In My Dreams I Hold a Knife

by Ashley Winstead

A slow smile spread over Frankie’s face. “You want to know the best part?”

  “Let me guess. Your Twitter following jumped by a hundred thousand people overnight?”

  Frankie frowned. “It wasn’t a business decision, Jack. Come on.”

  I felt that overwhelming sense that I shouldn’t be here.

  “Allow me my cynicism. I’ve earned it. Especially when it comes to you.”

  They looked at each other for a long time, something passing between them. Then the ghost of a smile appeared on Jack’s face, and he rolled his eyes. “All right, Frank. Tell me. What’s the best part?”

  “My dad is coming with me to the Today show.”

  “He is?” I blurted.

  Frankie nodded, though he was still watching Jack. “Telling him wasn’t at all like I thought.”

  Jack swallowed. “I’m glad.”

  “Jack, I’m sorry I ever thought—”

  Jack shook his head. “Hey, Frankie? Don’t.”

  Frankie looked like he wanted to protest. But after a second, he just nodded. “I understand.” His gaze slid to me. “I guess I’ll go, then. Hang in there, Jess.”

  “I’ll watch the show,” I offered. “Assuming I’m not in jail.”

  He gave me a weak smile, stole one last glance at Jack, and left, shoulders spanning nearly the width of the doorway before they disappeared.

  Jack sank onto my bed and sighed. “Hallelujah. All alone.” He nodded at my restraints. “I know how that feels. Just remember, I’ve got your back.”

  Jack Carroll, so good, all the way through. Willing to stick by my side through a murder investigation, even though no one had stuck by his.

  “Hey,” he said, as if he could read my mind. “For a little while you thought I might be capable of murder, and for a little while I thought you might be. That makes us even.”

  He didn’t know the whole truth, so he didn’t actually know what I was capable of, but I nodded anyway. “What else are friends for?”

  “I’ve heard they’re good for introducing to boyfriends. Will’s here. Want to meet him?”

  I jerked against the restraints, suppressing a curse. “You brought him? What happened to keeping the past separate?”

  Jack’s eyes searched the wall above my head. “When Eric and I first made this plan, I wasn’t optimistic. I was worried Eric wouldn’t be able to pull it off, get you guys to talk.”

  “He was a pretty effective interrogator, actually.”

  “Well, as much as I didn’t want to be let down, I started having this dream that I finally got to come back, like a normal student. Show my boyfriend around campus, cheer on the Crimson, get my old coffee order at the Frothy Monkey. I decided no matter what, I wanted that dream to come true.”

  “And here you are.”

  He was silent for a moment. “I still can’t believe it was Mint.”

  “I can. But I don’t know how to explain.”

  Jack eyed me. “Well, you did know him best.”

  “No. No one knew Mint, it turns out.”

  We were quiet for a while. Then Jack smiled sadly. “Can you imagine what Heather would say if she was here?”

  “She’d tell me I look awful in this hospital gown.”

  “She’d say it was about damn time we solved her case. And that she’ll kill us if we ever forget her.”

  “I need you to know I loved her,” I said, voice thick. “Please tell me you know.”

  “I know, Jess. Me too.”

  Jack leaned and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Listen. Before I go, I just want to say that I don’t know what’s going on between you and Coop—why he’s dropping everything to stay here and fight to get your charges dropped—”

  “He is?”

  “And one day, I’m going to ask you about it.” Jack let go of my shoulder and stood. “But today you get a reprieve.”

  Making peace with Jack was like taking an antidote to the twin poisons of anxiety and guilt. My need for forgiveness was so intense it was nearly physical. So I made a second vow, right there in that moment. A silent one, only to myself: for as long as I lived, I would never tell anyone else the truth of what I’d really done.

  ***

  A day later, the same cop who’d dragged me burned and bleeding from Blackwell Tower uncuffed me from the hospital bed.

  “No charges,” he grunted. “Free to go.”

  I rubbed my wrists. “Thank you.”

