moneyed cloth, but he’d had a real face, one with a little hardness in it.
As she approached, she saw Tripp’s friends turn their eyes to her, assess her, discard her. She’d showered at the Hutch, changed into a pair of Lethe sweats, and combed her hair. After being shoved into traffic and drowning, it was all the effort she owed anyone.
“Hey, Tripp,” she said easily. “You got a minute?”
He turned her way. “You want to ask me to prom, Stern?”
“Depends. Gonna be a good little slut for me and put out?” Tripp’s friends whooped and one of them let out a long Ohhhh shit. Now they were looking at her. “I need to talk to you about that problem set.”
Tripp’s cheeks pinked, but then his shoulders squared and he rose. “Sure.”
“Bring him home early,” said one of his buddies.
“Why?” she asked. “You want seconds?”
They whooped again and clapped their hands as if she’d landed an impressive put.
“You’re kinda nasty, Stern,” Tripp said over his shoulder as she trailed him out of the
dining hall. “I like it.”
“Come here,” she said. She led him up the stairs, past the stained-glass windows of plantation life that had survived the name change of the college from “slavery is a positive
good” Calhoun to Hopper. A few years back a black janitor had smashed one of them to
bits.
Tripp’s face changed, eager mischief pulling at his mouth. “What’s up, Stern?” he said
as they entered the reading room. It was empty.
She closed the door behind her and his grinned widened—like he actually thought she
was about to make a move.
“How do you know Tara Hutchins?”
“What?”
“How do you know her? I’ve seen her phone logs,” she lied. “I know just how often you were in touch.”
He scowled and leaned on the back of a leather couch, folding his arms. The sulk didn’t
suit him. It pushed his round features from boyish sweetness to angry infant. “You a cop
now?”
She walked toward him and she saw him stiffen, tell himself not to back up. His world
was all about deferral, moving in sideways patterns. You didn’t step to someone directly.
You didn’t look them in the eye. You were cool. You were fine with it. You could take a
joke.
“Don’t make me say I’m the law, Tripp. I’ll have trouble keeping a straight face.”
His eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”
“How stupid are you?” His mouth fell open. His lower lip looked wet. Had anyone ever
spoken to Tripp Helmuth this way? “It’s about a dead girl. I want to know what she was to
you.”
“I already talked to the police.”
“And now you’re talking to me. About a dead girl.”
“I don’t have to—”
She leaned in. “You know how this works, right? My job—the job of Lethe House—is
to keep entitled little shits like you from making trouble for the administration.”
“Why are you being such a hard-ass? I thought we were friends.”
Because of all the beer pong we played and the summer we spent in Biarritz? Did he
really not know the difference between friends and friendly?
“We are friends, Tripp. If I wasn’t your friend I’d have taken this to Dean Sandow already, but I don’t want hassle and I don’t want to make trouble for you or for Bones if I
don’t have to.”
His big shoulders shrugged. “It was just a hookup.”
“Tara doesn’t seem like your type.”
“You don’t know my type.” Was he really trying to flirt his way out of this? She held
his gaze and his eyes slid away. “She was fun,” he muttered.
For the first time, Alex had the sense he was being honest.
“I bet she was,” Alex said gently. “Always had a smile, always glad to see you.” That’s
what dealing was about. Tripp probably didn’t understand that he was just a customer, that
he was a pal as long as he had cash on hand.
“She was nice.” Did he care that she was dead? Was there something more haunted than a hangover in his eyes or did Alex just want to believe he gave a damn? “I swear all