“I…was just attacked,” I say, disbelief coating my voice.
“What? Who attacked you?”
“Whoever has been killing the students at Tuskmirth College.”
“How do you know it was them? Did they say something? Did you recognize them? Start at the beginning.” She pulls out a notepad.
I shake my head. “They had their face covered with a snow mask.”
“Eye color?”
I flush. I should have been able to, but I can’t remember seeing them. “Brown, maybe?”
“Man or woman?”
I shrug.
“So, how did you know the person was associated with the college deaths?” she asks.
I pull the strip out of my pocket and hand it to her. She reads it.
“Dr. Zimmer received a similar note,” I say. “With a quote from a famous author—”
“Why am I just hearing about this now?” she asks.
“I couldn’t be certain that it was relevant,” I say. “For all I knew, he had written it himself and forgotten about it.”
She grits her teeth. “Fine. What did the original note say?”
“In writing, you must kill all your darlings,” I quote. “William Faulkner said it. Or, at least, that’s who it’s attributed to. I researched the quote and it seems that it means writers shouldn’t hold onto anything they’ve written simply because they love it so much if it doesn’t fit in with the story. But…I’ve been thinking. Maybe the killer is taking a more literal approach.”
“He’s killing someone’s literal darlings,” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “The English department’s darlings. Both of the victims were considered especially gifted in the program. Now they’re dead.”
“Okay,” she says. “That makes sense…in a weird, sociopathic way. That would mean the killer is likely in the English department as well and is jealous of these students. What does this quote mean, though?”
I shrug. “The killer knows I…or we…have been searching for him.”
“I don’t know,” she says. “We shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions. We don’t know how they died yet. And you shouldn’t even be investigating. You don’t have the training to deal with these kinds of people.”
“I’m not weak,” I say, though considering my encounter with the killer, I don’t know if I should be pretending that I am capable of dealing with murderers.
“It’s not about weakness,” she says. “You need a weapon and you need training. Did the killer just hand you this note after attacking you?”
“No, they shoved it in my mouth.”
“Are you serious?” she asks, holding the note a little less tightly.
“Yep,” I say. “I’m guessing that either symbolizes how he—or she—wants to silence me or they just figured it was a way to humiliate me. I don’t know.”
“This is why you shouldn’t be investigating.”
“But I’m close to one of the professors,” I say. “I mean, not close, but he trusts me.”
“How do you know he’s not the killer?” she asks, shaking her head. “No detective would trust someone that closely involved.”
“I don’t trust him,” I say.
“Well, keep that in mind.” She indicates to the jewelry store. “Come inside. This guy was shot point-blank and the cameras were stolen, but this robbery was done so well that I have to think this guy is in our databases.”
I follow her in. I’ll have to tell John about this. This killer is getting bolder, and that means everyone is at risk.
As I enter the English building, I can hear John's voice. I stop at the short stairway where I can see the back of his head. His voice drifts down to where I am.
"...highly intelligent and a heart that instinctively cherishes everyone. I understand how difficult is it now and you should mourn as long as you need to, but you should know you're the strongest person I know. If anyone can deal with this, it's you."
"Thank you," a young female voice mumbles. "That means so much to me."
"You should get to class. I'll see you tomorrow."
John turns and begins to walk down the stairs. He stops when he sees me. A smile breaks out on his face and he skips the next few steps until he reaches me.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s going on?”
“There are only the pursued, the pursuing, the busy and the tired,” I quote.
He tilts his head. “The Great Gatsby. I didn’t picture you as a reader of the classics.”
“I’m not,” I say. “That was written on a note that the killer shoved into my mouth.”
“Wait, what?” he asks. “When did you encounter the killer? Was he arrested?”
“Well, I don’t know if it was a male or female, but, no, he or she wasn’t arrested because they attacked me and then ran off when I hit them. If you see someone who looks like they’re suffering from a headache or has a big welt at the left side of their head, that’s the killer.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “This only happened because I dragged you into this. I didn’t think…we must have talked to someone and tipped them off.”
“I would normally think that,” I say. “But this is a college. I’m sure word has traveled fast that I’ve been involved with the investigation and that one class that you had that Everett died in…they all know I was involved. It could still be anybody.”
“You probably shouldn’t be here then,” he says. “If the killer sees you—”
“I shouldn’t be afraid of the killer seeing me,” I say. “He—or she—should be afraid of me seeing him. Or her.”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re tough and all, but this person can kill in a way that we don’t understand yet,” he says. “It’s better to be cautious.”
“If this person wanted me dead, I’d be dead.” I cross my arms. “By chance, do you know anyone in this college who sells drugs?”
“What?” he spits out. “Now you want me to get you a drug dealer?”
“No—though, after this conversation, getting high sounds like a good plan,” I say. “Everett Pine had cocaine residue above his lip. We think he may have gotten killed by something in the drug.”
An emotion crosses his face that I can’t quite decipher. It could be anxiety or concern.