  He squinted. “If it were up to me, you’d be behind bars, and we’d let a jury decide whether you’re innocent. But I guess the court of public opinion won this time.”

  He waved me from the bed. I took a staggering step up, clutching the bed for balance.

  “Clothes are on the chair. Get changed in the ladies’ down the hall.” The cop eyed me. “Wouldn’t want to greet your adoring public looking like that.”

  I frowned as he hustled away, then shrugged and gathered the clothes—purchased by Jack at a Target nearby, bless him—and went to get dressed.

  I was free. My hands shook and wouldn’t stop as I dressed and washed my face. With nothing left to hold me, I wound through the hospital corridors and stepped out the front door. I took a deep gulp of crisp autumn air.

  Then I heard yelling. Across the parking lot, a group of reporters were watching the entrance to the hospital like hawks. They must’ve been tipped off I was getting released today. I froze as they ran for me, the photographers lifting cameras, each click a bright pop that stung my eyes. The reporters belted questions:

  “Jessica! How did it feel to push your college boyfriend to his death? What do you think about the allegations that he murdered Heather Shelby? How do you respond to her parents’ statement that you’re an avenging angel?”

  I spun, looking for a way past them, but they swarmed me, blocking my path. Oh god, I’d never get to leave. I’d be trapped here, at the mercy of their prying questions. I stumbled back, clutching my side.

  An engine rumbled, cutting off the reporters’ questions. Like a mirage, Coop shot through the parking lot on a motorcycle, forcing reporters to jump out of his way. He slid to a stop right in front of me and flicked back the shield on his helmet.

  “Get on.”

  It took only a moment for my brain to unfreeze before I ran and jumped on the back of his bike, clutching the helmet he tossed me. He revved the engine and turned us around. Over the noise I could see, rather than hear, the reporters, openmouthed and shouting as we gunned away.

  We took off out of the parking lot in a burst of speed, winding through the streets, passing cafés where I used to study, bar patios where we used to drink buckets of beer, tree-lined streets I’d walked a million times. We passed East House, where it began, then Bishop Hall, where it ended, zooming past the Founder’s Arch in a blur. Then we were really off, away from town, the streets growing less busy, wider and more rural. The wind whipped my hair and iced my skin, but I didn’t care. We’d escaped.

  After ten minutes driving through farmland, Coop slowed the motorcycle and pulled off near a grove of trees. Winston-Salem had started to turn brilliant-hued during the days I’d been in the hospital. The trees Coop parked in front of drooped with russet and burnt-orange-tinged leaves.

  He rested the motorcycle on the kickstand, swung a long leg over it, and tugged off his helmet, letting his dark hair spring loose. I did the same, my stomach hollowing. Despite the cool air, sweat gathered at my neckline. What would he say? Where would I start?

  Coop dropped his helmet on the ground and walked toward the trees, footsteps crunching. I followed. When he finally stopped, turning to face me, his back against a tree trunk, I felt every inch between us.

  He pushed his hair off his face. “No more handcuffs.”

  “I heard I have you to thank.”

  “Remember in college when y
ou told me I’d never be a lawyer because I was too much of a criminal? Should we take a few moments to soak in the irony?”

  I crossed my arms. “Your humor is impeccably timed, as always.”

  “I’m partial to it.”

  “You have a motorcycle again.”

  He shrugged. “Rented it. I don’t know, being back here makes me nostalgic.” He looked up when I wasn’t expecting it, and I was caught off guard by the brightness of his eyes. “Seriously, though. How are you? I heard Coldwell dropped you.”

  “I’m okay.” I stepped forward and reached for the place on his chest where Mint slashed him, but stopped before I touched him. “You?”

  Coop put his hand over mine and pressed them both to his chest. His shirt was cold against my fingers. “Just a scratch.”

  I withdrew my hand. I had to ask, even if some part of me was afraid of the answer. “What’s happening with Caro?”

