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I let myself glare at the back of Drake’s head as he takes his seat. “Don’t give him too much credit. He probably saw me sitting next to you and made an educated guess.”
A note of amusement enters her voice. “If you say so.”
Anya hushes us with a furtive glance at the men in suits standing near the exits. I doubt many funerals have armed security, but this is apparently one of them. Though I assume they’re not here for Brady, since that ship has definitively sailed.
I pretend not to notice the wistful glances that she occasionally casts at girls in front of us. It’s obvious that she can’t help but feel the gravitational pull of Olivia’s little orbit. It likely hasn’t escaped her notice that Olivia and her entourage are getting away with behavior that no else ever would.
By contrast, Anya keeps looking around the room like she expects someone to realize that she isn’t supposed to be here and kick her out. I can’t say that I exactly blame her. An usher checked names at the door and both of us were a little surprised to be let inside.
The low hum of conversation buzzes unpleasantly under my skin. Not that I’ve been to many funerals, but there is an almost festive air to the proceedings that has me deeply confused. From how packed this place is, you’d think Brady was the most beloved person on the planet. Only his family is somber. I assume that the tight-lipped woman with dark sunglasses and a severe chignon is his mother, which means his father is the imposing man next to her wearing a bespoke suit.
The Havoc Boys sitting in the front two rows are dressed for a funeral. That’s the only sign they give that they know what’s happening here. A feral eagerness taints the air, like everyone is too keen for what will happen after Brady’s body is in the ground to care about the service.
“It’s so sad,” Anya murmurs as she uses an embroidered handkerchief to dab at her eyes. I’m more than a little impressed when none of her eye makeup transfers onto the cloth. “Brady was so young.”
Felicia’s whisper barely carries to me. “I only met him one time, but he seemed nice.”
My hands clench so hard in my lap that my knuckles ache. This is the part that I looked forward to the least: having to pretend that a playboy rapist is someone I’m going to miss.
“Brady knew how to have fun,” I respond, jaw clenched. “Havoc House won’t be the same without him.”
Anya leans closer to me, pitching her voice lower. “Did you hear the rumor that his fall wasn’t an accident?”
I just stare at her for a second, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“A bunch of people are saying that he couldn’t have just fallen down the stairs like that. Brady was drunk, but he wasn’t that drunk. One of the pledges told me he saw a shadow at the top of the stairs right before he fell.”
“Nobody came down from upstairs, everyone would have seen them,” I argue, the thought of it more than a little sickening. I disliked Brady, but that doesn’t mean I want a murderer on the loose at St. Bart’s. “Someone would have noticed.”
She just shakes her head, expression dubious. “Havoc House is surrounded by super tall trees. Someone could have easily pushed Brady down the stairs, ran into a bedroom, and then climbed out a window. For all we know, they could have walked right back in the front door and joined the crowd gawking at his body.”
My gaze flicks to Felicia, who listens with rapt attention, probably even happier that she stayed at home to study instead of going to the party that night. Judging by the shocked look on her face, she hadn’t heard the rumors either.
“Why would anyone want to kill Brady?” I ask.
“I heard,” Anya’s tone turns conspiratorial as she glances around to make sure no one is paying attention to your conversation, “that he was threatening not to let the seniors go through their initialization, or whatever.”
“The Initiation,” I correct her. “But that still doesn’t make sense. The day before he died, Brady had already told them it was happening.”
“Oh.” She almost sounds disappointed for a second before shrugging that off. “The point is, this accident was more than a little suspicious. Twenty-something guys in their prime don’t just fall down stairs. Life isn’t a daytime soap opera.”
I swallow back the laugh that I know will sound more than a little derisive. The idea that there is some murderous coed running around and pushing people down flights of stairs puts this in soap opera territory. “Who does the rumor mill think would kill Brady with half the school there to see it?”
“No clue,” she replies with an airy shrug. “But think about this…if someone did kill Brady, then they’re probably sitting in this room right now.”
A shiver rolls down my spine before I chase away the feeling. “I think you’re making a lot of assumptions based on very little evidence.”
“You want evidence?” She gestures with her chin toward the front of the church. “That casket up there is empty. Brady’s body is still at the morgue because his family is paying for a second autopsy after the first ruled his death an accident. Even they don’t believe that he just tripped and fell down a flight of stairs by chance.”
“How do you know that?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Why else would it be a closed casket funeral?”
That sounds like another fact manufactured by the rumor mill. But aside from marching up to the front of the church and wrenching the casket open, there isn’t any way for me to prove it. “I sincerely doubt that anyone around here killed Brady, though I can sympathize with the urge. He wasn’t exactly a saint.”
She gives me an odd look. “Careful who you say that around, people might get suspicious.”
Did someone push Brady down the stairs?
