Before I can answer, voices drift from the groups of students ahead. I catch pieces: “...police were at the rink...” “...affair with a student, I heard...” “...no, it was an accident; she fell through the ice...”
Georgia raises an eyebrow, and we both realize the news about Murphy being missing has spread to the students. “Here come the theories.”
We walk closer, listening. A girl with too much eyeliner is holding court. “...Definitely a secret love child. Coach Murphy had a baby with the hockey coach, and he killed her to hide it.”
“That’s...” Georgia starts.
“Completely insane,” I finish.
Another voice, earnest and wrong: “My roommate’s cousin said it was a drug deal. Steroids. All the coaches are on steroids and make the athletes take them.”
We walk past, and Georgia presses her lips together, trying not to laugh. “Steroids,” she whispers. “Of course.” Murphy is the Ice Crew coach; we don’t take steroids. It’s so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh.
“At least they’re creative,” I mutter.
Then I see him. Luke is leaning against the brick wall outside the science building, arms crossed against his broad chest, watching for me. When our eyes meet, something shifts in his expression—possession, relief, or hunger. He pushes off the wall and closes the distance in three strides.
“Hey,” he says, and his hand finds my hip, pulling me close like it’s second nature. Like I belong there.
He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just dips his head and catches my mouth with his.
He kisses me like he’s been thinking about it all morning, all night, like he can’t help himself.
When he pulls back, his thumb traces the edge of my jaw, and he smiles, small and private, even with students passing all around us. This feels so real.
Georgia clears her throat. “I’ll just... go ahead. I’ll save you a seat.”
She disappears into the building. Luke doesn’t notice, his focus entirely on me. His thumb traces the edge of my jacket, back and forth.
“I found something.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a thin folder. “Emily P., former student. Graduated a few years ago.”
I take it and flip it open. Photo, transcript, address. “How did you?—”
“Don’t ask.” His jaw tightens. “She’s in Boston now, at art school. And Madeline...” He leans in, lowering his voice. “She filed a complaint against Murphy last year but withdrew it three days later.”
The air leaves my lungs. “She reported her.”
“And took it back,” Luke says, his eyes dark and serious. “We should talk to her before whoever killed Murphy realizes we know about the pattern.”
“What if that’s the end of it?” I keep my voice low. “If someone wanted revenge and they killed her. So it’s over.”
“Possibly,” he agrees.
“What if it was Emily?”
“Shit,” he mutters. “Yeah, not a great idea to contact the possible murderers.”
We stand there, feeling the heaviness between us. Emily P. could be a victim, a killer, or maybe both.
“We need to get to class,” I tell Luke. “We’re going to be late.”
Luke’s hand finds my hip again, automatically and naturally. “I’ll walk you there.”
The hallways are crowded, students flowing around us, but I sense the stares. Heads turning, whispers behind hands, eyes darting away when I catch them. I hunch into my hoodie, uncomfortable with the gawking.
“People are staring,” I say under my breath.
Luke doesn’t even glance around to check for himself. “Let them.”