  I knew what was coming: We made up, and she’s back at the hotel, waiting for me to say goodbye. Or: I threw myself at her mercy, and she forgave me. Or: She’s home in Greenville, planning our wedding, and I’m just wrapping up loose ends.

  I closed my eyes.

  “You heard her. She wants nothing to do with the East House Seven for the rest of her life. She left for her parents’ house straight from the hospital.”

  I opened my eyes in surprise. “I know she hates us—but you?”

  Coop’s eyes told me the answer before he pressed his hands to his face. “I really fucked up.”

  “No, you didn’t.” I stepped closer. “I’m the one who ruined everything with what I said in Blackwell. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. It was selfish. I’ll talk to her, I promise. I’ll tell her it’s one-sided. You can tell her, too.”

  Coop dropped his hands. “I did talk to her.”

  A chill breeze picked up, lifting my hair. I wrapped my arms over my chest. “But then…do you still need me to fix it?”

  For some reason, this made Coop angry. He stepped away from the tree, putting distance between us. “You know, just because you were a martyr for Eric doesn’t mean I think you’re some big hero now.”

  My mouth dropped open. “I never said that. I’m not.”

  “You’re damn right, you’re not.” Coop paced, then stopped. He stared me down. “I’ve known you since we were eighteen years old. Watched you closer than anyone. Do you want to know what I think?”

  I was shaking my head, but he kept going.

  “You’re a narcissist. You’ve always been vain and petty and ego-driven. You have serious daddy issues and a fucked-up dating history—including, most notably, with me. You always take the safe route because you’re scared. Case in point, your lame corporate job. You try so goddamn hard to make everything perfect because you’re convinced that’s the only way you’ll deserve—what? Love? Life, even? And as far as the world is concerned, you pushed my college roommate out a window to his death. You’re taking the fall, anyway, for reasons I honestly don’t understand.”

  Maybe it was being back here in Winston-Salem, falling into familiar patterns; maybe it was the stress; or maybe I would always react this way to Coop’s uncomfortable truths. Without thinking, I shoved him. He staggered back.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “You’ve managed to top your old record. Now that’s the worst thing anyone’s ever said to me. If you hate me so much, what are you—”

  Coop seized my shoulders. “Let me finish. I get it. You’re hungry. You want things so bad it hurts. You’d do anything to get them.”

  “Coop—”

  “And I fucking love you for it, all right? I always have. One look at you freshman year, and I was doomed. I know it’s wrong because of Caro. But it’s always been wrong, for one reason or another. Never the right time. And Christ, never worse than now. But I can’t hide from the truth any longer. Do the wrong thing with me, Jess. I promise, I will make you happy. I will love you for the rest of my life. I’m going to do it anyway; I accepted that a long time ago. But please. Do it with me.”

  Here it was again, the radical choice: be good or be happy. Thank god I had another chance to do it right.

  I kissed him with ten years’ worth of longing, pushing my fingers through his hair, the thick shock of it, the hair I’d watched him tuck and smooth and brush away so many times, without being able to touch it. He picked me up and walked me to the tree. I wrapped my legs around his waist and cupped his jaw. This time, I was the hungry one, the one who couldn’t get close enough.

  I pulled back. “I love you. I loved you at Myrtle Beach and that day I found you in Blackwell and at graduation when I turned you away. I’ve loved you ever since.”

  “I know,” Coop said and kissed me again. “Come on.” He put me back on the ground. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I just want to be free with you in this city. I used to dream about it.”

  We walked to the bike, and I fit myself on the seat behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I like your dreams better than mine.”

  The engine roared, and we were off, streaking down the road, nothing but farmland and fiery-topped trees and blue sky ahead of us, a North Carolina beauty that filled me with a sense of home. I looked behind us. Blackwell Tower was still visible far off in the distance. But we were racing away, and it was growing smaller.

  I was safe now. All alone with Coop, and he loved me. So I rested my cheek on his back and closed my eyes, allowing myself to remember the final puzzle piece, the last part of the story. Remember it so I could let it go.

