People Like Us(83)

“So you decided to kill Jessica when I broke up with Spencer?”

“No. I mean I thought about it. But killing is . . .” She makes a face. “Yikes.”

“Then what happened?”

“Skeleton Dance happened. I went, just like everyone else. I was determined to stick to my plan, and I went to the lake and stared down into the water. And I started to doubt myself. I didn’t deserve to die. But I wasn’t alone. Jessica was there, pacing back and forth, texting, and she wouldn’t go away. And I finally turned to her and asked if she was okay, and she told me to fuck off. I asked her nicely if I could be alone, and she repeated herself. So she took my place. It’s not like I enjoyed killing her, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t grateful. No one wants to die. So I got to live. Jess had to die. And you had to take the blame. You even left me a murder weapon. It was like a sign.” She holds a cactus in her hand, gently tapping the thin needles with her slender fingertips.

I lean against the door, stunned. This whole time we’ve been grasping for the link between the killer and Jessica, and it’s so tenuous it’s almost random.

“Maddy was an adjustment, too. Like you said. I decided to change things up.”

Maddy was an adjustment. I feel light-headed.

“I did it for you, Kay,” she says with a humorless smile. “So now you know what I did. You know I tried to reverse it to clear your name. And you’ve said you would do anything to take back what you did to me. It’s the moment of truth. Are you going to turn me in, or let me go? Because right now, you are the only one who can put me in prison. And after everything you’ve done to me, you need to ask yourself if you can live with that.” She sets down the cactus and folds her arms over her chest.

Lie for me like you did for Todd.

But the lie I told for Todd was a killing lie. The chain reaction it caused ruined so many lives. And I want to make up for hurting Nola, but Jessica and Maddy deserve justice. They won’t get it this way. And I won’t get atonement for killing two people I didn’t kill.

“Nola, I am never. Ever. Going to forgive myself for what I did. But lying for you won’t make any of that go away. You killed two innocent people. And then you framed me for murder.”

“Please, Kay.” Her eyes have begun to swell with tears again, bright blue pools with dark, jagged edges. “You’re the only friend I have.”

“I’m still your friend. Maddy was my friend, too. There is still a right thing to do.”

She rolls her eyes and the motion edges the tears out, spilling charcoal tracks down her cheeks, matting her lashes together. “Right thing to do,” she says in a mocking tone. Then she leaps forward at me shockingly fast, grabbing a thin glass vase from her desk and slamming it down on my head.

The pain cracks like lightning and sends a burst of adrenaline through me. A thousand thoughts run through my mind in a split second. I’m going to die. I must be bleeding. My skull is probably rent in half. My brain is broken. But I don’t have time. I only have pain and the choice between fight or flight.

The glass splintered in her hand, sending shards to the floor and ribbons of red running down her fingers. We both dive down at the same time, but the fragments are so jagged, she cuts her hand again and curses. I try to shout for help, but I feel weak and my voice comes out small and shaky.

As I pull myself to my feet, she turns and grabs one of her pen-sharpening tools from her desk, sliding the blade out as she faces me. I try to open the door, but I don’t have time, so I brace myself against it and kick her in the ribs.

She flies backward, but since my back is against the door, I need to step toward her in order to escape, and she grabs my arm and pulls me close to her. She jabs the blade into my stomach and I cry out from the impact but it thankfully doesn’t break through the thick Burberry wool coat.

“I killed for you. You owe me,” she shouts, her face white with rage.

I grab at the desk and my fingers close around the ceramic pot that houses the cactus plant. I smash the pot against the side of her head and she lets go of me and stumbles to her knees, clutching her skull. I whirl around and swing the door open, and run down the hall and out of the dorm.

When I reach the sidewalk, I keep running. I’m dizzy and nauseous, and I keep checking my head for blood, but all I feel are tiny pieces of broken glass in my hair. Nothing sticky. I’m afraid to look back, that she’s somehow right behind me, that she’ll slash me down in the middle of campus and no one will lift a finger to help because everyone hates me so much. I don’t go to campus police. I go straight to the town police and ask for Detective Morgan. Then I remove my coat, lift my sweater, and take off the microphone I’ve been wearing—the one Nola had placed in my pocket the morning after Maddy died—and hand it to her.

“Here’s your killer,” I say.

She hands me a tissue and a glass of water without a word, but there’s a trace of a smile on her lips.

“Now tell me. What did you find of mine in Jessica’s room?”

She pulls a sealed plastic bag from a filing cabinet and places it on her desk. “It’s evidence,” she says. “So we need to hold on to it for a while.”

Tears fill my eyes as I smooth the plastic over the lost photograph I had kept hidden in the inner pocket of Todd’s coat.