My heart, pounding and pounding.
Ten, eleven, twelve.
“Jesus Christ, Eric,” Coop started, but Eric cut him off.
“Do you remember a professor by the name of John Garvey?”
I stepped outside myself. I was not here. I was a million miles away.
Coop clenched his fists in front of me. He was going to hit Eric. I could see it happening already, unfolding like a foregone conclusion. Even Mint went rigid as a board, feeding off Coop’s tension.
Caro squinted. “The economics professor? The big shot who went to work for the president after we graduated?”
“That’s the one. Amazingly tight-lipped, Professor Garvey. Didn’t want to talk at all about his years teaching at Duquette. Even less excited to be asked about the night Heather was killed, the night someone—”
Coop took a threatening step forward. “I swear to god, Shelby, not here. You’re dealing with people’s lives.”
“I’m dealing with her life,” Eric growled. “That’s the only life I care about.”
“Let him talk,” Mint said in a flat voice.
“That same night,” Eric said, looking at Coop defiantly, “someone broke into Professor Garvey’s house. Smashed it up. Glass shattered, paintings ripped from the walls, shelves turned over. The damage was nearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. But you want to know the most interesting part? Whoever broke in wrote the word ‘rapist’ in every room of his house.”
What? The shock filtered through me. I searched myself, combing through memories, but I couldn’t find the break-in. There was a point in the night when the reel went black—utterly, utterly dark—so it was possible. It was possible, but it didn’t feel right.
No, it didn’t feel right. Not like thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.
“If you say one more word, I’ll shut you up myself,” Coop said. “You don’t have the right to bring this up. It’s not yours to talk about.”
Caro looked at me with the strangest expression.
Rapist. Someone had written it, over and over. An accusation, a punishment. Who even knew, besides me? Were there other girls? The thought made me dizzy.
“It is mine to talk about. Because Professor Garvey was connected to Heather. He wrote her a letter—the recommendation that landed her the Duquette Post-Grad Fellowship. Ring any bells?”
“That’s right,” Courtney said, a faraway look in her eyes. “That award she won. She found out the day she died. I remember she was excited. She told me she’d applied on a lark.”
A lark. The words brought the pain back, as fresh and vivid as it was ten years ago. A knife straight through the heart.
Sixteen.
“February 14th, 5:03 p.m. Heather called our mom to tell her she’d won the fellowship. The Duquette version of a Fulbright, the highest honor any graduating senior could receive. My mom told her she was proud. It was the last time anyone in our family spoke to her.”
Coop couldn’t seem to help it. He turned over his shoulder, searching my face for a clue. His own was a mask of uncertainty.
“The people Heather beat for the fellowship must have been livid,” Courtney said, tapping her chin. “She wasn’t even an econ major and Garvey wrote for her.” She gave a puff of laughter. “She kept going on and on about how she didn’t even care, then she goes and wins it.”
“Funny you say that.” Eric smiled at me, and I knew what was coming. Mint and Coop turned, following the direction of Eric’s smile, and suddenly, all eyes were back on me.
“It turns out Professor Garvey wrote one other recommendation letter for the fellowship. But it took me nearly a decade to find out, because the evidence went missing from campus the night Heather died.”
“The first crime,” Mint said softly. “The one they said was only a campus issue.”
Eric nodded.
Lucky number seventeen.
“Who?” Courtney breathed.
She didn’t remember, of course, but the rest of them did. There had only ever been one econ major among us.
Caro turned to me, her eyes wide and frightened. “Oh my god. What did you do?”
Chapter 30
February, senior year
February 14: Valentine’s Day. I used to know that, used to dream about red roses, the Phi Delt Sweetheart Ball, a golden crown lowered onto my head. But this year, the day meant only one thing: the winner of the Duquette fellowship would finally be announced.
I sat in my pink dress for Sweetheart, refreshing the fellowship website over and over. I was intensely grateful that it was a Saturday, and I didn’t have to suffer through classes, hadn’t told any of my friends, keeping it clutched close like a treasure. Because what if I lost? No, my brain whispered, impossible. Still, it was better this way. This was a private dream, a private moment between me and my dad.