Dial Em for Murder (30 page)

If not for the endless throbbing pain and crippling panic, it might almost be worth it.

“Do you need help getting dressed?” Audrey asked, setting the fresh set of clothes haphazardly next to the damp pile that had gotten splashed by the hot spray.

“Got it,” I mumbled. I crawled over to the heap, wrapped in my soaked comforter like an ancient Egyptian who couldn't afford high quality mummification. My clumsy fingers needed four tries to fasten my bra, attempting buttons of any kind would have been beyond me. Luckily I could yank the jeans up my legs without unbuckling, unsnapping, or unzipping. The challenge was usually in keeping them perched on my hips, not in putting them on. The worn denim clung to my shower damp skin, despite the additional weight of the Slate that I removed from my dirty, blood-smeared sweatshirt. I knew I was being reckless with the Slate. That I wasn't even
pretending
to guard it. But I still felt too numb to care. Too deadened inside to touch that damn sweatshirt even a millisecond before absolutely necessary.

It was one article of clothing I would happily allow Audrey to destroy.

“Emmy?”

I was sick of hearing my own name, especially with that tentative note of uncertainty. It was like Audrey thought repeating it with a breathy question mark in her voice could stave off any further meltdowns.

“Do you need any help in there?”

“I've got it,” I repeated waspishly. It took every last ounce of my determination to walk out of the bathroom, down the hallway, and into my former dorm room where the NYPD already sat waiting for me. I paused before making contact with the doorknob, mentally debating the pros and cons of fleeing back into the bathroom and refusing to leave.

It could really go either way.

I pushed the door open only to reveal Sebastian, Nasir, and Kayla sitting on the edge of my bed as my least favorite detective paced in front of them. Luke O'Brian's head jerked toward me, noting the pallor in my cheeks and the wet tendrils of hair plastered across my forehead with the most sympathetic smile in his repertoire.

“Oh good, you're here. I was getting worried. Why don't you take a seat, Miss Danvers? Do you need a blanket? Are you cold?”

I shook my head slowly in disbelief. It was a little late for the man who'd taunted me in the interrogation room to feign concern. He sounded so anxious to please, as if he'd been ordered to claim that this had all been one big misunderstanding.

“Emmy, I owe you an apology. I never thought your life was in any danger, only that you were withholding critical information from me. If I'd known, our first conversation would've gone differently.”

“If you'd known what?” I asked.

His self-condemning grimace unnerved me. I didn't trust this abrupt mea culpa. It was a little too good to be true.

I didn't belong at Emptor Academy, but Mr. Bangsley's warning that if something looks too good to be true, get out, resonated inside me. So maybe I hadn't been a total failure as a student. I merely lacked certain key survival skills, like how to ward off homicidal psychopaths.

Skills I could theoretically learn here.

I sat down on the tangled sheets next to Kayla.

“That someone was targeting you, of course.” His face contorted into his best attempt at sympathy. “Why don't you tell us what happened tonight, Miss Danvers? Start from the beginning.”

I cleared my throat, unsure where the beginning even began anymore. Did it still start with Sebastian's grandfather in that Starbucks? Was it my enrollment at Emptor Academy? My first—and last—class taught by the woman who tried to shove me out of a window? The splintering of the library door? The desperate brawl on the floor of the break room?

The sound of Rachel Pierce's final shriek?

All of those firsts felt like they'd been smeared into an ugly stain and then tattooed into my skin.

“I wanted some fresh air,” I mumbled, unwilling to mention the computer lab in case that would somehow implicate Audrey in this mess. “Ms. Pierce must have followed me.”

That thought broke through my numbness, dousing me with a cold rush of fear.

“Did she offer any explanations? Any justifications?”

Instead of answering immediately, I shoved up my sweatshirt sleeves to reveal the worst of my cuts and bruises. Kayla gasped, sprang to her feet, and headed straight for the closet. She returned with an enormous first aid kit and began patching me up.

“She grabbed me.”

Detective Dumbass nodded solemnly, as if he were trying to commiserate. “But did she
say
anything?”

