I’d never been so turned off in my life.
I stepped back into her chemistry table. The beakers rattled against each other; one crashed to the floor and shattered. And then there Holmes was again, underneath all the false wrapping, severe and mysterious and . . . pleased.
“Good,” she said, in her usual hoarse voice, rapidly tossing things into a backpack. “If you hate Hailey, she’ll do just fine for my purposes.”
“Which are?”
“Be patient,” she said. “I promise I’ll tell you everything later.” She glanced at the suspects list, at the name at the bottom. August Moriarty. “Everything, Watson. But not now.”
“This is completely unfair,” I pointed out.
“It is.” Holmes smiled to herself. “We can talk more at the poker game tonight. I’ll be there as myself.”
“No one’s going to come. Everyone thinks we’re murderers.”
“Everyone will come,” she said, correctly, “because everyone thinks we’re murderers.”
“Well, you’ll be lucky if I’m there.”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I will be.”
“Fine,” I said, throwing up my hands. Because she’d won, check and mate.
She was already at the door, and, having taken those five steps, she wasn’t Holmes anymore.
With a coy wave over her shoulder, Hailey said, “Bye, Jamie.”
And then I was alone, with nothing to do but sweep up the shards of the beaker from the floor.
I WASN’T SURE IF IT WAS OUR DUBIOUS CELEBRITY, OR JUST brewing excitement for homecoming weekend, but Holmes had been right about the crowd. When I arrived at Stevenson at half past eleven, the basement kitchen was already overflowing with people. Some freshman boys had spun off a satellite game of five-card stud in the common space, and I had to push past a group of giggling girls to get through the kitchen door. Instead of going silent at my presence, the way everyone else did, they giggled louder. Gritting my teeth, I finally got through to the card table at the back.
Holmes wasn’t anywhere to be found, but Lena was holding court in an improbable top hat. I’d seen her around, but I hadn’t paid much attention to her before. There wasn’t any doubt that she was beautiful, in a way I’d heard Tom wax rhapsodic about late at night: long straight hair, inky eyes, brown skin. Tonight, she was flushed with excitement and something else—probably vodka—and she’d stacked her mountain of chips into a neat pyramid. When she spotted me, she waved me over.
The boy sitting next to her wasn’t Tom, and he didn’t look happy to see me. “Hey, killer,” he spat. I ignored him.
“Hi, Jamie,” Lena said, ignoring him too. “Do you want to play? We’re out of chairs, but I can totally deal you in if you want to stand.”
“Actually, he can have my seat. I need another drink.” The girl on her other side—Mariella, I think her name was—pushed herself to her feet and tottered over to the counter, where I spotted a handle of Vodka-brand vodka and some dubious-looking pineapple juice. The freshman girl that had asked me to homecoming was playing bartender. I avoided her eyes, too. Was there anyone I wasn’t avoiding?
“I’m happy Mariella left,” Lena told me conspiratorially. “At least fifty bucks’ worth of this haul is hers. Was hers, I guess. Oops.”
If she were anything like the other Sherringford students I’d met, Mariella wouldn’t miss her money in the slightest. I thought of the thirty-five dollars left in my checking account that I couldn’t afford to lose and turned Lena down when she offered to deal me in, telling her I didn’t know how to play.
“I’ll try to pick it up, though,” I lied. Really, I just wanted to keep my seat until Holmes arrived, since I didn’t know anyone else here.
“Oh my God,” Lena said, putting a hand to her chest. “You’re British, too? You two are adorable, I love it.”
In England, I was an American. Here, it was the opposite. “Actually, I was born here,” I said.
“Are we going to play or not?” the guy next to Lena asked.
“Not,” she said, pushing back her chair. “Or whatever, you guys play. I want to talk to Jamie.” She stuffed her chips into the pockets of her dress and pulled me aside. I didn’t bother to correct her on my name; I’d just about given up on asking people to call me James.
“I just want you to know,” she said, over-enunciating each word, “that I don’t think you and Charlotte killed Lee. Look at you! You’re adorable, and now you’re blushing, that’s even more adorable. It’s like you were invented to get her over that whole August thing. I totally refuse to believe you guys have gone all Bonnie and Clyde on Lee.” She frowned. “He sucked, anyway.”
“August?” My voice caught on his name, and I winced. “Um. I don’t know any Augusts. Who’s that?”
“Hold on,” she said. “Let me take another shot.”