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“He won’t be talking much anymore.”

My heart stutters. “What?”

“I protect my sources. And anyway, there’s more,” she says, her voice more hurried than I’ve ever heard it, “about Dean Shea.”

I wipe my damp face with the back of a palm. “Oh yes, please continue.”

“I know he’s in charge of Classics employment. Speaks to them in person before they leave the university.”

I press my lips together, white-knuckling back into control. But the more I force the screaming part of myself quiet, the more nauseated I feel. “That seems … normal.”

“Does it? Is it not strange to you that they leave the university entirely? Why not simply take a semester off? And why does he have a hidden lockbox under his desk? Why was Arjun in charge of getting something that had to be hidden?”

The bite in her words sends a shiver through me, the cold fingers of fear stroking the back of my neck into goose bumps. It also occurs to me: Marcella is feeling just as poorly as I am. She’s leaning against the wall, her skin damp, her eyes hooded.

Someone has to be okay here. I muscle through the roiling of my stomach. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Lacie dear. I just ate something that disagreed with me. That’s all.”

“Are you okay to stay for the rest of the dinner?”

“I have to, and so do you,” she snaps. “Don’t be foolish.”

“I’m not— My god. Forgive me for checking on you. Fine, let’s assume that Dean Shea is involved in the disappearances. What leverage does that really give us? It’s not enough.”

Marcella draws up, her eyes thunderous. “You know what? I don’t have to do this. It’s you who wanted to know who killed your friend. It’s you who saw that her death was monstrous. I’m only doing this to make sure I don’t get implicated in fucking murder.”

“Shh,” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. “Don’t be idiotic.”

“It’s not me who—” She pales suddenly, grabbing the wainscoting as she teeters on her heels. “It’s not me who’s idiotic.” But her voice winnows to a rasp, her eyes squeezing shut as a wave of … something … passes over her. I can almost see her skin ripple with a shudder.

“Look, can’t we talk about this some other time? After this dinner you insist on us staying for even though you’re actively sweating bullets?”

“You’re one to talk.” She runs a hand through her hair, twisting away from me. Too proud to seek help. Damn it, something about it twists my guts and won’t let go. I want to hate her. But it’s like … like she’s gotten her hooks into me. Or at least half of me. The caretaking part that I have learned to hate: the one that brought Laurel soup when she was sick and slept with boys I didn’t care for because I felt bad, the one that puts her eyes on her feet when standing in front of Dean Shea. The one I learned to love on my knees in a church. Marcella makes me care about her because of my deepest guilt.

I’d never admit it to her, but she’s even wriggled her way into my dreams.

And now she’s sick, and for all her bluster, she really isn’t well. The bluster is a mask; behind it, she’s going to pieces. But she doesn’t have to be. I could help. I want to help.

“Marcella,” I finally say, placing a hand on her shoulder. She’s cold to the touch and it scares the shit out of me. “Please.”

“I’m fine,” she says again, and when she turns back to me, she’s as icy and distant as the day I met her. Her voice steadies. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about me. I don’t wear my weakness on my sleeve.”

I glower at her. “You know, most people are grateful for help.”

“If you hadn’t looked like you were about to faint right away, we wouldn’t be over here right now, having this discussion. We could have used this time to break into the dean’s home office and sifted through his notes, but instead we’re just standing here. And now we’re out of time. We had three minutes to talk and we fucking wasted them doing whatever the hell this is. Goddess.” She wipes an elegant hand down her face. I hate to admit it, but she’s right. The library down the hall has fallen silent, the distant sound of cutlery on plates ringing brightly.

“So sorry to be such a burden.” My words come out bitter.

We stare at each other, close enough to kiss. Close enough to bite. Her full lips drift closer to mine. And despite the sheen of sweat riming her skin, she’s alluring. Her paleness looks like a bowl of cream; I could dip my fingers in and lick it off.

She croons, “Don’t beg for my pity, Lacie darling. You’re too pretty for that.”

I snort to hide my waffling. “This is the last time I try to help you out.”

“You wish. Don’t think I’ll be your little errand boy just because you can’t get your shit together.”

I step back, gritting my molars. “Let’s go.” I stomp away, my stupid wedge heels making a craterous sound even in the tight space.