Soon I could feel the leaden pull of the Neverworld taking hold, the now-familiar tingling grip starting at my feet, crawling up my shins.
The path had taken me to a clearing where there was strong wind and giant fallen trees all over the ground. Squinting, I saw a hulking oak teetering a few yards in front of me. Suddenly it fell with a deafening crack, the entire forest echoing with the sound.
I froze in alarm.
Another crack rang out right beside me. Turning, I realized it was another oak coming loose. I tried to move out of the way, only to realize my feet were stuck in the cementlike mud. I managed to wrench them free, blindly throwing myself forward as the tree thundered to the ground, missing me by inches, branches shaking and snapping, whipping my head.
What was happening?
I lifted my head and crawled away, tried to take another step but fell facedown in the mud.
The Neverworld blackout was descending. The end of the eleven point two hours had come. I managed to roll onto my back, gasping as I blinked up at the sky, the rain. It felt like being buried alive under the weight of a million poured coins, my body sinking deeper and deeper into mud. Soon I would feel my limbs breaking apart and dissolving.
Another tree began to tear loose a few feet away.
My final thought was panic: panic that I was going to die here with no solution to the mystery. The confessions of Vida Joshua and Whitley had solved nothing. Would I ever know what really had happened to Jim? How could I win the vote and get back to life?
At that moment, I realized a dark figure was standing over me with a cruel expression.
The Keeper.
“In the dark there grows a tree. A castle tower shelters thee. When will I stop, when will I see? There is no poison but for me.”
I screamed as the oak tree fell on top of me and everything went black.
I woke up, gasping, in the backseat of the Jaguar, Martha and Kip beside me.
My heart was still pounding from the massive tree collapsing on me, the swamplike mud, the sudden appearance of the Keeper, the insidious rhyme he’d recited.
I felt nauseous, but there was no time to think. Martha and Kipling were scrambling out of the car, running toward the house. I took off after them. Like me, they seemed worried that Whitley wouldn’t be there anymore; that, humiliated by the revelation that she had long been the White Rabbit, maybe even scared that we’d hold her accountable for Jim’s death, she’d fled.
Instead, we found her sitting with Cannon in the kitchen. I could see from their mutually subdued demeanors that they’d been having an intense conversation, perhaps even arguing.
Whitley looked red-faced and sullen. There was a hint of relief on her face.
“Whitley has something to tell you,” announced Cannon.
She glanced up with a feeble smile. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to Jim. To the other students. For lying to all of you. It was disgusting. And stupid. It could have ruined my life. It almost did. But I swear with every fiber of my being I had nothing to do with Jim’s death. I understand you might not believe me now. But we will find out what happened to him that night, and you’ll know I’m innocent.”
Kipling and Martha, studying her, seemed to accept this. They nodded. I nodded too.
And yet, considering she’d lied to us for so long, I had to remind myself Wit was still capable of lying. Though I couldn’t imagine her plotting to harm Jim, I also couldn’t ignore what she was capable of in a rage, or the fact that she now had a motive. If Whitley had believed that Jim was going to expose her secret—that the administration and, most seriously of all, the Linda, were going to find out the terrible thing she’d been doing—it wasn’t outrageous to think she would have done anything to prevent that from happening.
Abruptly, I was aware of everyone staring at me.
“What?” I blurted.
“We were wondering what you thought of Vida’s confession,” said Martha.
I shrugged. “I think I believe her.”
“Me too,” said Kipling with a wry smile. “A girl like Vida can’t lie very well. How many times did she call Jim a genius? I’m surprised she didn’t suggest he’d risen from the dead, like Jesus.” He looked at me. “You know I loved Jim to pieces. But the way he collected admirers could get a little old. His ego, bless his soul, could be an insatiable baby.”
“He didn’t do it on purpose,” I said. “People were drawn to him.”
“?‘Didn’t do it on purpose,’?” said Kipling. “Sure. That’s like me holdin’ up an iron rod in a football field during a storm and sayin’ it’s not my fault I got struck by lightning.”
“She was especially impressed by Jim’s lyrics for his musical,” said Martha.
“Right. The sudden blast of brilliance. That was somethin’. ’Member how he had nothin’ written for weeks ’cept a few bad rhymes straight out of MC Hammer? He kept complainin’ that he was finished, dried up—torturin’ us all, pretty much. Then, out of the blue, a masterpiece.” Kipling waved his hand in the air, a drowsy gesture. “Strands of lyrics like pearls. One after the other. All about the immense pain of being young and alive.”
“Those lyrics were amazing,” said Whitley.
“The performance at Spring Vespers was a hit,” said Cannon thoughtfully, interlacing his fingers. “The New York producer Mr. Joshua arranged loved the demo. Jim’s destiny was teed up, on the brink, like he always wanted. So what happened?”
“Life,” said Kipling dryly.
“Or,” said Martha, “it had something to do with that ride from Vida Joshua.” She gnawed a thumbnail. “I’m wondering if we can track down that shopping center.”
“All Vida gave us to go on was a pet store and a fast-food restaurant,” said Wit.
“When was the last time you talked to Jim?” Martha asked me suddenly, squinting.
“Tuesday afternoon.” I cleared my throat. “The second night of Vespers. I confronted him about lying to me about the infirmary.”
“So you didn’t speak to Jim at all the next day? The day he died?”
I shook my head.
No one said anything, all of them doubtlessly thinking how tragic it must have been for me, for that argument about Vida Joshua to be our last conversation.
The truth was, Wednesday I’d exiled myself to Marksman Library, hiding out in the fourth-floor attic stacks in the History of South America section, which was seldom visited by students. It reeked of mildew and served as a shadowy breeding ground for a range of freakishly large moths. All day I sat hunched over my European history and English literature textbooks in front of the lone window with the dirty glass, Beats headphones blasting the soundtrack to Suicide Squad in my ears, forcing myself to focus on the French Revolution and World War II and For Whom the Bell Tolls. I kept my cell phone off all day because I didn’t want to deal with Jim. The only time I exposed myself to the rest of campus was during my four-minute walk between the library and my room in Creston Hall around eleven o’clock.
I waited until I’d put on my pajamas and climbed into bed at midnight before turning on my cell, whereupon I was hit by the torrent of texts. A few were from Kipling, Cannon, and Wit. Twenty-seven others were from Jim. They’d started at eight that morning, messages ranging from ? to come on to why are u bein like this to desperate voice mails, his mood ranging from teasing to despair to anger, all of which sounded crazy and heartbreaking the more I replayed them.
Call me.
Call me Bumblebee.
We need to talk.
If you have any love left in your heart, call me.
Why are you doing this?
I need you. You know how I need you to survive.
I hate you. I hate you so much. Because I love you.
Don’t do this.
I’m going to the quarry. Meet me.
That was the last text I ever got from him. Received at 11:29 p.m.
I deleted it. I deleted all of them.
When they found Jim dead, two days later, I expected the police to ask me about his texts. I’d tell them I’d remained in my room all night.