Читать книгу The Next Killing - Rebecca Drake - Страница 14

Nicole Morel had been assigned as a roommate a quiet, plump girl who had the incongruously exciting name of Destiny. She’d gazed solemnly at Nicole behind owlish glasses upon her arrival and announced that since Nicole had gotten first pick of the beds, it was her choice as to which of the identical desks each would call their own. Nicole wasn’t surprised when Destiny picked the one with the better view out the window.

They moved quietly around each other in the room, careful of personal space, careful not to touch each other’s things. Nicole was nervous and wondered if Destiny felt the same. Would she have been happier rooming with another African American and not some half-French newcomer?

They set out their personal belongings quietly, both of them eyeing each other’s things but with none of the chatter that Nicole heard coming from the other rooms.

Destiny put a series of framed photos on her dresser, all of them featuring her and a series of smiling people who had the same round faces and inquisitive eyes.

Nicole had two photos. The first was an aerial shot.

“What city is that?” Destiny had asked, moving closer to look at it. “Where did you take it?”

“Paris. From the Eiffel Tower.”

The other photo was in a silver frame. Back home, her old home, its place had been on her bedside table. She found it wrapped in a sweater in her trunk. Her mother must have packed it because Nicole had left it behind.

There she was at ten, her smile so wide that the braces were visible on her teeth even though the picture had been taken from a distance. She was clutching her father’s hand on one side and Paul’s on the other. Her mother had her arm around Paul’s shoulder. Smile everybody, smile.

They were standing by a fountain in Italy whose name she’d forgotten. Something famous. Something educational, Paul complained, and they didn’t want to be educated on their holiday. Only he’d only said it to rile their mother and she’d laughed with him in the end. He’d always made her laugh.

“Is that your family?” Destiny had asked, her voice a jarring interruption.

“Yes.” She placed the photo on the dresser next to the other picture. She put her clothes neatly away in the drawers and left her trunk in the hall to be taken down for storage.

Destiny was still unpacking. Nicole lay down on the bed, but from there she could see the photo. She got up and switched its place with the shot of Paris and stood back, assessing.

“Paul wouldn’t want you to be this way.” Her mother had said that to her so many times, but couldn’t seem to take the advice herself. Her face had been so white and drawn. Not that her father had been any better since Paul’s death; there had been circles under both her parents’ eyes. They’d slept no better than she did, but the family meeting had focused on her.

They’d asked her to sit with them in the living room and she was painfully aware of Paul’s empty chair. They’d mentioned her falling grades, her truancy, her seeming lack of interest in everything she used to care about.

“You’ve given up ballet, riding, even going out with your friends,” her mother said, ticking them off on her fingers.

How could she bear to explain to them that when she went to the ballet studio she saw Celeste, Paul’s girlfriend? She didn’t want to remind them of this and it hurt too much to reveal that most of her friends had really been Paul’s. It was Paul everyone gravitated toward. He’d been so funny and full of life. She’d been included as his little sister, but once he was gone they were, too.

As for riding, it was easier to give up competing than to see the worry come back into her mother’s eyes and feel her fear that she would lose another child.

“We are going back to the United States,” her father had announced, stepping over her mother’s concern, declaring his solution for whatever problem was at hand just as he always had.

“This isn’t the time, Laurent!” Her mother hissed, her eyes flashing their annoyance. For a moment her father looked confused, but then his jaw hardened.

“We can’t stay here now,” he said, “there are too many ghosts here.”

Were there other ghosts, Nicole wondered, or did he just mean Paul? Her grandmother had lived with them briefly, before she’d passed away. A sweet woman who was always pressing coins or foil-wrapped chocolates into their hands. They’d had the wake for her in Paris, too, but it had been different. Sighs and mournful faces, of course, but there had been laughter, too. Not like Paul’s wake.

She’d taken the photo and angled it so that it couldn’t be seen from the bed or from the desk. She would have put it in the drawer but her new roommate had seen it.

“You were talking in your sleep last night,” Destiny announced as Nicole came into their room and dumped her books on the desk. Nicole didn’t respond.

“Don’t you want to know what you were saying?” Destiny put aside the paperback she was reading and sat up on her bed.

Nicole shrugged, trying to look unconcerned, and turned from her roommate as if it didn’t matter. She could feel her face growing hot, though, and knew that the blush would spread to the tips of her ears where Destiny could see it on her pale skin. She pretended to be absorbed in arranging her textbooks, but she was poised, listening.

“Well, I can’t tell you because it was in French.” Destiny laughed. “And your French is a whole lot faster and better than mine.” She laughed again.

Nicole forced a smile, but her sense of relief wasn’t faked. She didn’t want to embarrass herself. She didn’t want to scream Paul’s name. She dreamed about him stepping off the sidewalk, seeing it in slow motion, that slow step down, his turning back with a smile on his face, the sound of the truck’s brakes squealing.

