In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

by Ashley Winstead

  “What?” Now this was news. Jack and Heather were like Mint and Jessica—permanent fixtures, practically Duquette institutions, despite being totally mismatched. Courtney had always been able to see it, even if no one else could. It sounded like Jack was finally coming to his senses.

  Heather nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “He told me—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s been cheating on me. We got into a huge fight, and I didn’t know where else to go. I figured everyone would be here.”

  Well, would you look at that. Courtney wasn’t surprised at all. It seemed perfectly believable that Jack would find someone prettier than Heather. It had to be another Chi O. She wondered who…

  “Where’s Jess?” Heather’s eyes scanned the crowd. “I need to talk to her.”

  Courtney bristled. “You don’t need Jessica. I’m your best friend. You can talk to me.”

  Heather shook her head vehemently. “Jack told me…a lot. Shocking things. And Jess knew about it for an entire year. I can’t believe she kept this from me. I have to find her.”

  Aha. Courtney seized her opportunity. “That doesn’t surprise me. Jessica’s never been a very good friend.”

  Tears spilled down Heather’s face, taking her mascara with it. “God, this was supposed to be the best night. A celebration. And now I feel like my entire life is falling apart. I thought Jack and I were going to get married.”

  The sight of Heather openly crying tugged at Courtney’s heart. “Hey,” she said sternly. “Don’t waste your time crying over someone who didn’t respect you enough to keep his dick in his pants. He’s the one who lost you. So don’t get sad—get over it. Hell, get even.”

  Courtney patted Heather on the shoulder, proud of herself for such a good speech. “Now go clean yourself up in the bathroom. You’ve got mascara everywhere. It’s ridiculous. Your face looks like a Jackson Pollock painting.”

  Heather wiped her eyes. “Thanks,” she whispered and left for the stairs.

  With Heather gone, Courtney stepped back into the center of the room. She eyed Mint near the keg and strode over, fanning her hair over her shoulder. Just as she was about to reach him, a big chest stepped in front of her.

  “Was that Heather?” Frankie asked. “She’s not leaving the party, is she?”

  God. The insufferableness of the East House Seven. Like a damn cult, all of them so wrapped up in each other they were practically in love.

  “Calm down,” Courtney said, rolling her eyes. “She’s just going to the bathroom. She’ll be back in a minute.” Pathetic.

  “Good,” Frankie said, straightening the lapel of his suit jacket. He grinned at her. “Tonight’s going to be a big night for her.” He glanced around and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, because I’m not supposed to say, but Heather won Sweetheart. I’m really glad. She deserves it.”

  The floor dropped out. She grabbed Frankie’s shoulder to steady herself. “Heather?”

  “Yeah, great, right?” Frankie frowned. “Am I missing something?”

  Courtney swallowed hard, feeling like she was going to throw up. “Who was…runner-up?” If Frankie said Jessica, she was going to light this frat house on fire.

  “Oh,” Frankie said, looking suddenly guilty. “You were. Sorry. That was a dick move to tell you Heather won like that. I never think before I say things.”

  She was runner-up. Close, but no crown. It was almost like it had been ripped right off her head. Courtney forced herself to smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a stupid tradition. Who cares?”

  She left Frankie staring at her guiltily and grabbed a Solo cup, pumping the keg to give herself time to think. Heather? How had Heather beaten her? Put the two of them side by side and there was no comparison. Heather was lucky to even be a Chi O. She’d probably only gotten in because she was Courtney’s roommate. She’d been lucky to date Jack, and look, she couldn’t even keep him loyal.

  How had this happened? And how could she fix it, turn it around, make the night go the way it was supposed to?

  An idea came to her. It was wrong, of course, but no more so than Heather winning Sweetheart instead of her.

  Courtney pulled the pills out of her purse and found the darkest corner of the basement, where there was a stumpy radiator, and no one was watching. She poured the pills onto the radiator and, glancing around just in case, crushed them with her phone. Swept them into the beer, mixed it with her finger. She stared at the cup for a second, then dumped two more pills, ground them, and brushed them in. There. That would do.

