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I start to speak, to accuse her of the Roundtable post, but Shy stops me. “We’re not here to argue.”
“Anora’s had a rough day,” Lennon says. “She doesn’t need this.”
“We’re not here to talk to Anora,” Shy doesn’t look at me. He’s looking at Lennon. So is Natalie. What’s going on here?
“Oh?” Lennon mocks. “And what could you possibly have to say to me?”
“Why don’t we step outside,” Shy suggests.
For a moment, I don’t think Lennon will agree, but she maintains this unsettling smirk as we exit, stepping into the cool, fall air.
“What’s this about?” I ask, but Shy and Natalie pretend I’m not there.
“Where were you last night, Lennon?” Natalie asks.
“Why don’t you just accuse me of whatever you’re going to accuse me of and get it over with?”
“Someone tell me what’s going on,” I demand, angry I’m being ignored. Shy’s gaze cuts to me.
“Lennon stole your coin. You watched Anora capture Vera’s soul, didn’t you? Swooped in and stole it in raven form. Did you kill Lily, too?”
I look from Shy to Lennon. She’s emotionless and cold, but I expect that. She was just accused of murder. The problem is, I don’t know who to believe, so I ask for the only thing I can, though my voice rasps as I do, as if in protest. “Do you have proof?”
“What?” Shy’s question is sharp and surprised; it tangles my chest and makes me feel wrong.
“Proof,” I say again. “You’ve accused her of murder, Shy. You must have proof.”
Isn’t that what the Order’s always asking for? Evidence?
He opens his mouth, but the only thing he manages is, “You don’t trust me?”
If my heart were glass, it would shatter. He looks at me with solid frustration, jaw tight, eyes like lamplights...like he can see all my flaws and fears. It hurts my chest.
I manage to scoff, but it takes a lot of energy to stay angry with him. “Trust you? How can I trust you after today?”
“You think I posted on Roundtable?”
“You, Natalie—who else could it be?” I ask.
Shy takes a step closer. “How about her?” he asks bitterly, nodding to Lennon. “Or your precious Thane. Bet you never stopped to consider them.”
“How dare you accuse her!” The heat of our anger fills the space between us. “How dare you accuse her of murder when you’re responsible for her mother’s death!”
“I didn’t kill her mother.”
“It might as well have been you.”
Something flickers in his eyes and he jerks away. I’ve hurt him. Bad.
“How dare you,” Natalie says, coming to Shy’s defense. “He’s done nothing but help you! Even when we warned him not to!”
“And look where that got me!” My reaction is visceral and angry and wrong but born out of everything I’ve lost since I came to this small town—my anonymity, my freedom, and my poppa.
“Where?” Natalie demands. “Insulting the only people who’ve kept you alive?” She grabs Shy's hand and pulls him away, like she can protect him. “You're not dead and that's more than we can say for Lily.”
They leave, entering the school again. When I look up I see students staring out the windows, watching our exchange.
Bet this will end up on Roundtable.
