Page 30

Evan is already there—but no sign of Marcella.

I swallow the gob of spit in my throat as I haul myself to a stop next to him, chest aching from tears. “What’s happening?”

He startles, snapping his head around. “Jesus! When—how did you get here?”

“I … live here?”

“You’re just so damned silent.” He shoves his hands deeper into his pocket, burrowing his head into his flannel scarf. “I don’t know what’s going on. I was just walking around, thinking about Greek, you know”—I do, and it’s vaguely hilarious that I do—“when I saw the lights.”

“Police car?” I ask. “Ambulance?” I can’t hide the tremor in my voice and Evan raises an eyebrow.

“Both.”

“My god,” I breathe, and my panic is genuine, a tremor shaking my knees. I can’t be sick again. Not here. There’s no trash can.

Evan gives a sharp laugh. “Why do you sound like a fugitive right now? You taking Addy between—”

“No!” I cry, my voice echoing. I muster my nerve. “Of course not. I just—police make me anxious. I don’t know. Don’t you always feel like you must be doing something illegal?”

“No…?” he replies, a lilt to his question. “Anyway, I was just kidding. You’re the most straight-edged person I know, obviously.”

“What’s that supposed to—”

“Good morning.” We turn to see Dean Shea and Arjun together. Arjun has heavy bags beneath his eyes, and is paler than I’ve ever seen him, even during exam season. Dean Shea doesn’t look much better, if I’m honest. “I was hoping to get through this period without prying eyes,” he continues, “but I suppose on this campus, that was in vain.”

“What’s going on?” I ask, like I don’t know.

Dean Shea sighs. “Well, Lacie, unfortunately, places like Preston aren’t gentle on people with … existing mental illnesses.”

I tighten my jaw so hard I see stars. Of course. They’re going to blame it on Preston’s rigor instead of calling it what it is: murder.

A sobbing janitor is led from the building. It’s Melinda, I realize. Her shoulders are shaking, her cloud of red hair bobbing as she cries. An uncomfortable-looking police officer pats her shoulder, leading her toward the back of the ambulance. Lyle’s already there with a silvery thermal blanket crinkling around his shoulders. Therese looks stricken as she stands nearby, her face curving in misery.

“You mean someone committed—”

Arjun says, “Let’s not voice it right now. Things are delicate.” He gestures toward Melinda, to the EMT wrapping a foil blanket around her shoulders.

I snap my gaze to him. “How do you know it was—”

“I saw the body.” Arjun’s Adam’s apple bobs and I’m seized with a bloody impulse to tear it from his throat. Uncharacteristic of me, to crave violence. But the idea of him lying through his teeth packs me with a hatred I’ve never known. “Sorry to say it was your little girlfriend—”

“Arjun,” Dean Shea grits.

“Laurel,” he finishes, meeting my eyes with a not-quite-smile.

Evan whistles. “Whoa, didn’t take her for someone who’d off herself.”

“Christ,” I snarl at Evan. “Maybe she was exhausted. Maybe this place crushed her. Maybe the demands were simply too great.”

I know she didn’t kill herself, but I’m no stranger to that inky blackness that twists inside all of us, just waiting to grow and strangle. A vine, looking for someone to choke.

“Now, Lacie,” Dean Shea says, placatory, “we offer adequate mental health services at Preston.”

Adequate? I ball my hands into fists. “Maybe it’s not adequate if someone killed themselves.” My voice catches. “If Laurel killed herself. She is—was—a human being. Let’s not be coy about the truth.”

My words hang in the misty air, fingers turning unaccountably cold.

Arjun’s glinting smile turns to a grin. “Wow, Lacie.”