  You couldn’t crown a passed-out Sweetheart.

  It made sense, in a funny way, that her pills would help her with this. Courtney would never forget her mother standing beside her in the full-length mirror the night before her first day of high school, closing Courtney’s hand around a single white pill. She’d pinched the baby fat poking over the waist of Courtney’s jeans and said, “This little thing is going to save you.” Their eyes had met in the mirror, and Courtney’s mom smiled a conspiratorial smile. And she’d felt in that moment like she was being let into some secret club, some tight circle where she and her mom would be closer than ever, not just mother-daughter, but two women. Her mom had winked. “It’ll get you everything you want. Trust me.”

  And look at it now, doing just that. The secret club she’d hoped for with her mom had never materialized, and neither had the special closeness, but at least this part was turning out exactly like her mother promised.

  Across the basement, Heather descended the staircase once more, her mascara back in place, nose no longer red. Courtney, resenting the regal bearing of Heather’s shoulders, made her way over. But before she could say anything, Heather gave her a triumphant look—the kind a villain in a movie wore when they’d hatched an evil plan.

  “I thought about what you said, and you’re right,” Heather said. “I’m going to get even with Jack, and I know just how. Hooking up with someone else won’t hurt him. So I’m going to talk to his parents. Next weekend.”

  Courtney blinked, taken aback. “Parents’ Weekend?”

  “Yes,” Heather said fiercely. “I’m going to tell them everything. His parents love me, and they’re so religious they’ll never forgive him. He’s always cared what they think, no matter how much he denies it. We’ll see how he likes having his life ruined.” She looked around the room. “I need a drink. I have several hours of my life to forget.” Heather turned, gripping her. “Before I get drunk… Don’t let me talk to Frankie, okay? I can’t tell you why, but promise me.”

  Courtney was opening her mouth to ask Heather why anyway—or, frankly, to tell her that no matter what Jack had done, nothing justified getting his parents involved—when she realized Heather had given her the perfect opening.

  “Here,” she said instead, thrusting her cup at her. “I got you this. Bottom’s up.”

  “Thank god,” Heather said, taking the beer and chugging it. She wiped her mouth. “You’re a lifesaver.”

  Chapter 21

  Now

  I’d always thought the sight of Courtney Minter cowering on the ground, confessing her sins to an angry mob, would make me feel better than it did. Now that it was happening, she looked so small and pathetic, her twig-legs drawn up under her, perfect face in her bony hands, that it was hard to see the traces of my legendary nemesis.

  Instead, watching her, one thing was crystal-clear: Courtney Minter was not a happy person—or, a healthy one. Yes, she’d done something terrible. But for all the days of her life, Courtney was going to have to live with herself, locked in the cage of her body with nothing to keep her company but her own brain. And that was a severe punishment if I’d ever heard one.

  Caro did not share my sympathy.

  “You drugged your best friend to get her out of the way so you could be queen of a fraternity party?” Caro’s face was so red you c
ould see it, even in the dim light from the lamps.

  Looking at Courtney, I felt an uneasy stirring in the pit of my stomach. If I hadn’t been so consumed with winning a prize greater than Sweetheart, it could’ve been me that night, stewing in the shadows, gutted by Heather’s first-place win, Courtney’s runner-up status. The insidious voice whispering, Jessica Miller, the Phi Delt president’s girlfriend—and not even second in line for the crown.

  I recognized myself in her.

  “I know you’re mad, Caro, but keep your voice down.” Mint looked around. “We don’t want to attract unwelcome attention.”

  “Oh, no. Like from the cops?” Caro threw her arms out. For a second—it could have been the lighting—she looked like a gold cross, burning bright against the night. “Jail’s exactly where we should send her. Courtney, you’re the reason Heather couldn’t defend herself that night. You might not have stabbed her, but you basically tied her hands behind her back. And you were willing to let Coop take the fall. How do you live with yourself?”

  “It was supposed to make her go to sleep, that’s all. How could I have known?”

