“Well, that wasn’t very hospitable, Emmy. It’s not polite to destroy private property.”
Ms. Pierce had a broad smile plastered across her delicately featured face.
Everything inside me lurched to a sudden stop. Fear was temporarily clouded by complete disbelief as I tried to make sense of the figure silhouetted in the doorway.
“But . . . you’re a woman.”
“Obviously someone wasn’t paying close attention in class. Men aren’t the only ones capable of murder.” She tutted as if I’d asked for a deadline extension on an upcoming assignment. “That kind of thinking will get you killed.”
“But the guy on the Starbucks security footage—”
She winked, as if sharing a private joke, and my stomach dropped a foot. “Everyone always focuses on the hat and the sweatshirt. As soon as I ditched them and added a swipe of red lipstick, I was virtually unrecognizable. The only second glances I got were from the idiots who still think women enjoy their wolf whistling.”
“But why would you—”
“Emmy,” Ms. Pierce said my name like a gentle rebuke. “Life is a gamble—and you lost. Well, technically, I lost, but once you hand over that Slate you’ve been hiding, my debt will be cleared.”
“W-who holds the debt? Maybe we could work something out? I’m not opposed to vacuuming. Have I mentioned that I’m excellent at ironing clothes? Ironing. Folding. All of it.”
She shook her head with mock disappointment. “This isn’t that kind of debt, and trust me, you don’t want to start making deals. I’m not the only one gunning for you.” Ms. Pierce grinned at her own pun. “You’d have fared worse with the ones at the police precinct.”
It was kind of hard to trust someone who planned on, y’know, killing me.
“You saw me there?” I croaked, my voice so thready I barely recognized it. “Why didn’t you—” I couldn’t get out the rest, my lips felt too clumsy for any of the euphemisms that sprang to mind. Why didn’t you attack me? Whack me? End me?
Send me to the big coffee shop in the sky?
Ms. Pierce stepped farther into the room. “Patience isn’t a virtue, Emmy. It’s a skill set. If Frederick St. James hadn’t rushed in to protect you, I never would have made the connection. Ironic, isn’t it? That the place he thought you’d be safest only brought you closer to me.” She laughed. “Fate is such a fickle bitch.”
I stumbled slightly over my own feet as I backed away from her, the unmistakable sound of glass crunching underneath my sneakers filled the brief silence between us.
The security guards will notice the casserole dish on the lawn. It’s just a matter of time.
Ms. Pierce didn’t seem inclined to cut her lecture short, probably because it wasn’t every day that she had such a rapt audience.
“I admit, I expected tracking you down would be far more time consuming, and since my employer doesn’t like to be kept waiting, your stupidity has worked out for the best.”
“Hey!” I protested. She was already getting paid to kill me, she didn’t need to add insult to impending injury.
“I talked with some of your other teachers. You’ve made quite an impression on your first day. Very erratic behavior. Mouthing off to Mr. Bangsley, fleeing the cafeteria during lunch, and then getting caught with a boy in the girls’ locker room.” She shook her head in silent reproach, then threw a chair out the same window I’d shattered only minutes earlier. Fear paralyzed me. I wasn't sure if she intended to throw me out of the enormous hole or if the chair was part of some elaborate endgame she had concocted. I couldn't think clearly as larger chunks of glass skittered across the floor. “Those aren’t the actions of an emotionally stable girl.”
Right, because she was obviously such an expert on emotional stability.
“I tried to talk you down, of course, but you were inconsolable. You’ve been suffering from the worst delusions. Crippling paranoia. You even convinced yourself that someone wanted you dead. It’s such a tragedy.”
She was setting the scene. I remembered that much from her lecture on committing the perfect crime. Hearing her discuss my death so calmly had cold sweat trickling down my back.
“You’re going to make it look like a suicide.”
“Oh no, sweetie. You are going to commit suicide. Just as soon as you give me that Slate you’ve been hiding.”
Fear zapped through me like an electric current. “What’s the hurry? I’m not going anywhere. You don’t want to mess it up by rushing like what’s-her-name, do you?”
