But I had to have the recommendation.
My phone buzzed on the table, Mint’s name flashing across the screen. I stared at it a second, then clicked it dark.
I had to have it.
Besides, I didn’t know how this would end. Maybe Dr. Garvey would take his last sip of wine, sign the bill, and shake my hand with a thank-you for the company and a promise to have the letter on Monday. Maybe he was just lonely. Maybe it was innocent.
But when the check came, he looked at me and cleared his throat, loosening his navy bow tie. “Back to mine for a nightcap?”
No. I shook my head. “I really have to go home.”
He smiled. “Don’t you want your letter? It’s sitting on my desk, in my office. Come back with me, have a drink, and you can have it.”
I blinked in confusion. He’d already written it? What was the point of this dinner, then?
“I can pick it up on Monday,” I said, picking the napkin off my lap and folding it on the table.
“Ah,” he said regretfully. “I’m out of town for the next few weeks. Off to Europe for a mini-sabbatical. The fellowship deadline’s before then, isn’t it?”
It was in a week. A week, a week, a week. I had to have the letter. I had to win. There was only one more chance for us. The door was closing.
My throat constricted. I clutched my chest, trying to pull in air, fighting the feeling that I was trapped. The couple at the table next to us turned to stare.
Dr. Garvey simply raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”
***
I stepped outside myself.
Watched, from a distance, as Dr. Garvey unlocked the door to his enormous house, led me inside, down the hallway, and into the study. His home was beautiful, dimly lit, masculine colors. He had shelf after shelf of books. I studied them, pausing over the titles I recognized, repeating the words under my breath. They were familiar. Comforting. Everything would be okay.
And then I saw them, hanging on his wall: Two Harvard diplomas. One, a twin to my father’s. The undergrad degree. The second—the PhD—was huge. Larger than life, just like I’d imagined.
He’d been the same major as my father, of course. Economics. They’d been equal, once. Then Dr. Garvey had gone back a second time. And then to work at Duquette, and in Washington. In the thick of things. So important, so much to be proud of. He was living the life my father always wanted.
Dr. Garvey poured whiskey from a cut-crystal decanter and handed me a glass.
I had to have the letter.
I took a sip, and Dr. Garvey slipped a hand down my arm.
He led me down the hall to the bedroom.
One night when I was sixteen, I walked home by myself from a classmate’s party. Halfway there, I caught a man out of the corner of my eye, his pale face stark against the night. He was a few feet behind me, tracking my steps. When I sped up, he sped up. When I turned, he turned. A wild, terrible knowing seized me then, a charge under my skin, the kind of tension a girl learns to read without anyone teaching her.
Terrified, I ran. I could remember that moment so vividly: using every ounce of my strength, running so hard I eventually couldn’t feel my legs. Running for a mile, all the way home, to escape the danger in the dark, right behind me.
Walking into Dr. Garvey’s room, the wild, terrible knowing seized me again. But this time, I didn’t run. This time, my legs moved slowly, one after the other, toward the bed. My arms remained by my side, clenched, as he unwound his bow tie. My face a mask, set in flat lines.
There was still the sixteen-year-old girl inside me who wanted to be free and safe. Untouched. I could feel her heart thumping with terror, nowhere to go. She was running, she was screaming, she was banging on my rib cage to get out.
But I locked her inside. I knelt on the bed. This time, I let the danger catch me.
I drowned her in the dark.
And when I walked home that night, clutching my letter, there was no one left inside to be afraid.
Chapter 29
Now
It was so close to my Homecoming fantasy—every eye on me, rapt, waiting to see what I’d do next, just like it used to be with Heather—that for a moment, I felt an absurd flash of joy. Of gratefulness. Jessica Miller, star of the show.
But of course, now that it was finally happening, it was all wrong. They weren’t gathered around me to applaud, set a crown on my head. They were waiting for me to confess.
It was getting hard to breathe.