  Courtney’s hands trembled in a way that was deeply familiar. “After she died, I was broken. I didn’t eat for a week. And the only way I could get out of bed was to think…well, she would have been killed anyway. Someone wanted to stab her. It was only a coincidence both things happened the same night. I told myself it didn’t matter and made myself forget.” Her voice dropped to a painful, throaty whisper. “I should have won Sweetheart in the first place. It was meant to be mine.”

  “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’” Eric said, his voice ice.

  I made myself forget. The black hole at my center stirred. A flash of memory: Two hands, covered in dried blood.

  No. I shoved the image away.

  On the ground, Courtney’s hands started shaking so bad she could barely hold them in place. She reached for her purse, but before she could get there, Eric snatched the bag, and she gave a cry of protest.

  No one moved to stop him.

  He yanked open her purse, rummaged, and pulled out a sleek orange cylinder with Chinese letters.

  “You’re still taking the pills?” Coop shook his head. “Goddamn, Courtney.” He looked dazed, as if he couldn’t believe the turn the night had taken.

  “Lucky for us,” Eric said, turning the bottle to look at it. “Now we have evidence.”

  Mint sat down at his wife’s side and gave Eric an evil look. “She doesn’t say another word. We’re getting a lawyer.”

  Courtney burst into tears. “I don’t care about a lawyer,” she cried. “Please, just give them back. Please.”

  A memory of my father, begging: Please, Jessica. Please, sweetheart, just to take the edge off. You don’t understand how much it hurts.

  I grabbed the pills from Eric’s hand, taking him by surprise, and twisted the lid off.

  “What are you doing?” Caro asked.

  “She’s addicted.” I dumped the pills in my hand, leaving one in the bottom of the bottle. “You can still have your evidence. You don’t need all of them.”

  I handed the bottle back to Eric, who took it with a raised brow. Then I crouched by Courtney. She looked at me with cautious hope, and I realized, with a sinking feeling, that we’d been bad to her, too. Not the same kind of bad she’d been to us, but we’d known about her problem, in the back of our minds, and done nothing. Brushed it off all four years of college. Worse—in some ways, we’d even celebrated it. Courtney, the most perfect girl in school, had a humiliating vice. A fatal flaw. We’d all sighed in relief.

  I pressed the pills into her hand and closed her blood-red fingernails around them. She nodded, embarrassed but grateful. I stood, catching Coop’s eye. He gave me a puzzled look.

  “You all need to sign an NDA,” Mint said, wrapping a protective arm around Courtney’s shoulders.

  “Are you kidding me?” Caro screeched.

  “Not about her drugging Heather,” Mint said hurriedly. “Just about the diet pills. She’s a fitness influencer. It would ruin her career.”

  Coop shook his head. “She’s lying on the ground shaking, dude. Her career is the least of her worries.”

  “For the record”—twisted the pill bottle in his hand, watching it catch the lamplight—“I wasn’t staring at your breasts in college.” His gaze moved from the bottle to Courtney’s face. “I was staring at your ribs. You were a walking skeleton, and I couldn’t believe no one said anything. Not even Heather. She used to brush it off when I asked.” He pocketed the bottle. “I always had a feeling the drug in Heather’s system was yours.”

  Something about Courtney’s story was still bugging me. I turned to her. “After Heather got blackout at Phi Delt, and you asked Frankie to take her home, what did you tell him?”

  Courtney blinked, rubbing mascara-streaked cheeks. “I don’t know,” she said shakily. “I guess I told him Jack had broken up with her. And she was drowning her sorrows, planning her revenge.”

  Her voice became firmer, surer. “I definitely did. I told Frankie that Jack had confessed some terrible secret, and Heather was planning to tell Jack’s parents at Parents’ Weekend to get back at him, ruin his life. I remember I told Frankie specifically because I thought it was messed up of Heather, and I was hoping he’d talk her out of it. She was more likely to listen to him than me, anyway.” Courtney laughed, a small, bitter sound. “He was one of you East House Seven, after all.”

