In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

by Ashley Winstead

  “There’s only one problem,” Eric said. “Jack didn’t actually kill her.”

  My heart seized. Eric didn’t think Jack was guilty. There was someone else out there who believed. No, not just someone—Heather’s brother.

  “What do you know?” Coop asked.

  “A lot,” Eric said. “It’s amazing what you can find out when you’re a skinny loser who couldn’t hurt a fly, whose sister died tragically. People tell you all sorts of things—students, faculty, detectives. I know so much about each of you. Most of all, I know you’re not what you pretend to be. The famous East House Seven. God, Heather loved you. Her best friends. And all of you, liars.”

  This couldn’t be happening. My instincts told me to run up the stairs, tear down the walls if I had to. Escape.

  “For years, I’ve traced leads, putting the pieces together, uncovering what you’ve hidden. Do you want to know what I discovered?”

  No, no, no.

  “Jack didn’t kill Heather. But someone in this room did. One of you is a monster, hiding behind a mask.”

  Chapter 10

  February, senior year

  It was unseasonably warm for February, which meant all of Duquette was outside, drinking on frat porches, boom boxes blasting music, or lying on picnic blankets on Eliot Lawn, soaking up the sun.

  Of course it was warm, because it was the one day I needed the clouds out, dark and cold, keeping campus a ghost town. The only silver lining was that I hadn’t frozen on the long walk across Duquette, wearing nothing but shorts and a T-shirt.

  I avoided people’s eyes as I passed them, keeping my gaze trained on my feet, like I was eight years old again and embarrassed to exist. I told myself the laughter I heard had nothing to do with me, or the oversized gym clothes I wore, and I half believed it. Finally, finally, Bishop Hall loomed into view, a sleek, modern dorm for upperclassmen, as different as possible from our old vine-covered home at East House.

  Eighteen floors in the elevator, an interminably long time, and then I burst out, down the hall, turning the corner. I was so close. I’d hole up in my room and never come out—would never, ever think about the disaster of last night again. And then I saw them. A crowd of students, gathered outside the door to our suite.

  A dark hole opened inside me. I scanned the crowd and found my friends rushing over. “What’s going on?”

  Mint looked at me, ashen-faced. “You’re okay,” he croaked and jerked an arm around me, pulling me hard to his side, his warm turtleneck sweater soft against my cheek.

  The hole yawned wider, sucking in light.

  Coop gave me a dark look, and I flinched, smoothing my wet hair self-consciously, causing icy drips down the front of my shirt. I squinted at him. His arm was still in the cast he’d worn since November, but he looked freshly beat-up, an angry red scratch down the side of his face. Strange.

  “It’s Heather,” Caro whispered, stepping around Mint. Her eyes were unfocused. “I came back this morning, and the cops were here. They wouldn’t let me in, but I heard them say Heather’s name. I texted everyone to come. Why didn’t you answer?”

  “Traffic’s blocked on Allen,” Courtney said in a hollow voice, as if she hadn’t heard Caro. A red velour tracksuit hung loose on her, matching her bloodshot eyes. “Cop cars everywhere.”

  “How’d the cops get in your suite?” Coop asked. “Someone had to have called them. Was it Heather? Maybe she got alcohol poisoning or something.”

  Caro looked at me, searching. “I have no idea. Do you?”

  I was shaking my head when Courtney’s vacant stare sharpened. She snapped her head to Caro. “Where were you coming back from, this morning?”

  Caro’s face flamed. “I…stayed somewhere else last night. After Sweetheart.”

  “With someone else? Who? A Phi Delt?”

  “What does it matter?” Coop bit out. “Caro can sleep with whoever she wants. It’s not relevant.”

  “At this point, you know fuck-all what’s relevant.” Courtney turned to me, her eyes narrowing. I was next.

  “Where’s Jack?” I cut in. “Someone should call him.”

  “I tried.” Caro gripped the cross at her neck. “He’s not picking up. Neither’s Frankie.”

