Page 68 of The Villains of Winter

James maintained a curated expression of puzzlement. Why would there even be a body at all? What made anyone think Lucien was dead?

The detectives informed him that due to the prior stabbing of Lucien Montclair in October, it had escalated from a missing person’s case to a murder investigation.

The detectives scheduled to meet with James for the tenth time tomorrow at seven in the morning.

The entire The Paean of the Villains of Winter production readily provided statements that confirmed James’s alibi that he had been on stage at the time of Elliott’s murder and Lucien’s disappearance.

However, the Montclair family hired private investigators to examine the disappearance of their son, and already, James heard the distant engines of the PI sedans that followed him everywhere like flies on shit.

James had not been charged or indicted.

His alibi had been practically ironclad.

Practically. Any breakthrough evidence could change his luck at any moment. He trudged through the freezing campus snow, past the atramentous academic structures that were trimmed in ice and garland, until he entered Winterthur Hall.

Kitty threw her arms around him before he even shut the door to his dormitory room. “How is he? Is he okay?”

She kissed him. Her lips warm against his frozen cheekbone.

James nodded. “He’s alright. Knox has been keeping his eyes on him.”

Their method of communication was absurdly complex. Elliott and James didn’t directly correspond at all. It involved telephoning Knox from a secluded rest stop diner on the end of the freeway in nearby New York with the telephone call connected to an empty rest stop diner in rural Oklahoma, where Knox would relay, never mail, any information.

James kept his end short, under five minutes, but he always asked after Elliott. If Elliott was eating. If Elliott remembered to drink water. If Elliott was taking his medications. He asked if Knox could check on him between the hours of midnight and three am—every hour at least. If Knox’s wife could slip sleeping pills into his dinner.

A sensation of guilt punched James between his thoracic cage. After all, Elliott thought he was getting better all on his own. Elliott believed he slept five hours a night by himself because of his inner strength. Five hours wasn’t much, but it kept him alive.

James was grateful for the invention of high-dosage doxylamine.

However, he didn’t want to worry Kitty with any of it. She already needed to pretend she was in a state of severe depression and mourning.

Which was why he picked her up for grief counseling every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Afterwards, they grabbed fries and a milkshake. As though to regain a sense of post-funeral normalcy in their lives.

At Milton’s Milkshakes, Kitty dipped her fry into his milkshake. “Is he scared?”

She had on her ear muffs and an ice skating skirt. She was bouncing her knee, anxiously. She kept tucking her hair behind her ears, which tangled her tight curls in the earmuffs. She reminded James exactly of Elliott. She couldn’t sit still.

She even bit her lip the same way as him.

“Is he staying up all night?” She asked.

“No. He’s sleeping enough.” That much was true. Knox only had to restrain Elliott every couple of nights, and his wife would increase the dosage right after. The Pearsons had no neighbors, but they were under surveillance.

If it wasn’t for the newborn, Knox’s wife would’ve divorced him.

However, Knox felt the weight of taking a man’s life at a young age and he made his reparations through sheltering Elliott.

Due to the private investigators, Elliott couldn’t be seen from the outside, so the Pearsons converted the garage to a window-less guest bedroom and the baby slept with them. Elliott showered in the make-shift tub in the nursery where no one could inadvertently catch sight of him. He ate his meals in the garage when Knox worked on his tractors there.

“Is he happy there?” Kitty’s eyes watered.

“He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

“Are you sleeping well…” She twisted her lip as if searching for the right words. “Without him?”

A waitress served another fresh basket of hot, salted fries.

He burnt his tongue with a fry. “I sleep fine at night. Why do you ask?”