“It all happened so fast. I tried to run, but she caught me and—” My throat constricted as Ms. Pierce's twisted smile danced tauntingly in my mind.

“And what, Miss Danvers? I can't help you if you keep withholding information.”

“She said that my death was payment for a debt,” I spat out the words, hating the sharp taste of fear that lingered in my mouth. “That she needed a clean slate.”

I remembered the rest of what she said, but kept it to myself. She said that she wasn't alone. That the others were even worse.

I hesitated, dread pounding harder with every beat of my pulse. Earlier that night, I'd regretted not taking Ben's advice to turn the Slate over to the cops. To leave the crime solving up to the professionals. To remove myself entirely from the equation.

I could fix that mistake right now. Somehow the trail I'd taken had looped back to the original fork. The road not taken stretched out before me and maybe—just maybe—walking down it would make all the difference.

All I had to do was open my mouth and tell the truth. But warnings were racing through my head.

If it looks too good to be true, get out.

I hissed in pain as Kayla cleaned out a particularly deep cut.

You'd have fared worse with the ones at the police precinct.

Rachel Pierce had no reason to lie, which meant someone else could be biding their time, lurking beneath the protection of a badge. Ms. Pierce's employer didn't sound like the type who'd easily accept failure. If my death was significant enough to clear her debt, I doubted he'd flinch at the prospect of ordering someone else to finish the job.

Who better to ask than an officer in the NYPD?

“It sounded like she had a gambling debt. A big one,” I said slowly. “Maybe it made her unstable? I really don't know.”

Detective Luke swiveled on Audrey, obviously hoping she'd be the weak link in the group.

“Do you have something you'd like to share, Miss . . . ?”

“Weinstein,” Audrey supplied, and his eyebrow winged up in surprise at the Jewish last name combined with her obvious Asian heritage. “I missed all the action. Emmy sounded like she'd had a rough first day, so I came to take her home. That's it.”

Detective Dumbass didn't look like he believed a word of it.

I couldn't let Audrey get in trouble. Not over this. Not over
me
.

“She forced me into the library, threw the chair out the window.” My voice quavered as residual fear swamped me, but at least I had recaptured the detective's attention. “I tried to fight back, I did, b-but she was so much stronger. There was glass everywhere and . . . I-I don't know what happened. She dragged me to the window. I collapsed . . . and I don't know. I fled. That's all I can tell you.”

Sebastian rose to his feet. “It's been a pleasure, Detective. I'm sure you're needed over at the crime scene. We wouldn't want to keep the coroner waiting, especially now that you've taken all our statements. I think it's time for you to leave.”

“I'm in no hurry.” He crossed his arms in what he clearly considered a power play. The
I'm-so-sorry-this-happened-to-you
façade slipping from his face. “I still have plenty of questions.”

“And you're more than welcome to ask them—later—when our lawyers are present.”

At the mention of lawyers, Detective Luke looked like a shot of whiskey had gone down the wrong pipe. Then he recrossed his arms with all the confidence of a gambler with a pair of aces tucked up his sleeve.

“We've made some progress in your grandfather's murder investigation.”

Sebastian said nothing, gave nothing away, as he leaned back against the headboard of my bed. The rest of us traded apprehensive looks.

“We've identified the drugs in your grandfather's system as a lethal cocktail of antidepressants and antipsychotics, including lithium, Lamictal, and Thorazine. It's unclear which medications, if any, your grandfather had a prescription for and which were involuntarily administered to him.” He looked annoyed with his own words, as if he had been hoping for an excuse to snap a pair of handcuffs around Sebastian's wrists. “The Slate you described has yet to be recovered.”

Sebastian didn't so much as blink. “Fascinating. If that's all—”

“We also found a scrap of paper in his pocket. Do the words
Tamam shud
mean anything to you?”

An oppressive silence filled the room as everyone eyed Sebastian. Studying him, waiting, expecting
something
.

“No,” Sebastian said simply, crossing the room and swinging open the door. “But you'll be the first to know if anything comes to mind.”

