People Like Us(47)

Then I go the only other place I can think to go, Nola’s room. I only have half a hope that she’ll be home, and the cold has frozen my clothes and rattled me so severely that I can’t run anymore, so I walk across campus stiffly, like a creature from a horror movie. I can’t sign myself in at the front desk because my fingers are not only still shaking, they’re now frozen into a stiff red little claw. I croak out my name to the security guard through chattering teeth, and she writes it down, giving me a pointed side-eye.

I don’t feel like I have an ounce of energy left for the stairs, but I can’t separate my fingers to push the button for the elevator, so I manage the stairs by pressing my back against the wall and pushing myself up one step at a time, with minimal bending of knees. When I get to her door, I lean against it and take a moment to catch my breath and then tap my forehead against it three times.

Nola opens the door and I let my muscles rest, sliding to the floor.

“Kay?” She sounds alarmed.

I gaze up at her from the floor and my eyes focus, unfocus, refocus. She’s dressed in a silky black nightgown with a retro velvet robe and her makeup is scrubbed off. She hurriedly shuts the door. “I was so worried. Did you get my texts? The cops forced me to go home. Do you want me to call student health?”

I shake my head. “Frozen.”

“Take your clothes off,” she orders. She flutters around the room, and in a moment, hot water is bubbling in a forbidden electric teapot, and I am stripped down to my soaked bra and underwear, staring down at a tiny black long-sleeved shirt and matching pajama pants. At best, they will graze the top of my ankles. The top is printed with the words O GOD, I COULD BE BOUNDED IN A NUTSHELL AND COUNT MYSELF A KING OF INFINITE SPACE, WERE IT NOT THAT I HAVE BAD DREAMS. I hold the T-shirt up against me and cringe.

“Those are the biggest clothes I have,” she says.

I reluctantly begin to pull the T-shirt on but she interrupts me.

“You can’t leave your soaking wet bra and underwear on. I’ll turn around if you’re a prude.”

“Please do, and I’m not.” I resent the name-calling. But I don’t feel comfortable with her staring at me.

She rolls her eyes and turns around, and I quickly shimmy out of my underthings and into the pajamas. They are skintight and the pants reach only mid-calf. The shirt exposes an inch of my abs and pulls at the shoulders. But it’s dry. She tosses me a black fleece blanket, and I sit on her bed and cocoon myself in it gratefully.

“Are you okay?” Her tone softens as she pours the steaming water into two mugs and drops a bag of chamomile into each. I don’t particularly care for tea but am grateful for something warm to drink and hold in my hands.

“Thanks.” I take the mug and relish the feeling of the scalding ceramic. “Yes. I guess. No. Maddy is dead. Are you okay?” I suddenly look down at my teacup and feel sick to my stomach. I push it away.

Nola sighs and presses her lips against her cup. When she removes them, they are bright pink. “I’m not great, but I barely knew her.”

“It wasn’t suicide. It’s too big of a coincidence. The blog described her death. That means Jessica didn’t write it. Either she never wrote any of it, or someone hacked in and added Maddy’s poem.”

Nola shudders. “Those rhymes are all written in the same style. Same voice.”

“Why would someone pretend to be Jessica, use me to get back at her enemies, and then kill Maddy?”

“Because you’re at the center of it, Kay. You’re a top suspect, you were the one Fake Jessica chose to carry out her supposed revenge, and you’ve decided to solve her murder. To the police, you probably look like a textbook serial killer inserting herself into the investigation.”

I falter. Textbook. Why does everyone know these things except me? “We don’t know that the blogger killed Jessica. Just Maddy. To all outward appearances, the blogger wants to avenge Jessica. It just doesn’t make sense that he would kill her. All we know about Fake Jessica is that he wrote the blog and either killed Maddy or knew about her death as soon as it happened. It’s like he knows everything that goes on at Bates the second it happens. Everyone’s secrets, every move we make.” They even knew about Maddy’s nickname. Not Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Rebound Girl. I hadn’t even known she was dating anyone.

She takes a contemplative sip. “You keep saying he.”

“Do I?”

“What did you tell the cops?”

“That it was suicide. And that Greg probably killed Jessica.”

Nola nods, but she doesn’t look convinced. She looks like she’s humoring a child. I feel my heart double its rhythm and my face grow hot.

“They had that huge fight right before she died. He has the best motive.”

She places her mug down and crosses her room to retrieve the laptop from her backpack. “When that was your motive, it was the worst motive. Right?”

“Can we not talk about this for one night?”

“Of course.” She settles down next to me and puts her head on my shoulder. “We can watch the walls peel.” She points to a corner of the ceiling where the paper she’s taped up is beginning to curl down. For some reason this makes me giggle, and she does, too.

“Or a movie or something?”

She pulls up her Netflix account and we watch a mindless romantic comedy. I usually like sci-fi and action, and all of Nola’s recent shows are classics and noir, but I can’t take any more suspense than wondering whether the adorable female lead will fall for the unattractive and stalkery male lead before or after he destroys her business venture.