Stop. Stop thinking about it. She forced it back into the box in her head and locked it tight.

“Are you going to lunch?” she said.

Destiny walked fast for someone with extra weight. She didn’t say anything until they spotted a tall, gangly white girl with limp brown hair who had her head in a book but was nonetheless walking in the direction of the dining hall. Carrie smiled at Nicole when Destiny introduced them and stuck out a bony hand for her to shake.

“Do you like to read?” she asked and when Nicole nodded she gave another, wider smile.

She and Destiny chattered for the rest of the walk about something called Runescape and some science fiction author they were both addicted to. Nicole didn’t bother to feign interest because they didn’t seem to require it. She got into the long line with them and slowly picked out food that looked unobjectionable, all the while wondering how to politely escape when the decision was suddenly taken out of her hands.

“Aren’t you Nicole Morel?” a girl’s voice, at once melodious and imperious, came from her left.

Nicole nodded, turning, and then stopped short. The head girl was standing there. Nicole recognized her; she’d seen her from afar during the assembly and she’d seen her clustered with other prefects in the halls.

“Hi,” the older girl said with a wide, lovely smile. “I’m Elizabeth Lincoln.”

“Nicole Morel,” Nicole said and then blushed because the girl already knew that. Elizabeth laughed.

“I know,” she said. “I’ve heard all about you.”

She was tall and willowy with a small, yet defined bust and a waist that was somehow discernible even in the box pleat uniform skirt. Her hair was long and that lustrous shade of golden blond that most people couldn’t achieve without help. On her it looked natural. Her skin glowed, there was no other word for it. It wasn’t as if it was tan, precisely, but it had a honeyed undertone that made her look healthy, as opposed to sallow, which was Nicole’s own fate.

“Would you like to join us for lunch?” Elizabeth pointed one manicured finger in the direction of a small cluster of girls. One of them caught Elizabeth’s eye and waved at her. Destiny looked from Nicole to Elizabeth and then whispered something to Carrie.

“Sure,” Nicole said and followed her without thinking, only to turn back suddenly and wave at Destiny, who gave a little half-wave back.

“You looked like you needed to be rescued,” Elizabeth said as she led the way through a maze of students to reach the table she’d indicated. Nicole laughed, noticing how they were being stared at by other girls.

“This is Tiffany,” Elizabeth said, sliding in next to a pretty girl with long, caramel-colored curls and an infectious grin, “and this is Kristen.” She nodded across the table at a super-skinny girl with long black hair and catlike green eyes. She surveyed Nicole coolly for a second before smiling and patting the seat beside her.

“Is it true you’re from Paris?” she said.

Nicole nodded and Tiffany pronounced this “So cool!”

They bombarded her with questions about her life in France and why she’d come to the United States. Nicole noticed that whenever Elizabeth spoke the other two didn’t interrupt her the way they did with each other.

“How long have you known each other?” she said.

“Kristen and I have known each other since grade school,” Elizabeth said, “and Tiffany joined us her freshman year at St. Ursula’s.”

Tiffany nodded. “I was so glad to meet them,” she said, picking at the food on her plate. “You have no idea how glad I was—my roommate was just such a loser, a complete geek!”

She made geek sound like a crime against nature. “You understand, though. Destiny Miller. Ugh!” She shuddered.

“Or Carrie Bonanon,” Kristen added and they both gave a theatrical shudder that ended in laughter that was so infectious that Nicole couldn’t help join in.

“You need to watch who you associate with,” Elizabeth said. “If you hang out with the weak people, people will think you’re weak.”

“Don’t worry,” Kristen said. “We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen. It’s too late to change your room assignment, but it doesn’t matter.”

“So, did you shop much in Paris?” Tiffany asked. “I bought the prettiest scarf at a little shop on the Ile Saint-Louis.”

At one point, a hush fell over the lunchroom. Nicole looked up and saw the headmistress standing on the faculty dais near the rear of the room. She was holding up her hands like a bird about to take flight, but the girls seemed to understand her gesture, for the conversation died away to a smattering of voices and urgent “ssh’s.”

“This is just a reminder to our afternoon classes that the police are in the library and so it will remain closed for the rest of the day. If you are summoned to be questioned by the police, please leave your class promptly and report directly to the library. Likewise, when you are finished, you should return directly to class. There is nothing to be feared from the questioning—it is just routine. The inconvenience is unfortunate, but, as I told the police, St. Ursula girls can handle any challenge!”

Spontaneous applause broke out and Tiffany rolled her eyes. Nicole stifled a giggle. Elizabeth frowned at them both and Tiffany touched a hand to her lips as if she were locking a door.

“Do you think they’re going to call us?” Kristen said once Sister Rose had stepped down. She was eating a salad, but Nicole had only seen one forkful actually enter her mouth. She stirred the leaves with her fork. It made Nicole feel funny about taking a big bite out of the pizza she’d chosen. It smelled good. She settled for nibbling.