“I don’t do drugs, so I wouldn’t know where to find them,” he says. “Maybe you should try the chemistry department.”
“Are you sure you don’t know?” I ask.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“If the label fits,” I say. “You are the one who steals your students’ lives to make stories.”
“I don’t know anyone who deals drugs,” he states. “I once heard a rumor, though, that the school newspaper, The Noise, somehow uses a code that tells people which room to go to if they want certain kinds of drugs. I don’t know if it’s a legitimate thing or just a conspiracy theory. If somebody was doing drugs, there’s an easier way to get them.”
“Thank you.” I glance up the stairs. “Who were you talking to on the second floor?”
He raises an eyebrow. “One of my students.”
“You seemed awfully close to her.”
“I’ve had several classes with her,” he says. “I know her very well and I expect she’ll do great things.”
“Are you going to base a book off her too?”
He shakes his head. “Look. Sometimes, when you’re a teacher, you become a parental figure to some students. It’s something I generally try to avoid, but…it’s not something that can be controlled. You aren’t jealous, are you?”
“No, I just have a hard time trusting a professor who spends all his time around twenty-year-olds, talking to them about their hearts.”
“Maybe I lay it on a little bit thick, but I mean it,” he says. “Nothing I tell my students is a lie.”
“What about your girlfriends?”
“I don’t have girlfriends,” he says. “Just women I sleep with after meeting them in bars and who kic
k me out the moment they wake up.”
“That’s really interesting because I don’t have boyfriends—just men who I kick out of my apartment, but continue to pop up in my life.” I shake my head. “You should be prepared. Not only is the killer getting bolder, but detectives will probably be coming around more often.”
“Are you showing actual concern for me?”
“Maybe I don’t want to be forced to collect any evidence around your dead body.”
“You’re not fond of your job, are you?”
“It’s you that I’m not fond of,” I say. “I now have some crazy psychotic person after me because you insisted that I help you.”
“You wanted to investigate this just as badly as I did.” He indicates to my wrist. “And I bet it has something to do with that bracelet.”
“This has nothing to do with me,” I say. “And you can’t use your fake compassion to get me to tell you anything, so stop trying.”
He takes a step to the side. “I have to get to my office. My office hours started a couple minutes ago and my students might need me. I’ll…see you later.”
He walks away as students flood the hall. I wonder if this is how his students feel when they talk to him: he’s so close to my own emotions, it’s like he immerses himself in each one, but I’m still so far from him that I could not tell you what his favorite food is.
The kinds of people who can make you feel that way are dangerous. They hold all of the power.
When I step into the room where the journalists meet to work on the newspaper, there are already three people, typing at computers. I’m not sure how they can move around in this room, since the tables are only about six inches away from each other. The body heat in the room from these three already makes it feel several degrees warmer than in the hallway.
A thin man with auburn hair glances up at me. He has his legs propped up on a desk, but as I walk toward him, he swings his legs down and stands up.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“Are you the editor of this magazine?” I ask.
“Yes. I’m Dave Barnard,” he says. “Do you have information on the deaths of Victoria Glassman or Everett Pine?”
“That depends,” I say, “on if you have information for me.”
“About what?”
“Drug allegations concerning your newspaper,” I say.
Both his eyebrows shoot up, but a blush spreads across his face. “Are you the police?”
I shake my head. “No. I work with the police, but with this case, I’m just involved for a friend. Unless you killed someone, I won’t hold anything against you. Your newspaper just came up when it came to Everett Pine’s death, so I need some questions answered.”
"How do I know that I can trust you?" he asks. "I've been reading enough underground press to know the police have no problems lying."
"I'm not the police," I remind him. "Look, I don't care what your newspaper is doing—although from your constant evasion of this subject, it sounds like something bad—but I need to know who gave drugs to Everett Pine."
"The person who gave Everett drugs has nothing to do with his death," he says.
"How would you know?"
He grabs my arm and leads me out of the office. He closes the door behind us.
"Let's just say I have a good idea of who gave it to him and I know for a fact that this person did not kill Plaid."
"That's interesting that you suddenly switched to using his nickname," I say. "Before, you were just echoing the name I used, but now you're calling him Plaid...which means you must have been pretty close to him. Can I safely assume that you were his drug dealer?"
He flushes. "You can't assume anything. Don't try to put words in my mouth just because I used someone's nickname."
"You also knew who gave him drugs, which doesn't seem like a thing people would be bragging about," I say. "So let's just say--hypothetically--you were the one who gave him drugs. Hypothetically, did you see him snort the drugs?"
"Hypothetically, no," he says. "I didn't. He bought them and left...hypothetically. And hypothetically, if he had gotten them from me, that same batch was given to a different customer of a smaller size and that person is perfectly fine. The drugs couldn't have killed him."
"Can you tell me anything else?"
"Why would I?"
"Honestly, you want to come up with something better than that because the actual detectives could come around any minute and you want me on your side."