“Ruth Snyder.” Ms. Pierce moved so swiftly that I was unprepared for her thin fingers to wrap around my arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “There’s one pivotal difference: I don’t have an obvious motive for murder. My employer requires complete discretion. Nobody will ever believe I had anything to gain by the death of a scholarship girl, especially one as staggeringly unexceptional as you. This school is full of opportunities and you’ve squandered every single one of them.”
Something clicked inside me as Ms. Pierce began dragging me toward the shattered window.
I officially had nothing left to lose.
My scream cut the heavy silence, first like the demented croaking of a dying mongoose but gaining in strength. It was a relief to finally let out the sound that I’d been stuffing down for days—years, even—because it had never been the right place or time. Because I didn’t want to make a fuss. Because nobody likes a complainer. Because good girls don’t scream.
Well, screw that.
Ms. Pierce’s smile never wavered. “Nobody is coming to save you, Emmy. Now you’ll either hand me the Slate or I will take it from you. The end result will be the same.”
She sounded like a teacher explaining a homework assignment, her voice filled with an unshakable sense of authority. Even as her free hand began pawing at my sweatshirt, I couldn’t believe that she was the one behind all of this.
That she wanted me dead.
Sebastian’s words from our first encounter in the police station came filtering back to me.
Adults aren’t smarter, or nicer, or stronger, or less screwed up than teenagers—they’re simply excellent liars.
He didn’t have to convince me now. A self-satisfied grin came across Ms. Pierce’s face as her palm connected with the outline of the Slate in my front pocket. It was the same look as in weight loss commercials when the “after” girl proudly holds up an empty pair of plus-sized pants. The most terrifying part wasn’t that she wanted me dead; it was how sane she looked as she dragged me closer to death.
I went limp, my unexpected weight breaking through Ms. Pierce’s hold and sending me crashing to the floor. Glass bit into my right side, but the adrenaline racing through my system helped me ignore the sharp slashes of pain. My legs flailed behind me, as I tried to trip her, overturn chairs between us, or even better, to connect a blow from my foot with her kneecap.
My voice was hoarse, but I didn’t stop screaming, “Help! Help me!” through a throat that quickly felt as shredded as my side. Some distant part of my brain registered that the coppery taste in my mouth could only mean blood, but I couldn’t tell if I’d bitten my tongue or split my lips or somehow managed to breathe in fine shards of glass. I wondered if the bitter acidic taste of rusty pennies would be the last thing I ever tasted. If the sickly sweet perfume of it would linger in my nostrils even when the cobblestones raced to greet me like an old friend.
My fingers splayed out on the floor, searching for any handhold that might keep her from launching me out the gaping hole in the window. Ms. Pierce tut-tutted again, then she snagged one sneaker-clad foot and yanked me across the glass-strewn hardwood floor. Thin shards of glass sliced through the denim of my jeans like an unstoppable trail of fire ants as my fingers clawed at the floor, closing around a larger piece that gouged into my hand. I gasped in pain.
Blood dripped from my palm as Ms. Pierce hauled me to my feet, never breaking eye contact. Her face dominated my field of vision, until she
became the sole focus of my world. I soaked in every detail, from the clumpy mascara that she had swiped on her eyelashes earlier that day, to her winged jade-green eyeliner, to the faint trace of a white scar right above her left eye. None of it unsettled me more than the total lack of compassion in her gaze as she adjusted my sweatshirt with a few brisk movements. As if she was tidying me up for a big interview or helping me primp for a first date. I didn’t realize it was possible to quake this hard with fear. I thought it was something that they showed on television as an excuse to hand the traumatized victim a blanket at the end of a procedural. The body-heaving shivers were supposed to be an excuse for the heroine to curl into the arms of her love interest.
It felt far too real to me now.
My whole body went numb as her hand slithered into my pocket, claiming the Slate for herself. I was cold. So frozen inside that I couldn’t imagine ever unthawing. The only other time I’d felt this marrow-deep chill had been in the coffee shop, right after the old man had died on top of me. Trapped, scared, confused, none of that had changed. I wasn’t any closer to understanding why Ms. Pierce had been hired to kill me now than I had been during my police interrogation.
