“Oh, please,” I scoffed. “Now you’re just being silly.”
“Just wait.” Heather gave me a knowing look. “College is a vacation for Jack. He gets four years to be free, but he’ll have to go back eventually. He’s on borrowed time. Besides, he cares way more about his parents’ approval than he lets on.”
I let the possibility sink in. Was Jack on a temporary reprieve, destined to go backwards after college, rather than forward? He was always so lighthearted when he joked about his evangelical parents, their strict lifestyle, the judgmental church. Was the joking a way of making it light, making himself okay with going back?
I looked at Heather. “And you’re fine with that?”
She snorted. “Jack is lucky he met me. I’m what guarantees his life will always be interesting.” She twisted on the bed. “But you. Jessica Miller, the wildcard. Maybe you’ll go work your boring DC job like some wonky nerd. But I have a feeling you’ll surprise us.”
“Pssh,” I said, though I was secretly thrilled. “No way.”
“Just wait.” Heather lay back down and cuddled close to me. We pressed our heads together and looked out the window at the outline of the trees. “Whatever happens, we’re going to be happy, okay? I promise. So you can stop worrying.” She took my hand and squeezed it. “Ten years from now, we’re going to be on top of the world together. You and me, looking down on everyone else, laughing and laughing.”
Chapter 43
Now
The cops shoved me through the angry crowd, pushing me forward by my shoulders. My arms were wrenched painfully behind my back, hands locked in cold metal cuffs. Someone yelled, “Murderer!” and someone else echoed it. Instead of backing away, the crowd pressed closer, their faces hardening against me.
I couldn’t help but think of the daydream I’d had just two days ago: becoming the center of attention, the shining Homecoming queen. The star of the show.
Look at me now.
I gritted my teeth and shouldered forward.
“Get back,” the cop behind me yelled, and people grudgingly made room for us to pass. Campus had descended into chaos, everyone shouting and running, ambulances and fire trucks wailing. I’d caught the barest glimpse of Caro in the back of an ambulance before they’d slammed the doors and rushed off.
Caro and the others were being taken care of, treated carefully for burns and smoke inhalation. I was a different story. As soon as the firemen cleared the inferno at the top of the tower, they’d shuffled me down the winding staircase, where I’d been met by a wave of cops. They had seized me, barely adjusting their grips when I screamed I’d been stabbed in the side. They’d asked if I was the one who’d pushed the man from the window, and when I said yes, they’d shoved me down the steps, ignoring my protests, my gasps of pain.
If I’d known what was waiting for me when we emerged out of the doors of Blackwell Tower, I might have refused to ever leave, taken my chances with the burning room.
There was a wall of people, horror and accusation in their eyes. People I’d gone to college with, shock on their faces, tears streaking their cheeks. I’d killed Mint, the golden boy. They didn’t know he was a murderer. Only that I was.
I was living a scene from a nightmare. But it was going to be okay, because Caro and Eric and everyone else were being taken care of. Everything was going to be okay.
I’d repeated it as they twisted my hands into cuffs, pinching the skin and pulling the cut in my side as the crowd barely shifted to let me through, wanting to see me up close, the murderess, the witch of Blackwell Tower.
Now, as the cops pushed me toward the last remaining ambulance, I caught sight of the Homecoming stage where Frankie should have stood next to the chancellor, giving a speech to rile the crowd. Instead, the stage was empty, balloon arch swaying in the wind. The dumbfounded chancellor stood gaping at the madness around him: Blackwell Tower, the symbol of Duquette, still smoking; Homecoming, the event of the year, descended into mayhem.
The sight of the chancellor shook something loose inside me. I twisted, trying to face the cop who was pushing me forward. “He killed Heather,” I said urgently. “Mint, the man on the ground. You have to believe me. He killed Heather Shelby, and he was going to kill me. I pushed him to save my life. It was self-defense.”
The cop shoved me harder. “Save the excuses for your lawyer.”
It was too late; I faced the ambulance, and the doors swung open, medics rushing out. But before they touched me, a figure darted forward, pushing frantically through the crowd.