A Study in Charlotte (Charlotte Holmes, #1)(11)

I nodded dizzily.

It was hard to hear Holmes talk, to learn that every one of my insignificant words and actions broadcasted my past, if one just knew how to look. But it would have been harder still to walk through the quad in silence while the rest of the school played judge, jury, and executioner. She’d known that, I thought. That’s why she’d saved her deductions for this walk: two terrible birds, one stone.

“Your jacket wasn’t always yours. It was made in the 1970s, judging from the cut and the particularly awful brown of the leather, and while it fits you well enough, it’s a touch too big in the shoulders. I’d say you’d bought it secondhand, vintage, but everything else you’re wearing was made in the last two years. So either you inherited it, or it was a gift.” She slipped her hand into my coat pocket to pull it inside out. “Magic marker stains,” she said with satisfaction. “I saw this earlier, on the couch. I doubt you were carrying Crayolas around last winter. No, more likely that it was around your house while you were growing up, and either you or your younger sister wore it, at one point, while playing at art teacher.”

“I didn’t tell you I had a younger sister,” I said.

She gave me a pitying look. “You didn’t have to.”

“Fine, so it was my father’s.” It wasn’t pleasant, being dissected. “So what?”

“You’re wearing it,” she said. “That’s enough to tell me you don’t hate him. No, it’s not as simple as hate. This is veering into psychology, and I’m sorry, I loathe psychology, but I imagine you wear the jacket because, somewhere, deep down, you miss him. You left for London at twelve, but your father lives here. You call him that, ‘my father’; you don’t call him your ‘dad.’ The very mention of him makes you tense up, and since we’ve established he hasn’t been beating you, I can safely say that it’s dread built up from a long silence. The last piece of it, of course, is your watch.”

We were nearly at Michener Hall, and Holmes paused, holding out her hand. I didn’t really see another option: I unfastened the clasp and handed it over.

“It’s one of the first things I noticed when I met you,” she said, examining it. “Far more expensive than anything else you wear. A ridiculously large watch face. And the inscription on the back—yes, here we are. To Jamie, On His Sixteenth Birthday, Love JW, AW, MW and RW.” Her eyes glittered at her discovery—no, at the confirmation of what she’d deduced—and I understood then what it would be like to hate her.

“Go on,” I said, so it would finally be over.

She ticked it off on her fingers. “Despised childhood nickname, so he doesn’t know you anymore. Very expensive gift for a teenager? Long-standing guilt. But the key is in the names. He didn’t just give you a gift from him; he made sure you knew it was from the whole family. His new family. Your mother’s name is Grace, my aunt’s mentioned it. So A stands for . . . Anna, let’s say, and MW and RW would be your half siblings, then. Even his birthday present to you is a clumsy attempt to get you to love them. You haven’t spoken for years because, most likely, he was cheating on your mother with . . . Anna? Alice? When your parents divorced, he stayed in America to start a new family. Abandoning, at least in your eyes, you and your sister.

“But your mother doesn’t resent him: she didn’t insist you box away a frankly ridiculous gift until you’re older. This watch is worth at least three grand. No, she let you wear it. They’re on good terms, even though they’re divorced; perhaps she’s relieved that he’s moved on, as she’d already accomplished that feat before the marriage had ended. Either way, she’d be upset that you aren’t on better terms with him—a boy needs his father, et cetera, et cetera. Your stepmother must be younger, then, but not so young that your mother disapproves.”

“Abigail,” I said. “Her name is Abigail.”

Holmes shrugged; it was a small point to concede. Every other detail had been spot-on, gold star, perfect.

The cold wind chapped at my face. It blew her hair about, obscuring her eyes. “I’m sorry, you know,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. “I don’t mean for it to . . . to hurt. It’s just what I’ve observed.”

“I know. It was well done,” I said, and meant it. I didn’t hate her so much as I hated being reminded of what my father had done. How I couldn’t seem to get over it. And I hated the dread in my stomach as I looked at Michener Hall’s heavy wooden doors and thought about the people waiting for me inside. My father. The detective. I’m not guilty, I reminded myself.

I wondered why I felt like I was.

She took my arm again. “You also wear the jacket because you think it makes you look like James Dean,” she said as we walked in. “The eyes are right, but the jaw’s all wrong, and though you’re handsome, you’re no tortured artist. More of a wiry librarian.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose that’s not all bad.”

No one else in the world would put up with this girl. “You are awful,” I said, and even then I was forgiving her.

“I’m not.” Relief was written all over her face. “How am I awful? I want examples. Give me an itemized list.”

“Jamie?” a hesitant voice asked behind me. “Is that you?”