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“Barron said that you killed him—and that you kept him in the freezer of your house. That you were some kind of assassin. That you’re the one who killed the people in those files you showed me after Philip’s funeral.”
“I’m no angel either,” I say.
She hesitates. There’s fear in her eyes, but at least she’s not leaving. “Lila explained. She said that they—that Barron—messed with your memories. You didn’t know what you’d done. You didn’t know what you were or what happened to her.”
Selfishly I wonder if Lila said anything else. I have no idea how I could persuade Daneca to tell me.
“He really kept her in a cage?” Daneca asks in a small voice.
“Yeah,” I say. “Memory work—it erases part of who you are. If we’re who we remember ourselves to be, then what’s it like to have huge chunks of your identity missing? How you met the girl sitting next to you. What you had for dinner the night before. A family vacation. The law book you studied all last week. Barron’s replaced all that with whatever he makes up in the moment. I have no idea if he really remembered who Lila was or even that he had a cat in the first place.”
She nods slowly and pushes back a mass of curls. “I told him that it was contemptible, what he did. I told him that I would never forgive him for lying to me. And I told him he was an ass.”
“That sounds like quite a lecture,” I say, laughing. “I hope he was properly chastened.”
“Don’t make fun of me.” She stands up, grabbing her bag. “He really sounded sad, Cassel.”
I bite back everything I want to say to her. How he’s an excellent liar. How he’s the prince of liars. How Lucifer Morningstar himself could learn a thing or two from the conviction with which Barron lies.
“Lunch is almost over,” I say instead. “Let’s grab a sandwich while we can.”
* * *
Afternoon classes slide by in a flurry of diligent note-taking and quizzes. A cup I made in ceramics comes out of the kiln in one piece, and I spend the better part of forty minutes painting it a muddy red, with the words RISE AND WHINE across it in big black letters.
* * *
Dr. Stewart is in his office when I swing by before track. He frowns at the sight of me.
“You’re not in any of my classes this semester, Mr. Sharpe.” His tone makes it clear that he considers that to be better for both of us. He adjusts his thick black-framed glasses. “Surely you aren’t here trying to beg me to change a past grade? I maintain that anyone who misses as much school as you have shouldn’t even be—”
“Mina Lange asked me to come by and drop something off for her,” I say, pulling a paper bag out of my backpack.
It’s not that I believe that Dr. Stewart has anything to do with blackmail or Wharton or Mina. It’s that I want to be as sure as possible.
He crosses his arms. I can tell he’s annoyed that I interrupted him before he could tell me once again how students suspended for almost falling off a roof should have to go to summer school, at the very least. “Mina Lange is not in any of my classes either, Mr. Sharpe.”
“So this isn’t for you?”
“Well, what is it?” he asks. “I can’t imagine what she would be handing in to me.”
“You want me to look?” I try to seem as unaware as possible. Just the stupid messenger.
He throws up both gloved hands in obvious disgust. “Yes, please do, and stop wasting my time.”
I make a show of opening up the bag. “Looks like a research paper and a book. Oh, and it’s for Mr. Knight. Sorry, Dr. Stewart. I really thought she said your name.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure she’s glad she trusted you to courier it over.”
“She’s not feeling well. That’s why she couldn’t bring it herself.”
He sighs as though wondering why he is constantly being punished by the presence of inferior intellects. “Good-bye, Mr. Sharpe.”
He might not be a nice guy, but Stewart’s never blackmailed anyone in his life.
* * *
I love running. I love the way that, even in a marathon, I only have to worry about my feet hitting the pavement and my muscles burning. No guilt and no fear. It’s just me hurtling forward, as fast as I can, with no one to stop me. I love the cold wind against my back and the sweat heating my face.