  Mint shifted and looked down at me, confused. “Did you just come from the gym?”

  I twisted the shirt in my hands. The fabric was itchy and smelled like a mix of unfamiliar deodorant and laundry detergent. “I—”

  “Where were you last night, seriously?” Mint’s grip on me tightened until it was almost painful. “I called you a million times. You never came to Sweetheart. I couldn’t find you anywhere.”

  Last night—bruising memories, the edges blurrier and blurrier as the night went on, until they were swallowed up in darkness. Instead of trying to search them, I willed in more darkness to eat the memories whole.

  “I was drunk,” I said, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. “I passed out. I’m sorry.”

  “Now’s not the time to talk about the fucking Sweetheart Ball,” Coop snapped. “Something’s really wrong—”

  A movement down the hall caught everyone’s attention. Little Eric Shelby, all one hundred pounds of him, came barreling around the corner. When he saw the crowd staring at him in horror, he froze for a second, cowed, then pressed forward.

  “Let me in!” he said, putting his arms up to push through. But the crowd fell back, parting for him. He grabbed the door handle and twisted it open—Caro gasped—but he was blocked by the thick chest of a cop.

  “Stand back,” the cop barked, and Eric nearly fell backwards. “This is a police investigation.”

  I took a staggering step back, pulling Mint with me. But instead of slamming the door in our faces, the cop pushed it fully open. Behind him, I could see our living room and kitchen torn asunder, cushions ripped off the couch, every drawer hanging open. A black-clad EMT worker appeared in the doorway to the room I shared with Heather, walking backwards and carrying a stretcher, draped with a white cloth. Another EMT worker clutched the other end, calling soft directions to his partner. The crowd grew hushed as they passed through the front door, into the hall.

  I stared down at the white cloth. It couldn’t hide the familiar hills and valleys of a human body.

  Even through the near-debilitating pain of my hangover, the nausea, the black blurriness of my memories, I knew it. A strange knowing, like déjà vu: Heather is dead.

  “I need everyone to back up,” the cop ordered.

  “Is it Heather?” Eric practically tripped over himself as he backed away from the stretcher. “Heather Shelby?”

  The sheer desperation in his voice caused tears to spring to my eyes.

  The cop squinted. “Who are you?”

  “Heather’s brother.” On the last word—brother—Eric crumbled, knees giving out. Mint released me and knelt next to him, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. But Eric didn’t notice. He was staring up at the cop, his whole world narrowed to him and how he would answer.

  The cop’s glare softened. “Son, I’m going to need you to come with me.”

  “No,” Eric said. He leaned over the floor, and Mint hovered, conflicted. “No, no, no,” Eric sobbed. “Not Heather.”

  The cop looked at Mint. “Help him up when he’s ready, okay? I need you to bring him to the station. We’ve already called his parents.”

  Mint nodded, accepting the responsibility gravely.

  The cop turned to the crowd. “I’m going to need the roommates. Caroline Rodriguez and Jessica Miller.” Hearing my name caused a shock, like I’d been caught at something.

  Caro took a cautious step forward. “I’m Caroline.”

  The eyes of the crowd swung to me.

  “Me.” I cleared my throat. “Jessica.”

  The cop nodded curtly. “Come with me to answer some qu
estions.”

  Panic swelled. With every footstep, the weight of the crowd’s eyes felt like a crown of thorns, sinking deeper into my skull.

  It’ll be okay, I whispered to myself. You’ll tell the truth. Just not all of it.

  Chapter 11

  Now

  Eric’s words echoed through the basement: One of us. A liar. A monster. A killer.

  “You’re insane,” Courtney said, staggering toward the basement stairs. “All the evidence pointed to Jack. The murder weapon—”

  “I know about the evidence,” Eric said. “All the evidence, not just what they tried to pin on him.”

  “What do you mean, pin on him?” Frankie asked hotly. “Jack fucking killed Heather. Everyone knows it.”