  I could almost step back to the night, the hour so late after running from Coop’s apartment. I was desperate to go home. Still reeling from my confession about my father, and Harvard, and Dr. Garvey; from the way Coop had exploded, yelling at me to Do something, goddammit, Jessica; he can’t get away with it. All I’d wanted was to stop the night from doing any more damage, to put it to rest.

  Bishop Hall had been mercifully empty, everyone out partying for Sweetheart, or because it was Valentine’s Day. In the elevator I’d sunk into the corner, letting the walls hold me up, then stumbled out when the doors dinged open, down the hall, and into my suite. It was pitch-black. I tripped over something in the living room, cursing, then pushed open the door to my room and stumbled to my bed. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t wake up until a whole century had passed, and I could try my luck with a fresh set of people.

  I’d reached for the comforter, then froze. There, in a small ray of moonlight, a surreal vision: torn blond hair, sticky and red, matted against white sheets.

  For a second, I’d been dumbfounded. Then, fear made a crack in my heart. I tugged the curtain to let in more light.

  And screamed.

  Heather. In my bed, blood everywhere.

  I staggered back, feeling my legs hit her empty bed. I dropped and stared, still clutching the folder from Student Affairs, the one announcing her victory. Unable to move, my mouth open in a wide O, as if I were silently screaming. I couldn’t will a single muscle to move, couldn’t process a thought. I sat, and looked, feeling very strangely cold, like my limbs were encased in blocks of ice.

  Heather was dead.

  As soon as I thought it, she blinked.

  I jumped to my feet, another scream lodged in my throat. Her face turned, and she spotted me.

  “Jess.” Her voice; oh god, her voice was a ruined thing, so raspy and choked I could barely hear it. I could only stare at the gashes across her body, leaking blood, lurid in the moonlight.

  Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “Help.”

  I blinked.

  “Please…Jess. Help me.”

  Heather’s breath hitched, and—like a slap to the face—I came to.

  “Oh god. Of course. I’m so sorry, Heather. I’m getting help, I’m going righ
t now.”

  I spun and dashed for the door, flinging it open, then raced out of the suite. I jammed the elevator button and waited, feeling frantic. I’d go find the administrator on the first floor, the one working the late-night shift. They’d have a phone. They’d call 911.

  The elevator doors slid open and I ran inside, pressing the button for the lobby. The elevator started to sink.

  I rested my head against the back of the elevator and closed my eyes, seeing my friend laid out bloody in my bed. It was the manifestation of all my darkest thoughts: Heather Shelby, the girl who won everything, who always got what I wanted, begging me for help. Her eyes pleading with me, each breath shallow and gurgling.

  The floors ticked back on the elevator screen: seventeen, sixteen, fifteen.

  Heather, the girl who’d won the fellowship. Who’d stolen my dream. On the edge of dying.

  Fourteen, thirteen, twelve.

  Everything I’d done to make my father proud, and to redeem him—none of it had ever been good enough.

  I’d tried to work hard, do it the right way, but it didn’t matter. Either life was unfair, or I was staggeringly unremarkable. Those were the only two options. I couldn’t live with either.

  Eleven, ten, nine.

  And now this insanity. This unexpected horror.

  This new twist in the plot.

  My insides coiled with rage, grief, and fear. And then I remembered. Amber Van Swann, and the sex tape. Madison, and the test.

  Eight, seven, six.

  Sometimes, you didn’t have to lift a finger. Sometimes, you could do nothing and get exactly what you wanted.

  Five, four, three.

  Maybe not what you wanted. At least not outside your darkest heart of hearts. It wasn’t anyone’s death you were after—of course not. But the scales evened, the balance restored. The girl who always stole first place, taken off the playing field.

  Two.

  One.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors rolled open.

  I walked on hollow legs into the empty lobby and turned toward the administrator’s office. It was right there in the corner, door closed, blinds shut, but a light on, visible through the cracks. Then I looked at the front doors. At the dark night waiting outside the glass.