In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(41)

“I led them straight to you, don’t you see? I made a terrible mistake. I was so horrified, I told them I’d do anything. Sell tweak.”

“You did not.” I gave in to my desire and shoved him back an inch. But he didn’t let go of my shoulders, didn’t look away.

“It’s worse. Jess, I was supposed to start selling that night—the night of Sweetheart. But I got cold feet. They were calling, looking for me. That’s why I didn’t meet you out like I was supposed to, remember?”

I didn’t, because I didn’t remember that night at all past a certain point. I knew the memories were buried somewhere, but from the moment I’d woken the next day—an unreasonably warm February 15th—I’d done everything in my power to forget.

“What I’m trying to say”—Coop’s breath came faster now, his heart back to pounding under my palm—“is that they knew your dorm, and they’d threatened your life, and Heather’s system was flooded with a drug just like tweak.”

I finally saw where he was going and shook my head, pulling away from him.

“What if they did it? You know what they were capable of.”

The memory of a terrible scream—Coop’s—echoed back, and goose bumps prickled my arms. “What if they broke into the dorm, looking for you, and found Heather instead?”

“That’s insane,” I said. “The cops never said someone broke in.”

“What if they just knocked on the door? You don’t think Heather, of all people, would answer without thinking? She thought she was impervious.”

“They wouldn’t kill someone just to teach you a lesson. Do you know what kind of heat that would bring them? They weren’t stupid—they were smart, which is why they were scary.”

“But the pieces fit together,” Coop insisted. “Especially the tweak. It’s basically a smoking gun. All this time, I’ve been sitting on information that could’ve helped the cops find Heather’s killer.”

There was resolve in his face, and suddenly I saw exactly how this would go: Coop, the rebel, the outcast, the drug dealer. The poor one from the single-parent family. The unlikeliest of heroes, yet always rising when it was time, only to get cut down in the end. Always.

I’d even done it to him myself.

“Please,” I begged. “Don’t go to Eric with this. He’s looking for a villain. He’ll crucify you.”

Instead of looking at me—my desperation—with disgust, Coop’s face softened. It was a look I knew well. I used to think of it as one of his private faces, an expression he reserved just for me, a secret code for a secret feeling. I’d learned, too late, that it had always been bigger than that.

“I have to, Jess. If I’m right, Heather died because of me. I have to tell Eric, because it’s the right thing to do. And after that, I’m turning myself in to the police.”





Chapter 18


November, senior year

I lined the vegetables in a neat row on the cutting board—mushrooms, green peppers, olives, all of Coop’s favorites—and placed his knife next to them. I took a step back and surveyed. Picture-perfect.

The door to the bedroom swung open and Coop stepped out, running a towel through his hair, wet and curled from the shower. His chest was bare, basketball shorts low on his hips. He looked up and jerked back, eyes wide.

“Holy shit, Jess.” He put a hand to his chest. “What are you doing here?”

I held out my arms like Vanna White. “Dinner. I brought pizza ingredients. Remember, you said you’d teach me?”

His face broke into a warm smile as he tossed his towel on the bathroom floor. I rolled my eyes at his insufferable sloppiness, which only made him grin wider.

“My girl comes bearing food.” He sauntered across his tiny studio and, ignoring my squeal of surprise, lifted me into his arms. “This is a good day.”

“You’re dirtying the counter,” I protested as he leaned me up against the countertop and pressed close between my legs.

“Come here,” he said, tilting my face and kissing me. Somewhere along the way, Coop’s kisses had changed from heated and urgent to tender. Weighty.

I pushed my hands into his hair, winding the wet curls around my fingers and opening my mouth so he could press inside. When it came to Coop, there was no such thing as too much.

I was addicted. Like father, like daughter.

“How long do I have you?” he whispered.

“All weekend.” I grinned against his mouth.

“All weekend?”

“Mint went to the Georgia game. Last-minute decision.”

Coop spun me in a circle. “A whole weekend.” He set me down. “This is perfect. I got you something.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Coop produced a bottle of red wine from his pantry with a flourish. “Your favorite.”

“You remembered.” I’d discovered red wine this year, and it was like my entire palate changed overnight. Now, it was the only thing I wanted to drink. It left my lips and teeth stained crimson, like a vampire’s, but I didn’t care. Red wine was classy, sophisticated. A sign I was growing up.

Good wine was also expensive.

“You didn’t have to buy it,” I said as he twisted the cork with a small pop. I hated when Coop spent money on me, because I knew where it came from.