He scuffs the floor with his shoe, his face contorted with discomfort.
"Let's say the newspaper did have a way to communicate with people who wanted to buy drugs. First off, we're not the ones who make them, so if the police wanted to stop this whole thing, it's the chemistry department you want to go after, but secondly, there was something weird a few days ago."
"Keep talking," I prod.
"In the spot where--hypothetically--I usually write our message to our consumers...there was something else typed in right before I was ready to have it all printed," he says. "I don't remember the exact wording, but it accused Plaid of not deserving his poetry award. I don't see how that could have something to do with his murder--I mean, he already won the award, nobody has anything to gain from him dying, and it wasn't a prestigious award--but it was weird. And then he died.”
Interesting. I wondered if it had anything to do with the case. “Anything else?”
He tilts his head. “I have a question for you.”
“Okay,” I say.
“Why aren’t you asking your brother all of this?” he asks. “I know your brother is Liam, so he seems like the more obvious source of information for you.”
“Why would my brother have information behind this?”
He scrunches up his nose. “Why don’t you ask him?”
I find Liam exactly where I expect to find him—in front of the student union, plotting out a protest with a few other students. I grab his arm and drag him away from the group.
“Are you dealing drugs?” I hiss.
“What?” he asks. “No. Why would you even ask that?”
“Because the editor of the magazine seems to think that you’re involved with drug dealing,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. “Right. Well, I may have gotten myself involved with this cult that deals drugs, but that was for investigative purposes. I wanted to see if any professors or school officials were involved, but it doesn’t look like they are.”
“What cult?”
“They call themselves the Eternal Brotherhood. They’re mostly frat boys, but they allowed me to join them after I saw some of them dealing drugs and I didn’t tell anybody.”
“What?” I want to shake him. Idiot.
“I may have also taken some things from the Magician’s Suitcase that helped them disguise some parts of their operation,” he says.
He sees the murderous look on my face, so he rushes to say, “But they’re mostly harmless. I mean, if a person is going to do drugs, they’re going to do drugs, and they only target people who are already users.”
“You realize I work for the police, right?” I ask. “Do any of these Brotherhood members belong to Rho Sigma Alpha?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says. “One of their drug manufacturers does. Alex Shirokov.”
When I show up at the fraternity, Brian opens the door. After I tell him why I'm there, he leads me up to Alex's room. He walks back down to the kitchen as I knock on the door.
"I'm busy!" Alex shouts.
"It's Mira," I say. "I...need to see you."
I stare at his door for a few seconds before he jerks it open. He's wearing sweatpants and nothing else. I didn't picture this conversation occurring while he's half-dressed.
"Hey," I say. "Um, could we talk privately? Maybe in your room?"
"Of course, baby." He gestures inside. "Why don't you sit down on my bed? It's old, but it's still...useful."
I stride in, trying to keep as calm as possible. I need this
to look natural.
I sit down on his bed, tucking my legs underneath me. I smile at him as he closes the door.
"What's up, sweetie?" He picks up a small toy basketball and throws it into a hoop on his wall. He makes it look effortless.
"So...I've noticed you noticing me and I was thinking...maybe we could get to know each other."
"How do you mean?" he asks, taking a few steps closer.
"I mean, I'm not getting any younger," I say. "And you're legal age."
"I am." He takes another step until his legs are almost touching his bed. He touches the bottom of my hair. "But don't you have a case to worry about? I'm pretty sure you shouldn't be getting involved with me if you're investigating Victoria’s and...that other guy's deaths."
"Oh, I'm not worried about it." I take his hand and pull him closer. He falls forward against me, his hand resting on my hip for a second before he stands up straight again. “I just need to relax right now and you seem like the perfect way for me to get comfortable.”
"Yeah, I'm actually busy right now," he says. "But maybe some other time. You can come around, and I can get you some beer. You can tell me all about your job. I’m actually really interested in it. You guys use luminol, right? But doesn’t it glow if it hits copper? I suppose when it causes an unstable organic peroxide, it’s bound to be imperfect.”
"Come on, Alex," I say. I get onto my knees--the bed bending under my shifting weight--and wrap my arms around his neck. "You've been flirting this whole time. Show me that you really mean it. You're not a tease, are you?"
I kiss his cheek, starting as slow as possible. His reaction unnerves me a bit--he's been coming onto me this whole time, but as soon as I show interest, he's backed off. Was it all an act in front of his frat brothers?
He doesn't react to the kiss, so I turn my head, so our cheeks are touching.
"I'm sure you need to relax, too," I whisper. I can almost feel the heat rush into his face. I settle back onto the bed, pulling myself farther onto it. "At least come here and lie down beside me. Maybe you'll decide you're not so busy."
"I really can't." He flushes. "I'm sorry. I have a girlfriend."
I raise an eyebrow. "Really? A girlfriend? And you're just making her up now?"
Particles of Murder (A Shadow of Death Romantic Suspense Series Book 1) Page 8