VKIP USUALLY SPENDS HIS LUNCH in the library. I ran into him there once when I was doing a project for extra credit. I think he prefers reading comics alone in a study carrel over the pizza-scented crowd. I’m anxious to feel him out about the photo in my locker, but I tiptoe into the blue-carpeted space holding my breath. Shelly assured me there was nothing to be afraid of in the school, but the tremors I thought I’d left at the funeral are back. Ms. Jensen, the school librarian, isn’t at her post behind the desk. I wander around the edge of the stacks by the windows, but even the couch and chairs in the corner are vacant. Guess no one wanted to miss the post-funeral lunch gossip. I shift my backpack on my shoulder and take a shortcut through nonfiction, hoping I can join my friends before I’ve missed any information about the memorial . . . or who might’ve been sick enough to destroy it.
I’m halfway down the row when a guy clears his throat on the other side of the shelf. I startle, peering around a copy of The Poisoner’s Handbook.
“So, did I miss anything at the reception?” Marcus asks.
After his stunt at the funeral he’s lucky there are a few hundred books and a metal shelf between us. If he was reachable, I might seriously do some damage.
“Just everyone in town deciding you look guiltier than ever,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “It seemed like a nice service, too bad I had to leave.”
“And I have to get to lunch.”
I head for the end of the row, but he beats me there, blocking my way in paint-splattered jeans and a dark T-shirt. I can’t help wincing at the fading bruise under his eye, casting a purple shadow across his otherwise-handsome face.
“Why did you come to the church?” I hiss.
“I was paying my respects.” He looks at the floor. “Put yourself in my shoes—could you have stayed away?”
Something inside me weakens. I think of his expression at the service, how intense, how solemn he looked the moment before I gave him away. But then I remember Gretchen’s mother collapsing, her powerful father at a total loss, and my anger resurges.
“Gretchen’s family deserved to say good-bye in peace.”
“And I deserve not to go to jail.” He speaks through his teeth, voice so low I can barely hear. “Now, are you going to fill me in on what I missed?”
He leans closer, resting one hand on a nearby shelf. His gaze burns so hot I have to step back to clear my head. The door to the hall is open and it’s tempting to just scream—bring every administrator in the building running. But I can’t make myself do it.
“Why on earth would I want to help you again?”
He hesitates. “I thought we agreed to put the past behind us.”
“Because why all of a sudden?” My body quivers, upset by how natural hating him feels in this moment. “What exactly has changed that would make me set all of your bullshit aside?”
He studies me carefully. “Because you cared about Gretchen.”
“You seem to care more about getting blamed for her murder than the fact that she’s dead.”
“Come on, Sonia—”
“I guess sharing air with me is more tolerable than a prison cell, there’s that.”
He straightens. And if I didn’t know better, I’d swear I saw hurt flash over his face. “Look, none of that— It wasn’t about you,” he says.
“Oh, really?”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “Please, Sonia, that isn’t how I really feel.”
I stop, caught off guard by his tone. “What?”
“Just what I said.” He stares at his feet. “That had more to do with Gretchen than it did with you, and . . . I’m sorry, okay?”
I blink, trying to decide if I heard him correctly. Because if I did, does that mean he’s been pretending to hate me for the past six months? And if so, why? He raises his head and the look in his eyes sets my skin on fire. “I don’t understand.”
He opens his mouth like he’s searching for the right words and I try not to think about the blood rushing to my face because I’m scared of what he might or might not say. I step back, grazing a shelf with my elbow, and a book falls to the floor with a sound like a gunshot.
We both jump.
Marcus steps away and exhales. “Look, what happened at the reception?” he says hastily. “Can we just talk about that?”
I cross my arms over my chest, confused and disappointed. “Nothing happened. Everyone in town was there. There were people I didn’t recognize, but no one who screamed killer more than you, as disappointing as that was.”
His eyes are flat.
“I didn’t get any leads on the photo,” I say. “I was hoping to talk to Kip, but he didn’t show, thanks to you.”
Marcus scowls. “I don’t know what that guy’s problem is.”
“He cared about her.” I look away. “And apparently he saw her before she died that night.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed her himself.”
“Easy for you to say.”