I shiver. Dead bodies gross me out. “Yeah, I remember.” So, not calling to get back together, then. I pinch my eyes shut. “I’m failing to see how your morgue rotation affects me. It’s 2 AM, Kenneth. What’s going on?”
He huffs, and I can almost see him shoving his hand through his hair. “They brought in a guy from your school. A professor? He was hit by a car. Killed instantly, they said.”
I sag, relieved. Professor Rook didn’t feel any pain, then. It’s not absolution, but it’s more than I ever thought I’d get. “I heard about it. The police were here this morning, taking photos of the scene. I saw the body bag.”
There’s murmuring on the other end of the line, as if Kenneth is covering his phone’s speaker to talk to someone else. Then he continues into the phone. “Look, I have to ask. Did you see him last night? This Rook guy?”
My stomach clenches as alarm bells go off in the general vicinity of my gut. He can’t know. It’s not possible. “No, why do you ask?”
A beat passes before he speaks again. When he does, his voice is tighter. He doesn’t believe me. “You didn’t see him at all? At your stepdad’s event? Afterward?”
My blood is gushing through my veins now, spiked with adrenaline. I push out of my bed and let the cold air sooth my flushed skin. Pacing to the window, I peek between my curtains at the spot where Professor Rook was killed. Take a deep breath. Kenneth doesn’t know. He’s got another reason for asking. He has to have. I can spin this.
I take the offensive, trying to throw him off guard. “Are you accusing me of lying? Seriously, Kenneth? After everything?”
He groans. “Charlotte, you might be in deep, here. I’m just trying to help you. You have to tell me the truth. Right now.”
It’s now or never. “I didn’t see Professor Rook at all yesterday. That’s the truth.” Technically, it’s true. I didn’t see Professor Rook.
“Listen. When they brought in his body, there was a box of his stuff. One of his shoes came off in the impact, and his watch was smashed. They also brought in… God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. You didn’t kill him, did you?” His voice gets more strained, more strung out as he talks. The thread of incredulity through it is unmistakable.
“No.” I’m a stone cold liar.
He groans. “Then explain this to me. Why was there a program from your dad’s event found near the body? Charlotte, it had a lipstick print on it. It looked exactly like that red shade you wear when you’re feeling feisty. You know the one I’m talking about.”
My hand flies to my lips. My program. The one I tossed out my car window with that spider on it. The same one I used to blot a new coat of lipstick after I drank that glass of wine. Shit.
I swallow. “A program?”
“If they test it for DNA, it won’t match you?”
My breath hitches. I didn’t even think of that. Chaotic thoughts ricochet through my brain, and I fight to wrestle them under control. It’s like wrangling a half a dozen small children who are bound and determined to be the first ones to the cotton candy booth. Don’t ask how I know what that’s like.
My stomach bottoms out.
If the police run the program for DNA, it won’t lead them to me. I’m not in any system that I know of. And so far, the police don’t appear to have made the mental leap that it might have been someone at the academy who hit the professor. But since his body was found so near the front gate, they will. Once they learn the DNA on that program is from a girl, that narrows down their suspects a lot. What are there, seventy girls here at the academy, not including teachers?
Kenneth is lecturing in my ear, but I can’t focus on the words.
If the police start looking more closely at us students, it’s only a matter of time before someone, even accidentally, tells them that I spent a fair amount of time in Professor Rook’s classroom. If they request my DNA, I could refuse to comply, but that would only make me look more guilty.
“Char?”
I force myself to respond. “I didn’t murder the professor.” What happened would likely be considered manslaughter.
He exhales loudly. “I can’t believe I had to ask you that. I never in a million years…”
“It’s not something I imagined either. So, about the program. What happened to it?”
The line goes quiet.
“Kenneth?”
“You have to realize, I thought you did it. I tried to help, but…”
“Kenneth!”
“I tried to take it. Burn it, but I wasn’t able to. The police took it. They have it. But that doesn’t matter, right? Because it wasn’t yours?” That vein of distrust is back in his voice. I don’t like it, not one bit.
“Thanks for trying to help me, but like I said, I didn’t murder the professor. I don’t need your help.”
“Okay, I’ll see you to—”
I hang up before he can say anything else. My phone drops over the side of the bed, swinging on the end of the charger cord. Just like me, it dangles by a flimsy thread.
So that’s it, then. My days of freedom are numbered, and then my identity will change. Charlotte Cavendish-Holt, promising daughter of Senator Terrance Holt, will be no more.
I have no doubt what they’ll call me, and by then no manner of trying to explain my intentions will matter.
I’ll always be Charlotte Cavendish-Holt, cold-blooded killer.
And Kenneth? He’s suspicious.
8
I’m out of bed by 6 AM. It turns out, knowing that I’ve killed a man also kills my ability to sleep. Endorphins are supposed to make people happy, but even after using one of the treadmills in the fitness center off the gymnasium, I’m still dragging. It takes all of my tricks to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I swing by Adrienne’s room to pick her up for breakfast.
The broad-shouldered form of my stepsister’s paramour/bodyguard is welcome.
“Morning, Mikhail.”
He returns my greeting with a small nod from his position against the wall between my room and Adrienne’s. A quick scan of my person pinches his eyebrows together. “Are you all right, Charlotte? You look fatigued.”
I wave him off. “I’m fine, and here’s a friendly tip. Never tell a girl she looks tired.”
His eyes don’t leave my face. “Noted.”
When my stepsister opens the door, Genevieve is already there. “Hey, Char, I’m borrowing one of Adrienne’s vintage brooches. Which one should I wear?”
I rush in to help her pick one, thankful for the distraction.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Genevieve asks from where she’s standing in front of Adrienne’s mirror, pinning a silver cat to the lapel of her uniform jacket. “You look tired.”
Behind me, Mikhail smothers a bark of laughter.
Adrienne, too, looks concerned. She’s coiling a red lock around her finger absently as she watches me.
I put on my brightest smile. “I’m fine. Really. Let’s get to breakfast. I need an omelet.”
Adrienne smiles tentatively. “If you say so. I’m ready for some pastries, myself.”