Take the Fall(54)

I stare at him. “A business arrangement?”

He frowns, looking down at his clean-scrubbed hands. “Occasionally, I get art commissions. It’s not really my thing, but it brings in extra cash. Usually it’s a portrait of someone’s pet or a person they love. Sometimes it’s more personal. I had a fifty-year-old woman commission a nude of herself to give to her husband. . . . I don’t ask questions.”

I blink, imagining Marcus infusing some nervous Chihuahua or middle-aged woman with a burst of color and beauty. Of course they would want that. He could probably make anything seem beautiful.

“Have you done this for anyone I know?”

Marcus exhales, leaning against the puke-yellow tile. “Tyrone Wallace asked me to do a painting of Gretchen.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“It was right after she dumped him. He knew it was over, but he wanted something . . . to remember her, I guess. We’d been in an art class together and he’d seen my work. That’s the whole of it. I did the painting, he paid me, we haven’t really spoken since.”

I think back, trying to place this transaction in last year’s timeline. “So he must’ve approached you in the spring, and you gave him the painting when . . . ?”

“Right before he left for college.”

“Right before you started dating Gretchen.”

He straightens. “She showed up at my house. Said she’d seen the portrait and she liked it.”

I bet she did. Gretchen could be vain like that, but I guess I can’t really blame her. To my knowledge none of the other guys she dumped responded by immortalizing her in art. And I can only imagine what Marcus could do with a subject like her—with her flawless skin, high cheekbones, and sparkling eyes, she was the definition of a muse.

“I don’t need the details of how you hooked up,” I say, trying to force the thought out of my mind. I turn the postcard over between my fingers. “I just want to know if Tyrone’s involved.”

“You think he had something to do with that?”

“It seems unlikely, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a possibility.” I clear my throat and meet his eyes. “Tyrone used to climb in Gretchen’s window all the time.”

A sharp tone pings through the air, followed by a secretary’s voice crackling over a speaker in the ceiling: “Sonia Feldman, please report to the office, Sonia Feldman.”

My body goes rigid. I didn’t think Ms. Dixon would have an answer from Penn this soon. I pick up the postcard with a shaking hand, wondering how every part of my future could crumble so fast.

Marcus pushes off from the wall and picks up his bag.

“Wait. One more thing,” I say. I haven’t forgotten my conversation with Kirsten about Marcus cheating on Gretchen. I shove the postcard and its menacing script deep between the pages of my history book. “Were you seeing someone else when you and Gretchen broke up?”

He looks away from me, shifting toward the door. “No. Why?”

“You’re sure of that?” I don’t know if I believe him or just wish I did.

“That isn’t really something you can be sure or unsure about. I was only seeing Gretchen. She broke up with me. I’m not seeing anyone now.”

I hesitate, my breath bottled up in my chest.

The tone pings again and the announcement is repeated.

Marcus curls his hands at his sides. “You might want to get to the office before they come looking for you.”

I exhale, pushing past him, but then he touches my arm. A surge of anticipation—hope—shoots through the veins leading straight to my heart.

“Please, Sonia . . . I know you still don’t trust me, but be careful. Stay out of the woods.”

I look up, and when I meet his eyes, they’re so intense I have to step back. His hand falls away and I reach for the door handle, more confused than ever.

The air is too quiet, too still once I’m in the hall, and an ominous feeling settles in my stomach. I make my way around the corner, down the main corridor, toward the office. My sturdy black boots squeak tiny shouts of protest along the tile. I look over my shoulder once to see Marcus following at a distance. He’s far down the hall, but trailing me nonetheless. I straighten a little. My steps come quicker knowing he’s there, despite the postcard sitting like a weight inside my backpack.

Kip was there, and Reva, he’d said . . . and so were you, Marcus. But would he go to all this trouble? I’m less sure about Kip leaving a postcard than a photo, and Reva’s style seems more direct. Kirsten wasn’t around, and neither were Kevin or Tyrone, but I guess that doesn’t mean anything. The fingerprint could answer a lot.

As I reach the windows looking into the main office, there’s no sign of Ms. Dixon. Principal Bova is there with Sheriff Wood, Amir, and Shelly. The sheriff uniforms are so out of context with the school, they look more like characters than officers of the law, but my heart skips a beat nonetheless. I consider just walking by, exiting the building, running home to my bed, and hiding from whatever they’re here to say. It can’t be anything good. But the sheriff spots me through the glass and the look on his face steels me enough to enter the office.

“Sonia, why weren’t you in class?” the secretary, Ms. Maynard, chastises when I walk in.

“I—I was in the bathroom, I didn’t feel—”