  “Oh, everyone, huh?” Eric turned to me, and the heat of his stare felt like an interrogation lamp. I took a step back. “Do you believe Jack’s the killer, Jessica? Is that why you’ve stayed friends with him all these years?”

  Every one of my friends’ heads snapped in my direction.

  “Is that true?” Courtney was a shark, sensing blood in the water. “Are you secret besties with Heather’s killer?”

  “It’s not what you think,” I said, panicked by the carefully blank expression on Coop’s face, which I knew was his look of betrayal. “I don’t believe Jack did it. And it’s not fair to punish him for something he didn’t do.” My voice rose. “He was our friend.”

  “Sounds exactly like what we thought,” Mint said dryly. “That’s really low, Jess. Here you are paying your respects to Heather like you haven’t been betraying her memory since she died.”

  “You never told me,” Caro said accusingly. “All these years.”

  “He’s innocent,” I sputtered.

  “How do you know?” Coop’s voice was measured, distant. I found his eyes. Vivid green, so full of flecks of color they were like miniature universes, caught and suspended in his face.

  “I just do. It’s an instinct.”

  “Great,” Frankie said. “An instinct totally trumps finding Caro’s bloody scissors under Jack’s bed.”

  Caro flinched at Frankie’s words, looking at Eric. But the shy, skinny freshman had grown into a solid block of a man, one who could withstand mention of his sister’s murder weapon without a change in expression.

  What her death must have done to him. His whole life—the person he’d been growing into—reshaped around his sister’s death. Like a vase at a potter’s wheel, smoothed and molded around the dark, hollow space of her absence.

  Eric faced Frankie. “Like I said. The cops didn’t tell the public everything. You want to know the truth? They couldn’t pin the murder on Jack because the evidence didn’t add up. And I mean all the evidence, not just what you’ve heard. For instance”—He took a step forward, somehow looming over Frankie’s linebacker build—“I know your secret.”

  The blood drained from Frankie’s face. Eric knew Frankie’s secret? The one he’d kept for all these years. But what did that have to do with—

  “I know where the cops found you the night she died.” Eric spun to face the rest of us. “Do you know? How close are you all, really?”

  “Eric.” My voice was unsure. “Don’t…” I met Frankie’s eyes. They were filled with fear.

  “Ten years you’ve gotten a reprieve, but now your time is up.” His voice rose an octave. “Hours after Heather was killed, the cops pulled young Mr. Francis Kekoa here off the top of Brooksman Bridge.”

  I sucked in a breath, thrown off-kilter. Frankie had been on Brooksman the night of Heather’s murder? Why? I remembered now: he’d been absent from the crowd outside our suite that terrible morning. Jack had been gone, too, but everyone knew Jack had been in an interrogation room, the police’s top suspect in the stabbing.

  “What did you confess to the cops, Frankie?”

  Frankie’s face paled.

  “Hey, listen, Shelby,” Mint said, trying to rise to Frankie’s defense, but Eric plowed on.

  “You said you were so racked with guilt that you were going to kill yourself, didn’t you? You were going to jump off that bridge, but you wouldn’t tell the cops why. Tell us now, Frankie. What did you do that made you feel so guilty?”

  Courtney gasped, like a light bulb had gone off. “I know!”

  How?

  “Courtney,” I gritted out, “I swear to god, shut your mouth.” But my warning only made it worse. She gave me a look of pure pleasure. Oh, she hated me all right. She hated that I’d had Mint first, that when everyone remembered college, they thought of Mint and Jessica.

  “Remember how Frankie always joked about wanting to steal Heather away from Jack?”

  “That was harmless, right, Frank?” Mint stepped in front of his friend, as if he could physically shield him.

  “Heather went home with Frankie,” Courtney said. “The night of the Sweetheart Ball, he took her home. I never told the police because they were so sure Jack did it. But if Frankie was the last person to see her, and then he was trying to off himself…”

  It was so far from what I’d expected to hear that the breath left my lungs all at once.

  “Is that true?” Coop took a step forward. Apparently, domestic life—lawyerly life—hadn’t bled the tough out of him yet.

