Shades of Darkness (24 page)

“Because you woke me up. Maybe around three. You were thrashing and screaming.”

My skin went cold. Was that before or after the ghost sketching?

“Yeah?”

She nodded. Her face looked paler than usual. Scared. Her black dress and leggings didn't help.

“Yeah,” she said. “You kept saying
it's dying
.”

“I . . .” But I didn't know what to say. I didn't remember screaming that. The image from my sketch burned into my brain: “The Tree Will Burn.” But what the hell did that even mean? And how were my friends involved in all of this? That was the world of gods and demons, and that world didn't blend with mine. Not any longer. “I'm sorry. Bad dreams I guess. Sorry if it woke you up.”

She shrugged and looked out the window. As usual, the windowsill outside was a churned mess of snow and bird prints.

“It's okay. Nightmares are to be expected. I haven't slept well either.” When she looked back to me, her face was carefully composed, a smile that was only believable because she was an actor. And only unbelievable to me because I was her roommate. “It's just a sign of the times.”

•  •  •

Although Elisa and I walked through the snow to breakfast together, she didn't join us at the table.

“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.

“You don't need to be roped into this,” I said.

“I already am. I want to know what happened to her. Whatever's going on, something isn't right here.” He looked to the boys, both of whom were completely transfixed on his and my conversation. “I think we can all agree that neither Mandy nor Jane had any reason to kill themselves. The only possible cause is stress over their theses, but that doesn't make sense because they were already
done
with the projects. Something else is linking them and I want to know what. Before it happens again.”

His statement was met with silence.

“Wow,” Ethan said after awhile. “I feel like I should give you a standing ovation.”

“Shut up,” Chris muttered, chucking a tot at him. “This isn't funny.”

“You're right,” I said. “What we're about to do is pretty against the rules. If we're caught, we'll be suspended. Or worse.”

Chris just grinned. “Please, I was an only child. I'm the
master
of slinking around unnoticed.”

I rolled my eyes.

“When are we doing this?” Ethan asked.

“Dinner,” I replied quickly. That was the one part of the plan I had down—the actual logistics were easy. It was convincing my cohorts that I'd thought would be the hard part. “When it's dark and everyone's distracted.”

“Legit,” Ethan said. He looked to Oliver. “You in?”

Oliver sighed. “I have trio practice at five thirty. If I miss it they'll be pissed.”

“Seriously?” Ethan asked.

“Seriously. Besides, you've all seen horror movies. The black guy always dies first.”

“Since when was this a horror movie?” I asked.

Oliver looked me dead in the eye. “Since our friends started dying.”

•  •  •

We agreed on a plan of attack and parted ways after breakfast. I headed back to my room to change into something that wasn't pajamas, and the boys went off to do whatever boy things they had to do. Elisa was already in the room, lying on her bed with her legs crossed and a book in hand. It was surprising to see her there, working. I kind of expected her to still be in mourning.

“How was Cassie?” I asked.

“Managing,” she replied. She looked over the book at me. “How were the boys?”

I shrugged. Saying
planning to spy on Jane's death scene
seemed a little too blunt. “Managing,” I said instead.

My plans for today were pretty straightforward: Since we had an unexpected day off, I was going to spend most of my time working. I'd probably focus on finishing some small silversmithing pieces for the coming week, what with the painting studio closed. I just wanted to be alone. I didn't want to talk about art or Jane or gods or anything else; I wanted to get shit done, bury myself in my work and hope that I found my way out on the other side. No tutorial with Jonathan. No hanging out with friends. Which meant starting in on the American Civ reading—I'd hold off on art until later, as a treat. It would be a day of solitary productivity. I needed it.

Which is why, when my room phone rang and I answered, I was surprised at how happy I was to hear Chris on the other end.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Fine,” I lied. “
Where
are you?”

“Lobby,” he said. And sure enough, I heard some girls giggle on the other end of the line. “What are you doing today?”

“Working.”

“Sounds fun.” Once more the line was interrupted with giggling. “Hey, do you wanna come down and talk? They're watching something in the lounge and it's pretty hard to hear.”

What do we have to talk about?
I wanted to ask. But then, like a light switch, the idea of doing more work just to distract myself seemed unbearable. Didn't I deserve a break? Chris knew nothing about me or my past, which meant we could have some nice idle conversations about music or movies or whatever normal kids talked about.

I needed the normalcy. Probably more than I needed a good grade in silversmithing.

“Um, yeah, sure.” So much for being smooth.

“Bring your coat,” was all he said.

“Okay, down in five.”

“Awesome. Gives me just enough time to get enthralled with this show. . . .”

“Who was that?” Elisa asked when I put down the phone.

“Chris,” I said. And she did the obligatory
OooOoo
. “Shut up,” I said, throwing an old sock at her.

She just giggled and went back to her reading. I ran around the room, putting on my boots and grabbing my keys and coat and wallet and oh hell I should have just put it in a purse but too late now and then went for the door.

“Have fuu-unnn,” Elisa taunted.

“You're incorrigible,” I replied.

“I don't know what that means!” she called as the door shut behind me. I just smiled.

Chris was waiting in the lobby, sitting on one of the tall stools and staring at the wall. The RA on duty must have been watching a movie in the lounge with the girls, as there was no one behind the desk. I paused coming down the stairs, taking a brief moment to do one of those stalker-y once-overs of him. With his duster and boots, he kind of looked like a longhaired David Tennant, or some gearless steampunk aficionado, minus obligatory goggles. I could just imagine painting him standing on the edge of a canyon, everything red and ocher, a dirigible silhouetted in the setting sun.

He turned and caught my stare. His face lit into a smile. And as much as I hated to admit it, that smile made me smile back. I continued down the steps like I hadn't just been staring.

“Hey,” he said, hopping off the seat.

“Are you stalking me now?” I asked.

His smiled dropped.

“I mean, we
did
just see each other like twenty minutes ago,” I continued.

“I know. But I got back to my room and realized that being alone was very boring. So I thought I'd hang out with you.”

I pushed down the bubble of happiness that I was the first person to come to mind.

“Okay then. What's the plan, Stan?”

He shook his head. “You're the only person I've ever met who talks like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you,” he said. He chuckled. “Anyway, I didn't really have any ideas. Maybe a movie or . . . ?”

I buttoned up my peacoat. Sitting down with him to watch a movie ventured into dangerous romantic territory. I needed to keep this light. Friendly.
Normal.
And perhaps most importantly, I needed to keep moving.

“We'll do what we always do at art school. We'll walk.”

We wandered down the lane, past the art building, away from the lake. The woods and Writers' House were both ahead, neither as inviting as they used to be.

“Probably not as exciting as what you're used to back west,” I said. I wouldn't lie; a small part of me was a little jealous of him for getting an urban childhood. My own small-town upbringing had been far from exciting and far from inclusive. At least, if I'd grown up in a bigger city, I might have had more opportunity to . . .
what? Find more kids like you? That's not really a thing, you know—not many kids talk to birds.

“I only lived in Seattle a few years,” he replied, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded. “My parents move around a lot. Before that it was Vermont. Then Massachusetts. Then Wisconsin. Before that was . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Needless to say, it made settling in difficult, but I've sort of gotten used to being a guest in other people's lives.”

I couldn't tell if he was being morose or if this was him opening up. Guess it didn't really matter either way.