In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(31)

Last night—bruising memories, the edges blurrier and blurrier as the night went on, until they were swallowed up in darkness. Instead of trying to search them, I willed in more darkness to eat the memories whole.

“I was drunk,” I said, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “I passed out. I’m sorry.”

“Now’s not the time to talk about the fucking Sweetheart Ball,” Coop snapped. “Something’s really wrong—”

A movement down the hall caught everyone’s attention. Little Eric Shelby, all one hundred pounds of him, came barreling around the corner. When he saw the crowd staring at him in horror, he froze for a second, cowed, then pressed forward.

“Let me in!” he said, putting his arms up to push through. But the crowd fell back, parting for him. He grabbed the door handle and twisted it open—Caro gasped—but he was blocked by the thick chest of a cop.

“Stand back,” the cop barked, and Eric nearly fell backwards. “This is a police investigation.”

I took a staggering step back, pulling Mint with me. But instead of slamming the door in our faces, the cop pushed it fully open. Behind him, I could see our living room and kitchen torn asunder, cushions ripped off the couch, every drawer hanging open. A black-clad EMT worker appeared in the doorway to the room I shared with Heather, walking backwards and carrying a stretcher, draped with a white cloth. Another EMT worker clutched the other end, calling soft directions to his partner. The crowd grew hushed as they passed through the front door, into the hall.

I stared down at the white cloth. It couldn’t hide the familiar hills and valleys of a human body.

Even through the near-debilitating pain of my hangover, the nausea, the black blurriness of my memories, I knew it. A strange knowing, like déjà vu: Heather is dead.

“I need everyone to back up,” the cop ordered.

“Is it Heather?” Eric practically tripped over himself as he backed away from the stretcher. “Heather Shelby?”

The sheer desperation in his voice caused tears to spring to my eyes.

The cop squinted. “Who are you?”

“Heather’s brother.” On the last word—brother—Eric crumbled, knees giving out. Mint released me and knelt next to him, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. But Eric didn’t notice. He was staring up at the cop, his whole world narrowed to him and how he would answer.

The cop’s glare softened. “Son, I’m going to need you to come with me.”

“No,” Eric said. He leaned over the floor, and Mint hovered, conflicted. “No, no, no,” Eric sobbed. “Not Heather.”

The cop looked at Mint. “Help him up when he’s ready, okay? I need you to bring him to the station. We’ve already called his parents.”

Mint nodded, accepting the responsibility gravely.

The cop turned to the crowd. “I’m going to need the roommates. Caroline Rodriguez and Jessica Miller.” Hearing my name caused a shock, like I’d been caught at something.

Caro took a cautious step forward. “I’m Caroline.”

The eyes of the crowd swung to me.

“Me.” I cleared my throat. “Jessica.”

The cop nodded curtly. “Come with me to answer some questions.”

Panic swelled. With every footstep, the weight of the crowd’s eyes felt like a crown of thorns, sinking deeper into my skull.

It’ll be okay, I whispered to myself. You’ll tell the truth. Just not all of it.





Chapter 11


Now

Eric’s words echoed through the basement: One of us. A liar. A monster. A killer.

“You’re insane,” Courtney said, staggering toward the basement stairs. “All the evidence pointed to Jack. The murder weapon—”

“I know about the evidence,” Eric said. “All the evidence, not just what they tried to pin on him.”

“What do you mean, pin on him?” Frankie asked hotly. “Jack fucking killed Heather. Everyone knows it.”

“Oh, everyone, huh?” Eric turned to me, and the heat of his stare felt like an interrogation lamp. I took a step back. “Do you believe Jack’s the killer, Jessica? Is that why you’ve stayed friends with him all these years?”

Every one of my friends’ heads snapped in my direction.

“Is that true?” Courtney was a shark, sensing blood in the water. “Are you secret besties with Heather’s killer?”

“It’s not what you think,” I said, panicked by the carefully blank expression on Coop’s face, which I knew was his look of betrayal. “I don’t believe Jack did it. And it’s not fair to punish him for something he didn’t do.” My voice rose. “He was our friend.”

“Sounds exactly like what we thought,” Mint said dryly. “That’s really low, Jess. Here you are paying your respects to Heather like you haven’t been betraying her memory since she died.”

“You never told me,” Caro said accusingly. “All these years.”

“He’s innocent,” I sputtered.

“How do you know?” Coop’s voice was measured, distant. I found his eyes. Vivid green, so full of flecks of color they were like miniature universes, caught and suspended in his face.