The old man’s warning rattled around some cold distant part of my brain.
You won’t survive long in the business if you don’t go for the jugular, girl. That’s how I always did it.
Somehow I didn’t think Frederick St. James would be particularly impressed with a tossed casserole dish and some screaming that sounded like an audition for Dead Girl #5 in a slasher movie. He’d have wanted more from me. He would have wanted me to protect the damn Slate.
Go for the jugular, girl.
I sucked in a short breath and followed a dead man’s advice.
Chapter 30
I slashed out with the jagged piece of glass, hoping to connect with something—anything—except thin air.
Ms. Pierce had my wrist clamped before I’d made it even halfway to my target. Her movement was awkward, hindered by the Slate that she still clutched in her other hand. But the brutal strength of her grasp had me crying out in pain, struggling to loosen her hold on either me or the Slate. Both preferably. She merely frowned and increased the pressure. Unending waves of red-hot agony brought me to my knees as I waited for my bones to splinter then crack.
An irreverent part of my brain couldn’t help pointing out that it was a damn shame I was about to die because otherwise this would’ve been great material for a romance novel. My hard-edged police detective could’ve been tortured by a cartel leader—and I could have described exactly how it felt to have pain slicing into each fingertip. How every nerve could scream with an ache that refused to ebb. These were the kind of details that really humanized a character, made them nice and sympathetic so that their dark moments came across as understandable reactions to past trauma instead of general jackassery.
Why any of that was occurring to me when I was kneeling before a killer was beyond me. I should have been thinking of something profound. Something about mortality and how love couldn’t simply end with death, not when my mom would hear the echo of a whispered I love you every time she looked at my kindergarten art on the refrigerator. Every time she flipped through the photo album that chronicled every birthday, every first day of school, every major haircut, she’d see it in my smile. Every autumn she’d watch the leaves redden on the trees and search for one that was the exact same shade as my hair, and she’d smile quietly to herself when she spotted it.
That’s what I should’ve been thinking in the grasp of a homicidal criminal law teacher.
Too bad my brain was still stuck on Oh, shit.
Ms. Pierce’s scowl didn’t lessen as the shard of glass slipped uselessly through my fingers, dropping to the ground. Triumph flashed in her eyes when her free hand tugged the Slate out of my pocket.
“Look at what you made me do. Bruises weren’t part of the plan. I guess I can start a rumor that you got them from Sebastian. That you like it rough.” She laughed wryly. “Slut-shaming is a horrible practice, but it’s so wonderfully effective.”
I couldn’t manage anything more than a grunt of pain.
“It’s been fun, Emmy.” She yanked up on the wrist that was one twist away from snapping. “But it’s time for you to be on your way.”
There was no secret weapon tucked up my sleeve. No brilliant last-minute plan. My life was truly over, and while that scared me witless, it almost came as a relief. The burning pain that had clawed its way up my side before taking residency in my wrist, the gut-wrenching panic, all of it was about to disappear.
Oblivion was a tempting gift, even when it came at a crippling price.
Even when it meant losing everything.
Ms. Pierce stepped behind me, gripping my shoulders to propel me the few scant remaining inches between me and the window. I could feel the Slate digging into my back. She still had it tightly clutched in her right hand, unable to conceal it in her own pocket while I struggled and thrashed like a maniac.
“Jump, Emmy.”
The cobblestones glinted coolly under the glow of a nearby lightpost, hypnotizing me. Maybe I’d look that remote, untouchable, when my body connected with solid ground. I wondered if anyone would leave flowers there to mark the spot, or if some groundskeeper would quickly blast away any residual bloodstain with a power washer.
“No.” The word emerged as a croak as I splayed my fingers along both sides of the glass window. “I’m not jumping.”
