Nine Liars (Truly Devious, #5)(92)

“Not every day,” Nate said, his shoulders sagging. “Not every day. There’s the Common application, and you can use a lot of the stuff over again. It’s not that—”

“How did you even get all the recommendation letters?” Vi asked.

“I didn’t use Ellingham,” he said in a low voice. “I asked my editor and agent to write letters, and this guy who runs a book festival. They gave me form letters that I could adjust to wherever I was sending them.”

“Seventy-one,” Janelle repeated. “That’s . . . how much did that even cost?”

Having admitted this much, Nate was prepared to give his full confession.

“Five thousand seven hundred and forty dollars,” he said. “So far. Some of them haven’t run my card yet. I don’t know where to go, okay? And I thought—if I’m going to have to be in debt for the rest of my life to go to school, I should probably pick the right one. But they’re all just . . . brick buildings and people walking around with backpacks and doing presentations in front of whiteboards full of triangles, and I have no fucking idea which one to choose. There are the little weird ones where you can make your own major so you can study the history of teacups or vibes or whatever you want. There are big ones that have buildings with pillars and they offer everything and it’s like living in a city. And then there’s where—like, they are all in cute little towns where the leaves are always changing, or are in the city. There are some near the beach. There’s one where everyone kitesurfs all the time . . .”

“Kitesurfs,” Janelle repeated. “You. Kitesurfing.”

“I don’t know! They don’t make you kitesurf. I’m just saying.”

“Do you even like the beach?” Stevie asked.

“Everyone likes the beach! I’m a swimmer! I’m just saying, I don’t know where to go so I figured I’d cast a wide net.”

The train arrived at their stop, and they disembarked quietly. At least Stevie had solved one mystery, even if it had raised more questions than it had answered.

When they got back to Craven House, Stevie went directly to David and Izzy’s side of the building. She knocked on his door but got no answer. She asked a few people who walked by, and eventually found someone who knew where Izzy’s room was—it was at the other end of the hall, through two fire doors and down a pointless set of three steps. Beyond the door, Stevie could hear music playing—low. Something calm. When she knocked, there was the sound of movement, a pause, and then Izzy opened the door. To Stevie’s surprise, she immediately caught her in an embrace.

“Come in,” she said.

Though Izzy had the same basic room as Stevie occupied, it had none of the plastic quality. The bed was covered in a thick, sunshine-yellow duvet with white dots. The walls were hung with prints and colorful boards on which schedules, reading lists, and little handwritten notes were pinned. Her desk was stacked with books, empty champagne bottles, a pair of engraved wineglasses, a feather boa around a mirror. There was a white shag rug on the floor, along with a pile of fuzzy pillows. David was resting on and against this assortment of plush objects. He nodded to her but didn’t move to get up.

“I was wondering if I could talk to David,” Stevie said.

“Oh. Of course. Of course.”

David peeled himself from the carpet with less enthusiasm than she anticipated. Stevie didn’t know what was happening, but it appeared that he wasn’t particularly eager to speak to her. Tonight. Their last night together. He stepped out into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

“When did you get back?” she asked, trying to act like she hadn’t noticed anything amiss.

“About an hour ago.”

An hour? That was so late.

“Do you want to . . . come back? With me?”

“I will,” he said. “She’s still wrecked. Let me stay with her for a little bit and I’ll come over.”

“But you’ve been gone all day,” she said. It didn’t come out the way she meant it to. It was sharp. Peevish.

“Her aunt just died,” he said.

“I know that,” Stevie said.

“I just need to make sure she’s okay and then I’ll come over.”

“Are you mad at me?” she asked.

“What?”

“Because I failed,” she said. She lowered her voice, conscious of the other people coming in and out of their rooms, and Izzy just beyond the door.

“This isn’t about you,” he said. “It’s not about whether or not you solved it, like you always do.”

The words were like a slap. Stevie reeled. He’d gotten her feelings, but also her pride. She straightened up.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”

She turned and walked away without saying anything else. She expected him to call out, to catch up with her. She lingered for a moment by the one fire door like she was looking for something in her pocket, but he didn’t come. The same when she lingered by the next fire door, and the lobby. She almost turned back but realized that would not work. She had to do this on his schedule now.

She waited with the door cracked halfway open for most of the night, lingering, trying to look ready, but not too ready. Casual. She tried to read, to listen to something, to watch TV. But she had to keep one ear open for any movement in the hall, any sign of a message. Midnight passed. One in the morning. Two.