In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(56)

“Heather, please,” Frankie begged.

“You’ll ruin him,” Jack said, his voice thick.

“Not if you do the right thing,” Heather said and flung the door open and burst out of it.

“I can’t,” Frankie said to Jack. Caro couldn’t see them anymore, hidden as she was, but the fear in his voice made her panic spike. She tried to concentrate on breathing: In, out. In, out.

“I know,” Jack said simply. “Come on, let’s get out of here. This room feels wrong for some reason. Almost sentient. It’s creepy.”

In, out; in, out. Caro matched her breathing to the patter of feet as they walked past. Jack’s eyes roved, searching for the source of the wrongness, but mercifully they didn’t light on her. Finally, the door swung behind them, leaving Caro squatting in the thicket of chairs.

Breathing heavily, she tore at her jacket with clumsy fingers, ripping it off, then unbuttoned her shirt, desperate for cool air. She used to blame this kind of anxiety on the fact that she’d been so sheltered her whole life, but she was going on four years of college and it hadn’t changed. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she did know that Heather was going to ruin Frankie’s future. How could one member of the East House Seven do that to another? Heather would destroy the only friends Caro had ever belonged to. Send her right back to the sidelines.

Her panic kept rising until a single thought interrupted. It gripped her, ice-cold and powerful enough to slow her galloping heart, cool her burning skin, fill her with a sense of conviction so strong it felt almost like faith. Heather wouldn’t take away anything. Alone in the dark, she brought a hand to the cross at her throat, feeling the metal ends stab her fingertips, the pain like a promise. Caro wouldn’t let her.





Chapter 25


Now

We didn’t plan to stow away on Frankie’s float, the six of us. But it was a madhouse outside the stadium, the Homecoming crowd an ocean, tides pulling, impossible to navigate. And though we looked like everyone else, dressed head to toe in crimson and white, we were a world apart, skittish with anxiety, with the weight of our questions for Frankie.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something; couldn’t stop looking at Caro every time she turned her back, thinking of her raw face in the morning light of my hotel room. Imagining her ten years ago, watching us from across campus. Determined to know us better than we’d let her, terrified of being left behind.

Where had she followed me?

Everyone had things they were ashamed of. Caro was still the same person. But as we pushed through the crowd, she turned, catching me staring. And I could feel her confession like an electric charge between us, buzzing my skin.

So when we got to Frankie’s float—the football float, where the grand marshal rode, first in line—I didn’t think before I leapt onto it, propelled by the discomfort of being around her. Everyone followed, Eric included, and we huddled behind a six-foot replica of Blackwell Tower, agreeing to grab Frankie once we spotted him among the swarm of football players, tug him off the float to talk. But then there was a giant thrust, a roar from the crowd, and suddenly we were moving.

“Oh god,” Caro said, face paling. “It’s starting.”

I looked over the railing. Waving, cheering fans, young and old, a sea of crimson and white. I felt nauseous. “We have to get off.”

“Don’t be crazy,” Mint said. “Everyone will see us. Let’s just stay here and hide, and confront Frankie once the parade’s over. It’ll be fine.”

“Mint?” A big voice—Frankie’s—boomed from the other side of the tower. “What are you doing here?” Resplendent in the grand marshal’s blood-red cape and scepter, his mouth agape, Frankie looked like a very startled king of Duquette.

“Uhh—” Caro looked desperately at Eric, waiting for him to take over the questioning, but he just arched an eyebrow, as if to say, This was your idea.

“You came to cheer me on,” Frankie said, with unexpected emotion. He looked at us, searching our faces, lingering on Mint’s. “This is even better than I pictured. Come up front with me.” He tugged Mint with him; the rest of us followed, looking at each other uncertainly.

At the front of the float, Frankie turned to me. “Just like freshman year, huh?”

Jack banished. Heather dead. And your friends ambushing you to ask if you killed her. Yes, Frankie, exactly the same.

I cleared my throat. So many people in the crowd were waving to him, shouting his name. One man even wore his Saints jersey.

“They love you,” I said. “You really are a star.”

Was Frankie still using? What would all these people think if they knew?

“Let’s hope so,” Frankie said. “Because I stayed up all night thinking. And I have a plan.”

“We’re here to ask you something,” Eric cut in, voice rising to be heard over the cheering. “About Heather.”

Frankie looked around at us, the first hints of understanding—and betrayal—dawning on his face. “Wait. You’re here to interrogate me?”

“You knew Heather was planning to out Jack during Parents’ Weekend,” Coop said. “And your parents would likely hear the news right beside them. Your dad would hear. Why didn’t you tell us that part?”