  Instead of rising to Coop’s challenge like the old Frankie would have, he screwed up his face. A tear ran down his cheek. Right there in front of us, in the middle of the Phi Delt basement, Francis Kekoa cried.

  “I did it,” he sobbed. “I hurt her.”

  Chapter 12

  May, junior year

  It was late, even for us. We were drunk and tired, but still high off the sheer absurdity of everyone’s costumes for the Nineties party. Frankie was carrying Heather down from the second floor of Phi Delt—the only one of us strong enough, as usual, after we’d all had too many tequila shots, and Jack walked beside him, monitoring. Caro and I led the pack down the stairs in coordinating Cher and Dionne miniskirts. We couldn’t stop looking back at Coop and laughing.

  “I will never be able to look at you the same way again,” Caro wheezed, clutching the banister. “Seriously, this is the picture of you in my mind, forever.”

  Coop grinned and fingered the glittery butterfly clips holding his hair back. He wore a pink baby-doll dress that I couldn’t believe he’d found in his size, with knee-high white stockings and black Mary Janes.

  “You know, if I’m being honest,” he said, “there’s probably always been a twelve-year-old girl inside me, waiting to get out.”

  “Please don’t talk about coaxing out twelve-year-old girls when you’re in the Phi Delt house, Coop, or I’ll have to reinstate your ban.” Jack, in Kurt Cobain flannel, watched Heather over Frankie’s shoulder. She blinked sleepily.

  It was strange to want Coop when he looked like a mirror image of myself in middle school, but here I was. I caught his eye, and he grinned.

  “Uh, guys?” Caro’s voice shifted as we came to the bottom of the stairs. “What’s going on here?”

  In the foyer, a group of brothers a year older than us huddled over the large composite pictures lining the walls. I stepped closer and realized what they were doing: drawing thick, vicious X’s over Danny Grier’s face.

  Danny Grier, the Phi Delt brother who’d just come out. The one frat guy I knew in all the years I’d been at Duquette to come out—which only meant he was the brave one. Anger welled inside me, but before I could speak, Jack was stepping forward.

  “What are you doing?”

  I felt a moment of fear for him—Jack was a junior and well liked, but these were seniors, popular Phi Delt brothers. They had power, and there were more of them than us. But Jack stood his ground, head held high.

  “What does it look like?” one of them asked. He was tall, and I remembered having a crush on him when I was a
freshman—a crush I now clawed back in my head. “Cleaning up the composites.”

  “It’s 2008,” I said. “How are you this backwards?”

  “Yeah, that’s some retrograde bullshit,” Coop said. “No wonder I never wanted to join your stupid cult.”

  “Frankie, come on.” One of the other brothers, who hadn’t stopped drawing on Danny’s face when we walked in, raised an eyebrow. “Set your friends straight.” He turned to Jack. “Frankie gets it.”

  We turned to Frankie. The conversation had woken Heather, and now she stood on her own two feet, shaking her head groggily. Frankie looked like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. I tensed, waiting for him to tell his brothers to go to hell.

  “They’re right,” Frankie said instead, voice thick. “Danny doesn’t belong here. You can’t be that way and be a Phi Delt. It doesn’t work like that.”

  His words punched me in the chest. Next to me, Caro rocked back in surprise.

  “Wow, Frankie.” Jack drew his arms over his chest. “You sound just like your dad. Congratulations.”

  Frankie glared back at Jack, anger and embarrassment warring on his face.

  Coop lifted his phone and snapped a picture of the Phi Delts. As one, they jumped back from the composites, cursing and tossing their Sharpies.

  “Why don’t you fuck off,” Coop suggested pleasantly, “or I’ll send this to the chancellor?”

  “Look, no harm, no foul,” said the tall one, lifting his hands. “Just a few guys playing a prank. No need to go nuclear.”

  They skulked off. After a few minutes searching, we found cleaning supplies and started scrubbing the glass. It was hard, nail-splitting work, and no one talked, the shock of Frankie’s words still with us.