The St. Ambrose School for Girls(105)

“Are you afraid?” I ask softly.

“Of what.”

“Getting… killed. Or something.”

Strots recoils with a frown. “By who?”

“I don’t know. Maybe we’re all in danger. If somebody can kill Greta—”

“Then they killed her. It doesn’t have anything to do with me. Or you. Or anybody else here. It’s a one-off.”

“How do you know that? What if there’s a serial killer out there?”

“It was personal.” Strots gives me a well-duh look. “Whoever it was stabbed her nine times. In the front of her chest and throat. The newspaper said so. The murdering wasn’t the point of it. Greta was a specific target, and come on, like all of us haven’t wanted to kill her at some point?”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“Why? ’Cause it’ll make me a suspect? Please. The police already know it wasn’t me. The lawyer my father brought in from Boston already talked to them.” She laughs without smiling. “Apparently, the police can’t arrest somebody on suspicion of murder just because they’re gay, and predictably, that was what my pops was really worried about. Not for my well-being, of course, but for his.”

“I still don’t think you should talk about those kinds of things.”

“Fuck that.” Strots takes another drink. “The facts are what they are. And if there is a murderer on the loose? I’d like to see them come after me. I’d be into the fight, for sure.”

“What if someone knows, though,” I choke out as my thoughts gallop ahead of my conscious control.

“Huh?” When I don’t respond, Strots lowers the bottle from her mouth pre-sip. “Knows what?”

“What if the police are talking to the wrong people, and someone knows this, and—”

“I still don’t get what you’re talking about.”

“If the murderer killed once, they could do it again. Right? To protect themselves.”

There’s a long silence, during which Strots stares into the open neck of her Coke bottle.

When her eyes lift to mine, they’re deadly serious. “Is your brain getting into trouble? I mean… are you, like, spiraling?”

She motions next to her temple, her forefinger going around and around, but it’s not to make fun of me. She’s trying to put into movement something she is struggling to find the words for.

“I mean, I read up about the bipolar thing,” she explains. “After we talked. They said it can get weird or something. Sorry if I’m not saying this right. But you just told me you’re not sleeping, and I know you haven’t been going to meals.”

I haven’t? I think to myself.

“And I guess”—my roommate clears her throat—“well, I mean, there’s a lot of shit happening around here, and they say that stress can start things—what’s the word? Kindling. Or something.”

I look down at my history book. And realize I’ve been trying to work on geometry, not the Revolutionary War.

As I start to panic, I rub the end of my nose even though it’s not tickling. “Can I…” I clear my throat, just like she did—and likely for the same reason. I don’t have something caught there, I’m feeling incredibly awkward. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah, sure.” Strots laughs a little. “And I promise to keep it to myself, but that doesn’t mean much ’cuz I’m not really talking to anyone right now. Which is why I’m out walking in the dark instead of studying French.”

I open my mouth… and it all comes out, the syllables fast like a machine gun. And the speed of my words increases as I go through Mountain Day, Nick Hollis, pink panties, Porsche, Crenshaw, sweatshirt shrine, library, pregnancy.

When I’m done, I have to recover from the exertion with a deep breath. And then I risk a glance over at Strots. I couldn’t look at her while I was speaking because I was worried the you’re-crazy expression on her face would keep me from revealing everything I needed to.

Except she isn’t looking at me like I’m nuts.

“I’m sorry,” she says slowly. Then she leans forward, as if she’s not sure her ears are working properly. “Greta was the one fucking Nick Hollis?”

As I nod, Strots looks down at the Coke bottle like she’s forgotten she had it in her hand. “Holy… shit.”

“I didn’t make any of this up.” At least, I think I didn’t. I’m pretty sure I didn’t. “And I told the police everything about her and Nick. Well, not about my role in it all coming out. But they already knew everything that had been going on between them.”

Strots just sits there with her soda, staring at the plastic bottle. I’m willing to bet the thing is like a TV screen and it’s playing an after-school movie about her and Greta.

“I have a credibility problem,” I say to fill the silence. “But the police have other more reliable sources. I mean, the administration investigated Nick and Greta, right? Ms. Crenshaw went to them with what she found in his car. That’s why he was fired. And clearly, the school didn’t—or couldn’t—keep the details of it all from the cops.”

Strots’s eyes lift to my own. “When did Crenshaw go to the administration? After you met with the dean about the telephone room shit?”