By the time Henry and I arrived at the rendezvous point, there was a freshman directing students to the tunnel’s hidden entrance. Henry and I descended in silence. The tunnel was dark and lit only by hundreds of glow sticks that someone—presumably Di—had scattered artistically throughout.
Henry knelt down and picked up a hot-pink glow stick. He held it out to me and gave me a dry look. “There is a high level of probability that we will regret this.”
I plucked the proffered glow stick from his hands and smiled. “I don’t believe in regrets.”
When the tunnel forked, signs posted on the wall instructed us to take a right. We followed the instructions—and the sound of music in the distance.
When we finally reached the end of the line and pushed through a metal grate that had been propped open, it took me a moment to realize where the tunnel had let out.
Is that a swimming pool?
“The Aquatic Complex,” Henry told me.
“Yeah,” I said, glancing around. “I got that.”
Stadium seating surrounded us on all sides. An Olympic-sized training pool was set into the floor. Someone had positioned a trio of kegs along one edge. And farther down, near the diving pool, I could make out what appeared to be a bowl of punch and a veritable castle of red plastic cups.
“This is not going to end well,” Henry said, eyeing a couple of seniors climbing up to the diving platform, red cups in hand.
As if summoned by the mere thought of something being a bad idea, Di appeared beside us. She had a bottle of champagne in each hand. With an imperious smile, she set one on the ground and opened the other. Champagne fizzed to the top, and Di held it over her head in victory.
“You asked for a party,” she told me, over the sound of the music.
“You might want to turn that down,” Henry told her.
“Pshaw!” Di gestured rather liberally with the champagne bottle. “This building has walls so thick that it is practically soundproof!”
Forty yards away, one of the senior boys came barreling off the high dive, fully clothed.
Di frowned. “This is an American custom?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” I said.
Di eyed the high dive, then smiled. She took a gulp of champagne, handed the bottle to me, and made a beeline for the ladder.
An instant later, I saw a man wearing a suit and an earpiece walk by, muttering something in Icelandic under his breath.
“How do you think she talked her bodyguard into this?” I asked Henry, tracking Di’s security detail as he grimly pulled her down off the ladder.
“By threatening to do something worse?” Vivvie popped up beside us. She was wearing a half-dozen rainbow-colored leis. In contrast, her expression was almost comically serious. “I think you were right, Tess. People are really letting loose. Pretty soon, our classmates are going to be feeling very chatty.”
Another fully clothed senior came barreling off the diving board.
“Where do we start?” Vivvie asked.
“With anyone John Thomas might have threatened.” I paused. “And with the girls from ISWE. All we need is for one person to open up and admit that John Thomas wasn’t the guy people want to remember. If we can get one, others will follow.”
If the killer was here, I doubted he or she would volunteer their own motive—but someone else might.
“You talk to the girls,” Henry said. “I have another target in mind.” I followed his gaze to a group of John Thomas’s friends standing near the keg.
“You think they might know who else John Thomas had dirt on and what he was planning to do with it?” I asked.
“I think,” Henry replied, “that John Thomas liked an audience. Whatever plans he had, he would have shared them with someone.”
With that, Henry made his way across the room. I watched as an easy smile crossed his face. My first impression of Henry Marquette had been that he was a little formal, a little stiff. It had taken me longer to realize that he was a master at putting other people at ease—when he wanted to.
As I watched Henry disappear into the crowd of John Thomas’s friends, I noticed two of those friends staring at something—or someone.
Emilia Rhodes had arrived at the party.
“Did we know that Emilia was coming?” Vivvie asked me.
“No,” I said. “We did not. Come on.” By the time I arrived at Emilia’s side, there was no doubt in my mind that she’d noticed the whispers and stares. From my place beside Emilia, I stared back at John Thomas’s friends, my eyes narrowed. One of them flinched.
“Are they scared of you?” Vivvie asked me over the pounding of the music.
“It is possible,” I said, “that I threatened to castrate a couple of John Thomas’s friends my first week at Hardwicke.”
“Of course you did.” Emilia looked from me to Vivvie, then back again. “I don’t suppose it will do any good whatsoever to tell you that I don’t need you glaring at anyone on my behalf?”
I shrugged.
“Or,” Emilia continued, “to suggest that the two of you go on your merry way, and I go on mine?”