  “Frankie didn’t tell us that part.” Coop shot me a worried look.

  Caro frowned. “Why wouldn’t he mention Heather was planning to tell Jack’s parents? That’s huge.”

  “You guys,” I said, “Frankie’s parents always came for Parents’ Weekend. His dad practically lived for it. If Heather was going to spill the beans, make some spectacle, there’s a strong chance Frankie’s parents would have found out, too.”

  “But Heather didn’t know Frankie was the guy Jack was cheating with,” Eric pointed out.

  “Maybe she did.” Mint ran a tired hand over his face, mussing his golden hair. “Heather asked Courtney to make sure she didn’t get drunk and talk to Frankie. Maybe that’s why.”

  We were all silent for a stretch, until finally Caro spoke. “He’s guilty, isn’t he? Heather was scared to talk to him that night, and at best, Frankie lied by omission earlier. We all remember what his dad is like. Frankie said himself he would have done anything to keep his dad from finding out. He has to be guilty.”

  “I don’t know,” Eric said, scratching his jaw. He looked unsure for the first time all night, and for a second, I caught a glimpse of the soft boy I remembered, before his face hardened. “It doesn’t satisfy all the other evidence, but it’s worth checking out.”

  “What other evidence—” Mint started, but Caro interrupted.

  “We know where Frankie’s going to be tomorrow. He’s grand marshal of the Homecoming parade. There will be tons of people around. If we confront him, he can’t run.”

  Coop whistled. “You want to accuse Frankie of murdering Heather in front of hundreds of people?”

  “What other choice do we have?” I asked. “This could be our only opportunity to solve Heather’s murder.”

  Eric eyed me. “Since when do you care about solving her murder?”

  The words were a knife through my heart. But only because I knew—in the deepest, darkest part of me—that I deserved them.

  I deserved so much worse.

  “Since always,” I said quietly. “Since now.”

  “Well”—Eric patted the pill bottle in his pocket—“whoever else cares, I’ll see you at noon tomorrow by the basketball stadium, at the start of the parade route. We’ll demand an explanation from the grand marshal.”

  With that, Eric slipped back into the trees, where there wasn’t even a path, a
nd dissolved among the shadows.

  “Fucking Ghost of Christmas Past,” Mint muttered. “Back to punish us for our sins.”

  ***

  Everyone went back to their hotels. Tomorrow we were confronting Frankie, and there was nothing left to say.

  Except for me. I stood in the middle of the now-empty white tent, watching the bartenders pack bottles. The party was over. My perfect plan, ground to dust, ruined by Eric Shelby. But as I stood there, a new plan slowly formed, more ambitious than the first. If I could pull it off, I wouldn’t just be proving myself—I could settle every debt, right every wrong. Quiet the insidious whisper. Unmake the black hole.

  Eric was right: for ten years, I’d lived a lie. I’d pretended I was fine, pretended I’d moved on, but the truth was, the past was still open inside me, like a half-cracked door, because it was a raw, unhealed wound.

  Showing off for my classmates was only a Band-Aid. I would step inside that door. Dive into the past. I would find Heather’s killer and be healed.

  “You really don’t want to go home, do you?”

  I spun to find Coop.

  “What are you doing here? I thought you left with Caro.”

  He put a finger to his lips and walked backwards to the bar. While the bartenders’ backs were turned, Coop grabbed a bottle of whiskey and slid it under his sweater. He waved at me to follow and sauntered, as if nothing was amiss, out of the tent.

  I drew a deep breath and followed.

  He led me through the dark, eerie campus. I remained behind, eyes on his back, walking in silence. Halfway, I knew where we were going, so I wasn’t surprised to see the ivy-covered walls of East House rise in front of us.

  He walked past it into the quad, over to our picnic table, the one beside the oak tree Heather’s parents had planted ten years ago, a memorial in her favorite place. The tree had grown to twenty feet now. Looking at it was like looking at the passage of time, made solid and tangible. The branches reached toward East House like imploring arms. It looked uncannily like a person, as if Heather herself was frozen and trapped, begging for help.