Tipton’s cheeks have gone pink. “Language, Miss Winters.” He plays adult for 2.5 milliseconds, then gets back on his bullshit. “And why are you mad that I got you, and Emma, into Harvard? Ms. Bankhead isn’t the be-all and end-all of Ivy League admissions so none of the other counselors should bother trying. I’m good at my job.”
“But what if doing your job is what got Emma killed?”
“Excuse me?”
I stop myself before I can say any more, though I’ve already said too much. Tipton is looking at me as if I’ve sprouted a second head.
“Is that why you want to keep your own acceptance a secret? Olivia.” He says my name like it’s a terminal medical diagnosis. “If you know something, you need to tell—”
“It’s my own private news, which I should get to share how and when I want. All I’m asking is that you not tell anyone else. Please.” I try to force confidence into my tone, but under Tipton’s pitying stare, I’m thrown off-kilter. Maybe my entire theory about Avery and Harvard is bonkers. That’s what Mr. Tipton’s thinking right now. Does Ethan think that, too?
I need air.
“Have a good holiday,” I say, breaking from my chair and hightailing it back to the front office. I pick up the stack of exams and haul them over to a dusty side room so that I can hide in case Tipton comes through here. I open my phone to shoot Ethan a text, but he’s already messaged.
Autumn is a GO.
I’m shocked, both that he is still helping and that he got Autumn to agree so fast.
How?
Explain later. Be at dining hall @ 6.
Relief spreads through me like hot chocolate. The kind with whipped cream and sprinkles. I confirm, then consider my next steps. Tipton’s doubt has shaken me, but even if my Harvard-and-Avery theory doesn’t hold water, someone on campus killed Emma. Piecing together her final hours is the key. By the time the stack of exams dwindles to zero and I deliver them to each professor’s mailbox, it’s nearly five. Security guard Paul should be on shift now.
Paul is a security cliché. Washed out of the police academy, came home, and landed the night shift at Claflin. The daytime woman, Officer Pring, was an actual decorated cop with the Boston PD—hence the better title and time slot, and the unlikelihood of her spilling any relevant details to me. But Paul likes me. He’d say I flirt with him. I’d say girls are socialized to be friendly, and I am perfectly friendly. Anyway, he’s not a bad guy. One of the few here at Claflin who gets me, where I come from.
I approach with a smile, knocking in a syncopated rhythm on the doorframe of the security office. “Hey, Paul. How’s it going?”
Paul’s sky-blue eyes are disconcertingly pretty but a little too close together. He’s a high school heartthrob type with just enough twists to ground him in the ordinary. Paul is flirty but not creepy—very important for the nighttime security guard—and he laughs at my jokes.
“Hey, Olivia. It’s…” He grimaces. I notice the three-day stubble and bags under his eyes. “Well, you know. With the murder. Can’t help feeling like it’s my fault, you know?”
Oh no. I’ve walked right into an emotional hotspot. I decide to steer clear of anything smacking of counsel. Fact-based, open-ended questions are the way to go.
“What happened?”
Paul takes a long drag of what I assume to be coffee and launches into it.
“I was on my regular curfew patrol when the cameras went out. At least, that had to be when it happened. Everything was working when I left. Got back around twelve-thirty a.m. and noticed the feed was down on several screens. Tried a hard reboot, but that didn’t bring them back. I…I did a second patrol at two-thirty…I should have gone back out, I know, but.”
“But it’s Claflin,” I supply. “Nothing ever happens here.”
“Yeah.” He heaves a sigh. “Yeah. Until now. On my watch.” Suddenly those too-close, too-bright blue eyes narrow up at me. “I saw you on there. On the tapes, way past curfew.”
It’s a statement of fact. Not accusing. I nod.
“Detective Cataldo’s on my ass about it,” I say. “I was looking for Emma, but then I psyched myself out about it. Thought she was probably staying over with her boyfriend. I wish I’d come and gotten you. I was afraid of getting in trouble, but now…”
“Hey, you couldn’t have known.” Paul frowns. “I should have known.”
He says it for himself, not for me. He stares at the floor; I stare at the wall. The moment passes.
“Earlier in the night, did you see her on the feed? Leaving the party, maybe?”
He shakes his head. “Went over everything with the cops.” His Massachusetts accent is strong, so it comes out cawps. While I’m sure I sound equally ridiculous with my Baltimore o’s, I’m still tickled by the stereotype. “I got plenty of you kids going to the ED day party, but she never came out. Not where the cameras got her.”
“Did they figure out what was wrong with the cameras from Bay to the boathouse?”
Paul pushes off the floor with his feet, shuttling his chair over to the cascade of video screens. Spins around, checks that the images of our dorm, the lake path, the boathouse are now where they should be. It’s all red brick contrasted against milky-white snow, gradually turning gray.
“The faulty ones were live again before daybreak. Before they found her,” he says, his back to me. “The police think they were hacked. I don’t know.” Paul spins around again, eyes searching the screen, as if he could rewind the time, do things differently.
Hacked. It’s exactly what I was searching for. The how. And hacking means computer skills, so either a skilled adult or a savvy student.
Sierra’s face pops into my mind. She’s the best coder I know, president of Girls Who Code, and talented enough to hack our class schedules. I add it to the list of shit my friends might have done behind my back.
I hear a ghostly “Hello?” from the main office. Paul shoos me off. We both have work to do. I return to the front and find that Cathy’s gone. Check the clock on the wall, a relic. It’s past five. Still, there’s Tyler, hand poised over the silver bell on Cathy’s desk, which only the most entitled students ever ring.