“Well?” Eric asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“I didn’t kill her.” My voice cracked. “I’m not hiding anything.”
Liar.
“That night, someone took the scissors from Caro’s desk and used them to cut up three photographs.” Eric stepped closer. “Someone who was very angry. And then those very same scissors—do you remember what happened next?”
Don’t say it.
“Someone used them to kill Heather. Stabbed her seventeen times.”
One, two, three cuts.
“A crime of passion, the cops said.” Eric took another step, and there was nowhere else to go. The railing bit into my back. “They thought it had to be Jack, the boyfriend. On the surface, it made sense. But Jack wasn’t so passionate about Heather, was he? Oh, he loved her, don’t get me wrong, but he wasn’t so angry that he could do that to her, like the cops thought. He was already moving on. No, someone else hated her.”
Four, five, six.
Eric pointed the photographs at me. “It was either you”—he turned to Caro—“or her.”
Coop shouldered his way past Eric and stood in front of me, arms out like a shield. “Enough. We played your games. We confessed our sins. There’s nothing left to say.”
“Coop?” Caro looked at him, standing boldly in front of me like a knight before a dragon, then at the empty space in front of her. She frowned.
“Coop’s right,” Mint said. “We’ve practically given you our entire Homecoming. Because you’re Heather’s brother, and we feel bad. Really, we do. You’re clearly hurting. But sometimes, as terrible as it sounds, mysteries go unsolved. Cases remain cold.” Mint gestured at the line of floats behind us. “Why don’t you go and use this day to mourn your sister?”
Eric’s calm mask shattered. His eyes flashed. “I’m not going anywhere until her killer is brought to justice. I promised her.” His eyes found mine over Coop’s shoulder.
“I didn’t do it,” I said, my voice hollow.
Seven, eight, nine cuts.
“If no one will confess to killing her,” Eric said, “maybe you’ll confess to the other crimes.”
“What other crimes?” Courtney asked warily.
Caro was still looking at Coop, measuring the distance between him and me.
“The night of Heather’s murder, two other crimes were committed, but of course, neither got as much attention. The second crime the cops investigated but, like Heather’s case, never solved. The first was never even reported. It was considered minor, only a campus issue. That crime was my most important clue. It took me years to find it. Took joining the Alumni Office, making friends with the one person who was on staff back then, who remembered the night Heather died. And what they found the next morning.”
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 wo
rk 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.
Four fifty-nine—one minute to go. I was so close, just a sliver of time away. With my high grades, thanks to Adderall and constant all-nighters, my essay, revised seven times until it was perfect, like my dad taught me, and my recommendation letter from Dr. Garvey, I had to win. It had to be me, for once.
Five o’clock. I took a deep breath and pressed the refresh button, closing my eyes. The butterflies in my stomach were on speed, banging around everywhere. I opened my eyes and blinked at the screen. The announcement was up.
We are pleased to congratulate this year’s winner of the Duquette Post-Graduate Fellowship: Ms. Heather Shelby.
Heather Shelby? I closed my eyes, rubbing them vigorously. Reality had blipped, gone sideways for a second, but all would be fine.
I opened my eyes and squinted.
Ms. Heather Shelby. It was still there, in black and white pixels. Like someone had dug into my nightmares and pulled out the worst possible scenario, the one that stabbed the deepest. It didn’t make any sense. Heather hadn’t applied for the fellowship. Had she? She hadn’t said a word about it. How was her name on the screen?
It hit me, sudden and fierce: I didn’t win.
I tried to step outside myself, to look from a distance, but the pain was too much. It kept me tethered to my body. I felt the loss like someone had cracked open my rib cage, thrust a hand inside, and squeezed my heart.
I’d failed again. Now my father would be nothing more than a body buried in a hole in that shithole town he hated. Forever a small, unimportant man. He’d fade away into nothing.
