A Study in Charlotte (Charlotte Holmes, #1)(49)

“It’s okay,” I told her. “I hate losing at games, too.”

The next day, she put me through another session, this time with a new test subject. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she brought in Lena.

We met on the quad after classes, shivering and stomping our boots. Lena’s hair hung in a braid down her back, and her hat had a knit flower that drooped down over her brow. She had a date with Tom in town that night, she told us, so she couldn’t stay too late. It was odd to watch her next to Holmes in her trim black coat, hands stuffed into the fur muff strung from her neck. When the wind nipped at us, Lena huddled against her roommate with a familiarity that was almost shocking. I wondered what they talked about together. I couldn’t imagine it.

For two hours, until the tips of my fingers were literally blue from the cold, I practiced reading Lena’s tells. (In the process, I learned her down to the ground. I really didn’t need to know that much about her sex life.) By the end of it, I was so exhausted from shivering that I wanted nothing more than to go to bed with a cup of something warm. Thankfully, when I went a full ten minutes without mislabeling one of Lena’s statements, Holmes let us call it a day. We ducked into the Stevenson Hall lobby for warmth.

“You guys are up to secret things, I can tell. How are your secret things?” Lena asked, unwinding the scarf from her neck.

“They’re about to go much better.” Holmes discreetly stuffed a roll of bills into Lena’s coat pocket. “Run the poker game as usual tomorrow, will you? I don’t want anyone to note a change in my behavior.”

Lena pulled the money back out and pressed it into Holmes’s hand. “Keep it,” she said. “I kind of like being your test subject.”

Holmes froze. “But—”

“Ugh, don’t be weird about it. We’re friends. And I don’t, like, need the money.” Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed me on the cheek. “Thanks, Jamie. That was a lot of fun, but I want to get to ask you inappropriate questions. Maybe we could have pizza in town sometime.”

“You’re having pizza in town with Tom tonight,” Holmes said.

“Sure,” I said, ignoring her. “I’d like that.”

Holmes had on the kind of scowl toddlers get when their favorite toy is stolen away. “We’re done here,” she announced, and dragged me off by my elbow.

When I arrived at practice the next day, Kline was surveying the rugby pitch, fists on hips like a taller, dumber Napoleon. He was mad, and not without cause—their record stood so far at a predictable 0–7.

“We’re starting in ten! Look alive!” he shouted. It was true, the team did seem dead. Our fly-half was actually sleeping, on his side, at midfield. Larson, our eight-man, trotted by and kicked him in the small of the back. Without a flicker of interest, Coach Q looked up from his director’s chair and then back down at his copy of Men’s Health.

“We’re down to fourteen players, so many students have gone home. I don’t think the school would’ve let you back on if that wasn’t the case.” Kline looked me over. “So, have you been staying in shape?”

“Running five miles every day,” I lied. “But I’ll do whatever. I’m happy to be back on the team.” Another lie, delivered smoothly. I’d been practicing. “Where’s Randall? I haven’t talked to him since Elizabeth . . . you know . . . and I wanted to make sure we were on decent terms.”

Kline pointed. “He’s getting ready to drill with the backs. If you want to talk to him, make it quick.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “We’re starting in five!”

When I caught up with him, Randall was even redder-faced than usual. I wasn’t sure if it was from exertion or anger.

“Oh hey, the jackass is back,” he said, shoving past me on his way to the bench.

A bit of both, then.

“Randall, wait.” He slowed down slightly and I pulled up even. “Look. I wanted to say I’m sorry about Dobson. I didn’t know him that well, but I know he was your friend.”

“You have some issues, dude. That was f*cked up. Going after him for saying what’s on his mind? He was just messing, and you jumped on him. Then he shows up dead. Fucked up,” he repeated, and dug his water bottle out from his bag.

I counted backward from five. “Charlotte Holmes is like my sister. Okay? He said the absolute worst thing he could have said. But I didn’t kill him, I promise that.”

“Then why do the police keep hauling you in? Why were you the one who found Elizabeth?”

“Wrong place, wrong time,” I said.

“Bullshit,” he countered. “I’ve seen that detective with you like a million times. You got hauled down to the station after Lizzie got hurt. Why does he suspect you, if you’re so innocent?”

“Same reason why you would, if you were them.” The words came out bitterly. That fear of winding up in an orange jumpsuit hadn’t entirely gone away—a bit of it lingered at the edges of everything I did, really—and I pulled from the truth of that feeling, laid it under my words.

Randall eyed me. “I don’t know, man.”

“Think what you want,” I told him. “But you should know I feel like shit about all of it. I’ve heard all these rumors that Dobson hung himself, and I can’t sleep, thinking I somehow drove him to it.”