Ms. Pierce sighed, as if growing annoyed by my lackluster performance. Apparently, this whole murder thing was becoming tedious for her, rather like grading essays or filing income tax statements. She inhaled slowly through her nose like she was searching for divine patience while I tried to squirm away.
I couldn’t break her grasp.
“Have a nice—”
My shoulders were jerked backward so abruptly that I didn’t even have time to blink at the ceiling before I made contact with the hardwood floor. Hard. The pink and blue splotches that had danced before my eyes earlier flitted back once more. They drunkenly lurched across my field of vision, keeping rhythm with the slow aching throb of my head.
She’d changed her mind.
Ms. Pierce wasn’t going to show me mercy—I knew better than to hope for that—but she must have decided a quick death was too good for me. She wasn’t finished playing with me. Jerking me around. Toying with me until I would do anything, jump right out a third story window, just to make it stop.
Her face emerged out of a swirling pink haze, close enough for me to see that the eyeliner on her right lid was a smidgen too long. Close enough to see the rage simmering in the dark brown depths of her eyes. I scrambled away, bracing myself for a brand new slap of pain.
It never came.
Instead, I heard the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with flesh. Broken gasps of agony, that weren’t coming from me for a change. Every cell in my body screamed at me to get the hell out of there. To make a break for it. To run—not walk—out the door, down three flights of stairs, all the way back to the relative safety of the girls’ dormitory or the computer lab.
I had to make someone call the cops.
Now. Right now.
Except that entire plan rested on my ability to drag myself off the floor. My left wrist couldn’t support my weight, my right hand was a bloody mess, and every inch of the rest of me hurt too badly to tell if something was broken. My teeth clamped shut as I hissed through the pain to keep from crying out. Nobody appeared to be paying any attention to me.
But I’d been wrong about that before.
A disconcerting rhythm of physical contact filled the room like the bass line to a heavy metal song. I couldn’t get a good look at my unexpected protector, beyond noting that he seemed to have at least an extra foot of height on Ms. Pierce. Some distant part of my brain pointed out that his enormous frame should be unforgettable. He was bulky and huge and should have been easy to identify in
a police lineup. Except he was focused entirely on my homicidal teacher, which meant that he'd turned his back on me. As they struggled closer to the window the inevitable truth that someone wasn't going to make it out of the library alive jarred me out of my frozen panic. I didn’t want to stick around for a swan-dive exit.
Especially because the enemy of my criminal law teacher might not be my friend.
I fled, limping my way past the broken remains of the chair I had placed under the door knob before I managed to lengthen my stride into a jerky gait. The animalistic sounds of serious fighting felt inescapable. Grunts, pained gasps, heavy breathing, the high-pitched scrape of glass beneath shoes as both combatants fought to stay standing—all of it was punctuated by the unmistakable slam of fists. I nearly slipped on some crushed glass when I risked a glance over my shoulder. Only grabbing onto the break room countertop saved me from falling on my face.
I skidded out of the room, fear churning deep inside me.
Two aisles of books to go.
One aisle.
I stumbled down the first flight of stairs, my breath coming in pants and wheezes that had me clutching onto the railing. A slick trail of blood marked my progress and my head spun sickeningly with every lurching step. Each movement sent a fresh wave of pain zipping through me. The floor pitched wildly, but I couldn’t do more than sway forward, smacking right into one of the brick walls. I couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t do much more than absorb the pain with a gasp and stagger onward.
Ms. Pierce might be right behind me.
Given her track record, she wouldn’t be preoccupied for long.
Fresh air on my sweaty skin was the closest thing to heaven I’d ever experienced, especially accompanied by the whoosh and click of the library door closing behind me. The sweet scent of cut grass almost overpowered the coppery taste of blood, but I couldn’t stop to bury my nose in the lawn or kiss the cobblestones. Couldn’t slow down. Couldn’t pause to steady myself. I moved unsteadily past the break room chair that jutted out of the lawn like a demented modern art sculpture. I blindly weaved in a circle, searching for a campus security guard. A fellow student. At this point, even Peyton would have been a welcome sight.
Dial Em for Murder Page 21