I may have been a terrible liar, but Lena was drunk.
“Oh, you know. August. The guy back home. She was pretty upset about it when she got here last year. I mean, she didn’t say she was upset but I heard her talking on the phone about him. You know, through the door? Then her brother came to visit and they were all like CIA about it the whole time. I kept hearing his name, which is a weird name, so I remembered it. Anyway, Milo left, but before he left, he was all like, Rrr, I’m going to do something about this, and she was a lot happier after that.” She put a hand to her mouth. “Shit. Oh, shit. I probably shouldn’t have told you that. Girl code.”
I wanted to ask her what, in fact, she had told me, except maybe about one of Milo’s drone hits. “It’s fine,” I said, drawing from the sane, imaginary place in my head, where no one was brutally killed down the hall and my only friend deigned to tell me the barest facts about her life. “I know all about it. Failed love. Tragic, really. And that house fire, with . . . with all the puppies.”
“Exactly!” She pressed her hand against my arm. “You guys are going to homecoming, right? I ordered this dress from Paris—you know, we go there every summer, my family does—but then it didn’t fit right, and no one does alterations here. Not good ones, anyway. Charlotte has this beautiful black dress that I asked if I could borrow—Tom would totally flip out—but she said no, so I figured that she had a date.”
Holmes probably had that dress made specifically for some Norwegian gala where she beat a foreign minister at chess, stole a French-Yugoslavian treaty, and then smuggled herself into the hotel clothes hamper so that she could escape through the laundry chute. I wondered what it looked like; it had to be pretty spectacular if Lena wanted it that badly. A long dress, I imagined. Black and slinky, something a Bond girl would wear. But Lena was wrong about Holmes having a date. The only boy she’d ever consider taking was—
I cut off that line of thought. Where was she, anyway? It was past midnight.
“Yeah,” I said, craning my head to look over the crowd. “Er, no. No. I don’t think Holmes does dances. Is it okay if I step outside and look for her? I can throw out your drink if you’re finished.” Lena was beginning to look a bit sick. As I eased the cup from her hand, a thought occurred to me.
“Um, Lena?” I said. “Why did Holmes start having these poker nights? She doesn’t seem to like”—I was about to say anyone before I caught myself—“crowds. Isn’t it kind of weird for her to host them?”
“Oh,” Lena said, surprised. “You know, her parents don’t give her any spending money or anything. And Charlotte burns through a lot. I think she does a lot of online shopping, she always has packages at the front desk.” I coughed to cover my laughter. I was positive those packages contained something more sinister than designer clothes. Lena really was the perfect roommate for Holmes, I had to give her that. “Anyway, you know. She always knows when people are lying, so I guess it makes sense for her to play poker for cash. I think it’s funny.”
Tom snuck up behind Lena and put his arms around her. “Baby, you’re drunk,” he said, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek.
“Baby, stop. I gotta poker. Charlotte’s not here, and I’m making a killing. I think I’m going to get a Prada purse.”
“Better split it with me before you cash out.” Tom kissed her again, and she wrinkled her nose. “Since I’m your muse and all.”
“Her poker muse,” I said, as seriously as I could manage.
“I bet you Charlotte’s his,” Tom stage-whispered.
“Oh my gosh, that’s so cute.” Lena touched my cheek and turned back to the game, depositing her chips on the table in handfuls. When she looked away, Tom filched a few and slipped them in his pocket.
I pitched Lena’s drink in the trash and set off in search of Holmes.
Since I was already in Stevenson, I snuck up to check her room first. It wasn’t hard at all to get past the hall mother, asleep on her pillowed arms at the front desk. I quickly found Holmes’s door on the first floor: Lena had covered it in paper flowers, and there was a notecard bearing her name in curly purple script. Holmes’s name was hastily scribbled in black ink below it. The door was unlocked—Lena’s fault, I was sure—so I let myself in.