She texted Tripp to let him know where she’d dumped his bike inside the gate and headed across Old Campus, turning over Tara’s ties to the societies. The gluma suggested the involvement of Book and Snake, but so far it didn’t look like Tara had been dealing to
anyone in that society. Tripp connected her to Skull and Bones, Colin and that weird tattoo
connected her to Scroll and Key, Kate Masters tied her to Manuscript—and Manuscript specialized in glamours. If someone had been dressed in magic that night, pretending to be
Lance, Manuscript was probably involved. That could explain why Alex had seen Lance’s
face in Tara’s memory of the murder.
But all of that also assumed Tripp’s information was good. When you were scared
you’d say anything to get yourself out of a bad situation. She should know. And Alex had
no doubt that Tripp would happily sell out whoever first came to mind to get himself out
of trouble. She supposed she could take those names to Sandow, explain that Turner would
now be hunting down their alibis, try to make him reconsider Lethe’s involvement in the
investigation. But then she’d have to explain that she’d badgered the information out of a
Bonesman.
Alex had to be honest with herself too. Something in her had shaken loose when the gluma attacked—the real Alex coiled like a serpent in the false skin of who she pretended to be. That Alex had snapped her jaws closed on Salome, bullied Tripp, manipulated Turner. But she had to be careful. It’s essential that they see you as stable, reliable. She didn’t want to give Sandow any more excuses to sever her from Lethe and her only hope
of staying at Yale.
Alex felt a rush of relief as she climbed the steps to Vanderbilt. She wanted to be behind the wards, to see Lauren and Mercy and talk about work and boys. She wanted to
sleep in her own narrow bed. But when Alex entered the suite, the first thing she heard was crying. Lauren and Mercy were on the couch. Lauren had her arm around Mercy and
was rubbing her back as Mercy sobbed.
“What happened?” Alex said.
Mercy didn’t look up and Lauren’s face was harsh.
“Where have you been?” she snapped.
“Darlington’s mom needed help with something.”
Lauren rolled her eyes. Apparently the family-emergency excuse was past retirement.
Alex sat down on the battered coffee table, her knees bumping Mercy’s. Mercy had her
head buried in her hands. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Can I show her?” said Lauren.
Mercy released another sob. “Why not?”
Lauren handed over Mercy’s phone. Alex slid unlock on the screen and saw a text string with someone named Blake.
“Blake Keely?” He was a lacrosse player, if she remembered right. There was a story about him kicking a kid from a rival team in the head during a game in high school. The
player had been on the ground at the time. Every college had revoked his scholarship—
every college but Yale. The lacrosse team had been Ivy League champs four years
running, and Blake had landed a modeling gig with Abercrombie & Fitch. His posters were plastered all over the store’s windows on Broadway, giant black-and-white images of
him emerging shirtless from a mountain lake, hauling a Christmas tree through a snowy wood, snuggling a bulldog puppy by a roaring fire.
You were hot last night. All the brothers agree. Come by again tonight. There was a video attached.
Alex didn’t want to press play, but she did. The sound of raucous laughter blared from
the phone, the thump of a bass track. Blake said, “Heyyyyy hey, we have such a pretty girl, something exotic on the menu tonight, right?”
He turned the camera on Mercy, who laughed. She was sitting in another boy’s lap, her
velvet skirt hiked high on her thighs, a red Solo cup in her hand. Shit. Omega Meltdown.
Alex had promised Mercy she’d go with her, but she’d completely forgotten.
“Take it in the other room,” said Lauren as Mercy wept.
Hurriedly, Alex entered her bedroom and shut the door. Mercy’s bed was unmade.
That, even more than her sobbing, was a sure sign of distress.