I notice he doesn’t question why I’m here, sneaking out as he’s sneaking in. It’s probably a common occurrence here. Tyler sniffles again, lingers, like he wants to talk. I’m a bottle-it-all-up-inside kind of person, but Tyler clearly isn’t.
“That’s really good of you,” I say, grasping at grief small talk. “You must miss her so much.”
Tyler seizes on my sympathy like a parched man being offered a drink. “I’m still in shock. I just can’t believe she’s gone, you know? And everyone’s already moving on! Exams back on, and ‘What are you doing on your winter vacation?’ I want everyone to come to the memorial, to remember what we’ve lost. Emma was everything.”
“I’ll be there,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. His devastation seems genuine, no hint at all that Emma wasn’t his perfect, devoted girlfriend. There’s no way he knew about the cheating. But he doesn’t ask me how I’m doing or feeling, I note. He’s myopically focused on his own grief. “Do you want me to put some of these up in Bay?” I hold up the posters.
“That would be amazing, thank you. I asked Avery to help, but she said the whole memorial idea was too weird. Anyway, I have to sneak up before lights-out. Night, Liv.”
“Night, Tyler.”
It’s black beyond the door. I squint up to the clouded glass of the security light, bulb clearly burned out. After a minute to let my eyes adjust, I make my way across the greenish-brown grass, careful to step where yesterday’s snowfall has been eaten away by the day’s sunlight. Finally I reach the dirt path that snakes behind Whitley, around the Colman Performing Arts building, and over to Bay. Along the way, I look for cameras and find none. Security is truly an illusion on campus. Anyone could, and likely does, easily sneak around, the woods to one side and the back sides of the buildings to the other. I’m kicking myself for not going this way the other night. I could have avoided the entire fiasco with the cops grabbing me on camera.
And so could have anyone else that night. Including the killer.
A shiver runs through me, and I hurry toward the nearest blue phone. I count my steps between them, like I did the night Emma died. Then my butt vibrates, and I fish my phone from my jeans pocket. New email. I tap in and read the first line of the message. Stop in my tracks.
My whole body goes cold and taut, like antifreeze is trickling down my spine, pooling in my shoes like lead weights. I read the email again. It’s six words, but they rattle around my skull like bullets.
From: Meddling, Quit <[email protected]>
To: Winters, Olivia <[email protected]>
Subject: Some friendly advice
Stop digging or you’ll regret it.
I peel myself out of bed too early, to meet Ethan for breakfast. On instinct, I check my email on my phone first thing, and there it is, taunting me: the warning from last night. I hoped I’d imagined it. I tap into it again, try to decipher any clues to who sent it. It’s from [email protected]. And with the fake name Quit Meddling, they’re really laying it on thick.
But I have no intention of stopping. Everyone around me is lying, and I have to know why. Emma was lying. I need to know if it got her killed.
While waiting for my foundation to oxidize and set, I utilize my best Google-fu to track down Kaila. I remember that her mom was a dean at Smith, and it doesn’t take long to confirm that she still works there. A few more minutes and I have their address. I poke around Instagram, Twitter, and Snapchat, looking for signs of life. Kaila’s social media is pretty dead. She hasn’t tweeted in eighteen months, and her last Instagram pic is of a dandelion sprouting above a grassy patch with the caption Plant me and I will grow. It’s from a year ago. We used to be Snapchat friends, but now her account is gone. I send her an Instagram DM, just in case.
Hey, don’t know if you’re back in town, but would love to talk.
Vague but truthful. It’ll do.
I find Ethan in the dining hall, nursing a mug of black coffee. I help myself to a healthy serving of bacon and my own cup and join him. As I stir two packets of sugar into my coffee, I consider telling Ethan about Quit Meddling’s email but ultimately decide against it. He might encourage me to stop what I’m doing, and I can’t have that. But my discovery about the path behind Whitley is safe. Ethan groans through a sip, the liquid gurgling like he’s a fish.
“So anyone could have snuck around, regardless of cameras.”
I nod, nosh on a salty slice. “We’re truly at square one. I did DM Kaila, though.”
“And?”
I check my phone. “No reply yet. But her parents live in Northampton, so it’s entirely possible she was around last week. We’ll see.”
“How was Tyler when you ran into him? Do we still think he didn’t know?”
Ethan doesn’t watch his volume, and I pop my head up like a meerkat, scanning the immediate area to ensure that no one heard and is watching. Then I lower my voice for my reply. “I can’t tell. He’s planning a candlelight vigil—I mean memorial—for tomorrow.”
“I saw.” Ethan’s jaw flexes. “We need to figure out who Emma was cheating with, then confront him and see how he reacts. From what you told me, it seems like Margot knows who it is.”
“I can’t ask Margot. She made it clear yesterday she had nothing more to say.”
He seems to think on that. I gnaw a piece of bacon. I watch the green pops in his hazel eyes dance.
“If you had a secret boyfriend, how would you contact him?” he asks.
“You’re assuming I know how to contact an actual boyfriend.” It’s out before I can stop it. I talk faster. “Idon’tknowthough. Probably text or social media?” Good cover.
“Right, her phone.” Ethan either didn’t notice my first answer or is too nice to say anything. “If you have a secret hookup, you text them. Or message them. There has to be a trail.”
“The cops took her phone. Laptop, too. They still have them.” I hate to see Ethan’s spirit dull. I take a swig of coffee, letting the acid slice through my guilt.
“Are you sure she didn’t have another phone? A burner?”
“She wasn’t a spy, Ethan. It’s not a movie.”
My response is automatic, Ethan’s suggestion too easy to dismiss out of hand. But then I remember: Emma upgraded her iPhone last fall. She asked me if I wanted her old one, since otherwise it would sit in a drawer. Uncomfortable with being a charity case, I declined. My mother had bought my refurbished smartphone for a bargain price, so proud when I unwrapped my Christmas present and squealed with delight to finally have a touchscreen phone that wasn’t an embarrassing pay-as-you-go. The Ivies noticed that kind of thing, off-brand discount-retailer phone, outside of contract.