Good Girls Lie(57)

“You think she killed herself?”

“Didn’t she?”

Silence fills the room, and a chill moves down my spine. What is going on here?

Becca says, “Wait, you think someone killed her?”

“We don’t know anything yet. Dean, can we speak with Camille’s other friends?”

“Certainly. Ash, do you feel comfortable going back to your room?”

“Unfortunately, Dean, we need to spend some time in the deceased’s room, have our evidence techs go over it,” Sheriff Wood says, and the implication is clear. They don’t believe me. They are going to take apart the room, my life. My heart begins to thunder in my chest. I run through the items in my closet and drawers that could get me in trouble. The cigarettes. The bag with the calamine. The note. Oh, God, the note.

I cast a panicked glance at Becca, who draws me close.

“She can stay with me tonight, Dean. I’ll make her a bed on my sofa.”

“Oh, thank you, Becca. That’s a great help. I’ll see you two in the morning. No wandering now, straight to bed with you both. Becca, I trust you can get the remainder of the seniors to their rooms, as well?”

The dean practically throws us out the door. I follow Becca. I’m almost to the hallway when the female detective says, “Hey. Hold on.”

I stop. “What?”

“Your shirt. Come here.”

I have seen this cold, calculating look in a law enforcement officer’s eye once before. When the police sat me down for a chat about my mother’s death.

“Were you aware...?”

“Are you sure...?”

“Why didn’t you...?”

“Come with us...”

The detective spins me away and I can feel a hand on the hem of my pajama shirt. Lifting it.

I fight the urge to bolt, though I’ve done nothing wrong. Are they going to arrest me? Handcuff me? Is this all over already?

“What is it?”

The dean’s voice sounds weird, strangled, hushed. “Ash. How did you tear your shirt?”



44

THE PREDICAMENT

I try to look over my shoulder. “What do you mean? It’s torn?”

“There’s a piece missing from your shirt.”

The tone of the room has changed. I face the police and the dean, all three of whom are leaning toward me.

“I wasn’t aware there was a rip in my shirt.”

“Where, exactly, have you been tonight?” This from the detective, who has gone on alert, enhancing her resemblance to a raptor. Becca squeezes my hand even tighter.

“You two an item?” the detective suddenly asks.

“What?” My face starts to burn, and I jerk my hand away, but Becca has a death grip on me.

Dean Westhaven clears her throat. “That is a totally inappropriate question. I don’t see the relevance—”

Becca interrupts, “Why would you say that?”

The detective gestures toward us. “It’s nothing important. You’re holding hands. I was only wondering if you’re in a relationship.”

“I’m comforting her. You’re accusing her of murder.”

I yank my hand from Becca’s, heart taking off at a gallop. “I didn’t murder anyone.”

The sheriff has both hands up. “Whoa, whoa. We aren’t accusing anyone of anything right now. We’re just trying to figure out what happened to your roommate, Ash. Please answer the question. What is the nature of your relationship with Miss Curtis?”

“We’re not an item.”

“All right. Where were you tonight? Can you account for your whereabouts this evening?”

“I—”

“She was with me.” Becca’s voice is strong and clear.

Eyebrows rise all around.

“Not like that. We had a secret society meeting tonight. Ash was tapped. She was with me from a little after 10:00 p.m. until now. So, you see, she couldn’t have hurt Camille.”

Becca blows out her breath as if she’s been holding it and grabs my hand again. Squeezes hard. I get the message. Do not contradict me.

“Well, that’s very helpful,” the sheriff says. “But, Ash, I’m afraid we’re going to have to talk to you alone.”

The dean nods. “Wait outside, Becca dear. And see if you can ferret out who sent the summons, will you?”

With one last squeeze so hard my bones crush and tears start, Becca leaves.

“Why don’t you take a seat, Ash. I need to speak with the sheriff.”

The dean takes the sheriff by the arm and escorts him out into the hall. The detective follows, casting a last curious glance at me.

Oh, God. I am royally fucked.

* * *

“Tony, what is this? You can’t possibly think one of my students had anything to do with Camille’s death, especially Ash. She is so reticent she couldn’t hurt a fly, much less a person. There’s no way she had something to do with this.”

“She’s wearing a shirt with a tear in it, made of what looks like similar fabric to what we saw up in the bell tower. And need I mention it’s her roommate who died? I most certainly am not ruling it out. We need to find out if she was up there. And why. And what happened.”