Eat while you edit.
She answered with nothing. Which is Maya forfine.
She comes through the entrance with the Chronicle bag over one shoulder and her laptop already open in both hands. She reads as she walks, her thumb on the trackpad. Hair up. My hoodie. The navy one this time. She picks the navy one for editing days, the gray sweatshirt for class, the black zip-up when it's cold enough that she needs pockets. She doesn't know I'vemapped the rotation. The navy one tells me she's been at the Chronicle since morning. She'll go back after this.
"Sit," I say, sliding the third tray toward the empty space beside me on the bench.
She drops onto the bench beside me, sliding into the curve of the booth until she lands directly across from Dante. Her eyes stay glued to the screen. She sets the laptop on the table in front of her tray, balancing the back edge against the heel of her left hand to keep the screen tilted toward her. She pulls the pen from behind her ear and turns it between her fingers as she reads, the movement repetitive enough that I've timed it before. Three turns, pause, three turns.