Detective O'Brian hovered, staring at each one of us in turn, his eyes resting on my face the longest, as if mentally cataloging my every feature for his report. Then he leaned in close and murmured, “Give your mom my best,” before sauntering out.

Sebastian shut the door behind him with a lot more force than necessary.

“He's dead,” Nasir whispered into the sudden silence. “He's really dead.”

Sebastian glared at his best friend. “We don't know that for sure.”

“
Tamam shud
, Sebastian. He wrote,
Tamam shud
.” Tears welled in Nasir's eyes, and he tipped his face toward the light fixture on the ceiling to prevent them from spilling over.

Sebastian didn't have a snarky comeback. There was no sarcastic quip, no sneer, no mocking tilt to his raised eyebrows. His face looked so remote and hard. Cold. The only physical indication that he might be upset was in the way his jaw clenched.

As if he were biting back a scream of his own.

“What does
Tamam shud
mean?” Kayla asked softly.

“Those are the last two words of a poem from my grandpa's favorite book,
The Rubáiyát
of Omar Khayyám
, in the original Persian.” Sebastian sounded like he was delivering a rehearsed speech, a recitation of facts that he'd memorized for the occasion. There was no hint of a personal attachment. It was as if that spark of defiance, insolence, arrogance—whichever one it was that fueled him—had been cloaked in sheets of ice.

“
Tamam shud
means ‘ended' or ‘finished.'” His mouth twisted in a bitter imitation of a smile. “But if—
if
—he's dead, it means that I'm only getting started.”

Sebastian had zero interest in explaining that vague statement of extreme vaguery.

He hesitated only briefly at the door. “Force will escort you home in ten minutes.” Then he walked away, because apparently he didn't feel the need to waste time with basic civilities like, oh, I dunno, eye contact, before disappearing from sight.

“I should probably—” Nasir didn't finish the sentence since it was obvious to everyone that he needed to keep his unpredictable best friend from doing something stupid. He nodded a quick, awkward goodbye, and left the room.

Audrey exhaled in relief the second he was gone.

“We. Are. Never. Doing. This. Again.” She raked a hand through her jet black hair, then forced herself to sit up. She grabbed my suitcase and started tugging it toward the door. “Let's go, Em.”

“You're really leaving then?” Kayla's eyes dulled in disappointment. “I was kind of hoping you'd change your mind. Emptor Academy isn't usually this murder-y.” Her whole face lit up with enthusiasm. “Did I tell you about the guest lecturers that are coming to campus soon? There are tons of amazing opportunities for students.” Her voice trailed off as I slung my bag over my aching right shoulder.

This school is full of opportunities and you've squandered every single one of them.

The echo of Ms. Pierce's words sent an unexpected flare of pain through me. It was as if my body had fallen asleep during my brief conversation with my least favorite homicide detective, and now millions of pins and needles jabbed mercilessly at my nerve endings.

I glanced out the dorm window at the silhouette of the magnificent brick buildings, the perfectly manicured lawns, and the meandering cobblestone pathways. The early morning light tinged everything gold until it gleamed like a Photoshopped screensaver. The view was wasted on me. All I could see were the broken remains of my criminal law teacher. All I could hear was her last piercing shriek. The prestige of Emptor Academy was an illusion, nothing more than a coat of cheap polish to hide the nicks and scratches. The gouges and scrapes. The scars and blood.

Now it owned a dark splintered part of my soul that I never wanted to claim.

This place wasn't my home, not yet, maybe not
ever
, but it suited the alter ego I'd imagined in the library. It beckoned her to stay with the promise of strength. Power. Control. Leaving Emptor Academy would be trading in the world I'd found at the bottom of the rabbit hole for an ordinary existence. Except if I walked out, I'd still be resigning myself to a lifetime spent checking over my shoulder for the Cheshire Cat. Fleeing from the Queen of Hearts. Pretending to ignore the specter of Nemmy crooking her little finger as she whispered that together we could become so much more.