“I gotta go console Cassie,” she said as she hugged me good-bye. Cassie and Jane had been roommates, along with being best friends. I couldn’t imagine what the girl was going through. I didn’t want to imagine it.
I went to the table where Ethan and Oliver already sat and felt something inside of me shatter at the sight. The big round table looked so . . . empty. The boys must have noticed it too. Ethan gave me a sad eyebrow raise and gestured to the seat beside him. I took it. From here, I was facing one of the windows overlooking Islington. Normally, it was a gorgeous view—the snow-covered trees, the rolling lawn. Today it just felt stark. It was better than facing the cold of the cafeteria, though.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“As expected,” Ethan replied. Oliver yawned.
“Haven’t slept for shit,” Oliver said. He took a long drink of coffee. “What about you?”
His yawn made me yawn, and it took a moment for me to answer. “Roughly the same.” I sighed and picked up a piece of bacon. I’d been mulling this next snippet of conversation for most of the shower and walk over. I still wasn’t certain how it would sound. “Have you guys thought any more about what Elisa said?”
“Clarify,” Ethan said.
“You know what I mean. About it not being suicide.”
They exchanged a glance.
“Yeah, we’ve thought about it,” Oliver said. He was using his I’m trying to be soothing without being a dick voice, which was really only a tiny amount less annoying. He dropped his voice to a whisper, barely loud enough for me to hear. “It doesn’t make any sense though. If Jane was killed, why aren’t there any cops on patrol?”
“Then why is the studio locked?”
Ethan looked at me like I was incredibly stupid.
“Suicide isn’t always clean,” he replied flatly.
I looked back to my tray. I suppose that wasn’t something I’d considered. But I wasn’t giving up this train of thought. Something was off—very off—and if there was a link between these deaths and Brad, if there was something supernatural going on . . . I pushed the thought down. I wasn’t playing with those powers.
“I want to see it,” I whispered. “I want to see the studio.”
“It’s still locked,” Ethan replied. “Or didn’t you get the message? The studio will be closed for the rest of the week. They’re having class in the spare crit room now.”
“There are other ways,” I replied. I gave Ethan my most conspiratorial, knowing look. “Maybe we should go stargazing.”
“What’s stargazing?” But it wasn’t Oliver or Ethan who asked. It was Chris.
He stood beside me with a tray in his hands and a tired look on his face.
Gods damnit.
I was about to lie when Ethan continued for me.
“It’s when Kaira and I slip up to the roof of the arts building to smoke and people watch,” Ethan said. He turned his gaze to me. I couldn’t read his expression, but I knew he was saying this in an attempt to divert my plan. “Which she thinks we should do to see inside the painting studio.”
Chris sat down beside me. Hard.
“Why would you want to do that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Ethan said. “Kaira hasn’t illuminated us on that part yet.”
I gave him my best burst into flames glare and then turned to Chris. Obviously I couldn’t tell them that I wanted to see if the crime scene matched up with what I’d sketched. They’d think I was insane. Worse, I didn’t know what I’d say if they actually did match up—that was a box even Pandora wouldn’t want to open.
“Because,” I said carefully, “I think they’re hiding something. And I don’t like having information withheld.”
“Count me in,” Chris said, popping a tater tot into his mouth.
“Wait, what? Who said you were invited?” The questions left my lips before I could catch them.
“Jane was my friend too,” he said. He glanced around and lowered his voice before continuing. “Besides, I was the last person to see her, apparently. I’ve already been questioned by the cops and security and even my parents. I think I deserve to know what actually happened and why I’m a suspect.”
His statement sent every red flag in my arsenal high into the air.
“Excuse me?” I don’t know why his comment hurt me as much as it made me question his trustworthiness. “You were the last person to see her? And what do you mean, suspect?”
“Hell if I know,” he said. “And yes, we hung out for a bit after brunch. That’s why I didn’t go straight to the studio. She reminded me that I needed to call home.” He pointed a piece of bacon at me. His normally elfish smile vanished. “Stop looking at me like that. I had nothing to do with it, no matter what the cause of her death was. I have five different alibis and a phone log to prove I was in my room at the time of her death.”
I deflated back into my chair.