Silence, heavy like the shadows in the late-January light.
“Because”—Leander’s voice went rough—“because after that awful mess, I thought her parents would finally step in. I thought that Emma and Alistair, bless their black little hearts, would stop farming out their daughter’s emotional upbringing to rehab facilities and tutors and finally pay some attention to what was going on with her. Do you know, in that week I spent with Emma, in that basement, I found out that she didn’t know her own daughter had been raped? And her reaction was to be—disappointed. She told me that she thought Charlotte could take care of herself. In the meantime, her daughter is happily cultivating an honest-to-God blood war because she thought her father had kidnapped me, and she wanted to blame it on a Moriarty instead.” He went quiet for a long minute, staring out the window at the students streaming by. “I should have stepped in earlier. I should have taken her in. I don’t—I don’t know how hard I would have had to fight her father for custody. Probably not very.”
“She’s almost eighteen,” I said, after a moment. “She’s nearly an adult.” She made her own decisions. I made mine.
“You’re seventeen,” my father said, “and I’m not giving up my claim to you anytime soon.”
“Why do you really want me to come along?”
“Because you should want to,” Leander said. “Because it appalls me that you don’t.”
“To track down Lucien Moriarty. That appalls you.”
“Charlotte’s looking for him—because yes, this is the best way to find her.” He looked out the window. “She is your best friend. I don’t see anyone else taking her place. I see you lonely, and lost, and she never dragged you into anything you didn’t go into willingly. Jamie—”
My father frowned. “Leander—”
“Are you two even talking about me?”
“No. Both of you. We’ll talk about this later.” My father pulled his wallet out and handed me a twenty. “Order some delivery. Say hello to Elizabeth. Write your presentation, and think about it. Leander’s only in town for another few days.”
I was hardly listening. She could have told me what she was planning, I thought, what she thought was true, and she didn’t tell me, and then when it was over, she—I tried to take a breath. I couldn’t—I know it isn’t all her fault but I can’t get myself hurt like that again.
I told them I’d think about it. What else could I say?
I waited until the car had pulled away, for my heart to stop battering against my ribs. A line of trucks were making their deliveries; food came in on those giant blank trucks to the cafeteria at all hours. The last one in the line had a man hanging off the back like he was on garbage collection. He was built up like a weightlifter under his jumpsuit. Under his watch cap was a thatch of blond hair.
He looked like Hadrian Moriarty.
My face felt hot, my neck, hot, and as I bent over my knees, I unwound my scarf from my neck. Reacting like this to the mere mention of a Moriarty, thinking I was seeing ghosts—
No. I knew why. I knew exactly why I felt like I was trapped in a small, dark box, and I was even more of a coward if I couldn’t admit it to myself.
The man on the truck hopped off; they were delivering to my dorm. His hair was dark, not light, and he gave me a worried look as he trotted up to the door with a clipboard.
“All right there, Watson?” Kittredge asked, jogging by in a pack of my teammates.
An extra practice, one I’d skipped. They were wearing shorts, the heat steaming off them like they were kettles.
I nodded, held up a hand. The universal symbol for fine. All around me, campus was pale and bright in the snow. I could see all the exits. Everywhere was an exit. And still somehow it was like the paths away were disappearing, one by one.
When I finally made it into Michener Hall, Mrs. Dunham was at the front desk, doing a crossword puzzle over a cup of tea. “Jamie,” she said. “Have fun with—oh, dear. Are you all right?”
I smiled. It was automatic. I loved Mrs. Dunham with a strange sort of fierce pride, as though she belonged to me alone. She didn’t, of course. Our house mother knew all of our names and our birthdays, brought us soup when we were sick, and oversaw the small interchangeable army of hall assistants who were constantly getting fired for drinking with their students or sleeping through their shifts. Mrs. Dunham was the only real constant in our dorm, in my day-to-day life, and though I could’ve applied to live in the fancy senior residence hall this year, I hadn’t. I wasn’t ready to give her up.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just starving. I missed dinner. I’m about to order in.”
“Well, Elizabeth was just here to pick you up for your lit mag meeting,” she told me, “and if you run, you might be able to catch her down the lane. Here. Do you have money? Chicken pad thai? Cherry Coke? Of course I know your order. Just pick it up here when you get back.”
I felt an obligation to tell Elizabeth what was going on, the text message and the throwing up and the details of the trip to New York. And at the same time, I didn’t want to at all. Maybe it was a habit I’d developed with Holmes, my choosing one person to confide everything in; maybe it wasn’t a healthy one. Though I thought Elizabeth could probably help me sort it out, I also didn’t want to dump it into her lap.
Especially after what happened to her last year.
“Let me just drop my bag,” I said, leaving the money with Mrs. Dunham and heading up the stairs. The whiteboard on my door was blank, the hall quiet but for the buzzing overhead lights. People were lingering in the dining hall, making their way to the library, studying with their doors shut.
I dug around in my backpack for my keys. No one at Sherringford locked their doors, except for me and Elizabeth.
No one except us had any reason to.
And despite my decision not to drag Elizabeth into this, I realized I had my phone in my hands. I had an Incident at lunch today, I wrote her. That’s why I disappeared.
It was the code we’d developed the first time she’d seen me have a panic attack, after I realized it was impossible to hide them from her.
Her response was immediate. Do you want me to come over? Maybe we can blow off lit mag and watch Incident-curing puppies?
We’d been watching a show called Puppy Surprise. It was, unsurprisingly, about people being surprised with puppies, and at her suggestion, we only let ourselves watch it when one of us was having a really, really awful day.
I don’t know if today qualifies, I wrote her, flopping into my desk chair.
Was it a puking Incident? she asked. Did anyone see? Do you feel okay now? Did your dad help? Or oh God did he make you go bowling again??
Her questions were stressing me out—she had a tendency to interrogate me in a way that wasn’t exactly soothing—but I laughed anyway. Bowling, at least, wasn’t on my father’s list.
It was; no; sort of; he made me go sleuth something; I have to write a presentation or else I would puppy show so hard. After a moment, I said, That sounds really wrong but I’m not sure why?
But it had worked; I was smiling.
See you at lit mag, babe, she wrote, and I put my phone down.
For a long minute, I twirled in my chair, then opened my laptop on reflex. I had an email from my sister (Can hear Mum and Ted having sex I think?? What does sex sound like? Jamie this is the LITERAL WORST, line of vomiting emojis) and a whole bunch of spam. I sent Shelby back a vomiting emoji and two knives and told her to call me. I opened my physics presentation. Looked over my homework for tomorrow. The King’s College London banner I’d tacked above my desk. A goal. I’d be on to the next part of my life soon. I had a nice girlfriend. A nice group of friends.
I was fine.