Everything I’d done to get here—none of it mattered. Dr. Garvey, his arms encircling me, pulling me down—
The door to the suite burst open. “Jess, you home?”
It was Heather. I sat frozen, the walls of the room closing in.
“There you are!” She practically bounced into our room, wearing a sparkly red sweater printed with Sweetheart candies, her idea of a cocky joke. But maybe she would get crowned Sweetheart tonight. Maybe she’d get everything. “Jess, I have the craziest news!”
Her presence in the room felt threatening. Like a gun pressed to my temple. No wrong moves.
I snapped the laptop shut. “What?”
When she spoke, I had a sense of déjà vu. Like I’d been here before, a thousand times, and knew exactly how it would go.
“I won that fake-Fulbright thing. I just found out. Can you believe it?”
When I didn’t say anything, too choked with emotion, she rolled her eyes. “I know, I know, it’s super-nerdy. Honestly, much more up your alley than mine. I totally applied on a whim, because I was like, why not? We’re in the middle of a freaking recession, and there are no jobs, anyway. Everyone’s going to grad school to wait it out.”
“How?” I whispered. How had she done it? How had she managed to steal the thing I wanted most? Her grades were average. She wasn’t a virtuoso writer. How, how, how?
Heather flopped on her bed and shot me a look. “I’m going to choose to not be offended by that. I am smart, you know. I wouldn’t have even known about the fellowship if that professor hadn’t sought me out.”
I twisted in my chair. “What professor?”
“That famous one. You know, the one you love.” Heather snapped her fingers. “Garvey. He just came up to me after class and said I was totally gifted and should consider applying for the fellowship. He even wrote me a recommendation.”
Dr. Garvey? Suddenly it was clear. He could only have had one motivation.
I recoiled. “You went to dinner?”
Heather frown
ed. “What dinner?”
“With Dr. Garvey,” I said. He’d done it to both of us. I couldn’t believe it.
“Ew,” she said. “Why would I have dinner with him? He’s old. And, like, a professor.”
I froze. Dr. Garvey hadn’t made Heather have dinner with him? Hadn’t made her go back to his house, kneel on his bed?
She wasn’t looking at me anymore. She was texting on her bed, legs propped up on the wall.
Dr. Garvey had simply written her a letter because he thought she was good.
I didn’t know what was keeping me alive, now that my heart was outside my body.
“Anyway, it’s silly, I know,” Heather said, swinging her legs off her bed. “But my mom was happy, and it gives me something to do for a few years. And I needed some good news. This has been a surprisingly shitty semester. Speaking of which, Caro didn’t find a date for Sweetheart, did she? Because she is the absolute last person I want to see tonight.”
I should have asked why, or what’s going on between you guys. She paused, waiting for me to do it. But I couldn’t make my mouth move.
Heather waved her hand, as if casting away the negativity. “So the deal with this fellowship is you’re pretty much guaranteed a spot at whatever school you want. Maybe I’ll go to Haaa-vard.” She pantomimed pulling a monocle away from her eye. “With all the supersmart uptight people. I know that’s your vote—you’ve always been obsessed. Or maybe Oxford, and then I can go to the theater in London whenever I want.” She clapped. “Okay, well, I’m off to get a blow out for Sweetheart. Mom said I can do whatever I want as a reward. You want to come?”
She doesn’t know, I reminded myself. Somehow, I managed to shake my head.
“Boo. Fine. I’m sure you have some very important studying to do or whatever. Pregame in the basement tonight, don’t forget. You better be there.”
All of a sudden, Heather reached down and hugged me. I stiffened in her arms, but she didn’t seem to notice. She pulled back, squeezed my shoulders, and smiled. “I don’t know why you’re being weird, but tonight’s going to be the best night ever. We’re going to celebrate, okay? And look, I know we’re Sweetheart rivals, so—” She winked, flashing her impish smile. “May the best woman win.”
In My Dreams I Hold a Knife Page 20