“Of course they won’t call us,” Elizabeth said. “They want to talk to the witch’s friends.”

Tiffany giggled. “That isn’t us!”

“Obviously.” Elizabeth took a small bite from the grilled chicken breast she’d extricated from between two pieces of bread, lettuce, tomato, cheese, and mayonnaise.

“Who are you talking about?” Nicole asked. “The girl who died?”

“Morgan Wycoff,” Elizabeth said.

“The campus witch,” Kristen added.

“She was a loser,” Tiffany said. “Nobody liked her.”

“She shouldn’t have been at St. Ursula’s at all,” Elizabeth said. “I personally gave her at least six demerits last semester. And she was suspended at least once. I mean, how many times does a person have to disrupt a place before someone puts a stop to it?”

Nicole nodded along with the others, but she wondered privately if Morgan had been unhappy. She was glad that they didn’t know about how much trouble she’d gotten into during her last year of school in Paris. Maybe Morgan had lost someone in her family. Before Paul’s death, she’d been a harsh judge of the girls who’d skipped school or slept in class. She hadn’t understood that the root of apathy could often be depression.

“I’m not criticizing Sister Rose,” Elizabeth said, “because she’s practically an institution herself.” The other girls nodded again.

“She’s been here forever,” Tiffany said to Nicole. “She was headmistress when my mother was at St. Ursula’s.”

“It’s not her fault,” Elizabeth said. “She had pressure from some of the teachers and from that girl’s mother. That was the only reason she was allowed to stay. My mother told me.”

Kristen put down her fork, pushing back her plate with a sigh as if she’d eaten a big meal. “I mean, if you think about it, her dying is a good thing for this school.”

“Not that we’re saying we wanted her to die,” Elizabeth interjected. “Just that since no one found her up there I think we can all agree that it’s good she died.”

“Right,” Tiffany said. She smiled at Nicole. “Believe me, if you’d known her you’d know what we’re talking about. Ding dong the witch is dead.”

The other girls burst out laughing and Nicole pushed her own plate of half-eaten pizza back and joined in.

The sun beat down on Lauren, she could smell her skin burning. The cobblestone street was melting under her feet. She ran toward the stone spires of an old church.

She pushed against its heavy wooden doors and plunged into the cool interior. The church was empty except for one figure sitting in the shadows near the altar. Her shoes clicked quietly against the stone floor. She slipped into a pew and bowed her head. She heard the sound of soft footsteps moving toward her and she started to shake.

“What have you done to Amanda?” a voice whispered.

She looked up and saw Michael standing before her, his laughing eyes somber. Water poured down his body, his blond hair brown with wet and plastered to his skull, the liquid forming a dark stain around him on the stone floor.

“Where is Amanda?” he repeated. She reached out her hand to touch him and his body burst into flames. “You killed me!” he shrieked.

Lauren woke with a scream. It was dark but she could feel something under her. Cotton sheets. She was in bed in Augustine House dressed in running clothes. Light shone through the blinds, but the clock glowed seven. It was moonlight. She sat up, breathing hard. She’d meant to lie down for ten minutes when she came back from her run, not sleep for three hours.

She got up, a familiar soreness in her calves as she padded down the hall to the small kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. Images from the dream replayed themselves over and over again and she pressed a hand against her forehead, kneading at the tension.

The kettle’s shrieking startled her. She poured boiling water over a bag and carried the steeping mug out to the front room.

It was stupid, like feeding a fire or scratching an itch, but she couldn’t help opening the bottom drawer of her desk and pulling out the photo album. She justified it as a desire to see Michael whole and well and not as he’d appeared in her dream.

There was a photo of Michael leaning against the door-frame in her flat in London. He wore jeans and a sardonic expression, his arms folded against his bare chest, one bare foot sliding against another. His GQ pose, she’d called it. His blond hair hung in his eyes, those blue eyes staring at her so intensely.

She ran a hand lightly over the photo and felt a deep ache that started in the base of her stomach and dipped down, between her legs. She’d wanted him then, she wanted him now. From the moment they’d met she’d felt the most basic physical attraction for him, a feverish longing that blocked any warning signals, that overcame any hesitation.

It helped that she was alone and lonely, on her own in a foreign country and still struggling to get comfortable with crowded streets. It helped that he was her first.

Amanda handled things differently. Tougher than Lauren, more confident with the opposite sex, aware too early of her physical attributes, even if she’d had no real idea of how to use them. She was strong to the point of brashness, where Lauren was shy, startled easily, didn’t like making eye contact.

Michael called her soft and made it sound endearing, but he’d misunderstood her. It wasn’t softness. Naiveté, certainly, but not softness. Had he ever really loved her or was it just what she represented?

Closing the album she slipped it back in the bottom drawer of the desk and slammed it shut. She should get rid of the thing, but she couldn’t. So she kept it tucked away instead, hidden in a drawer along with a small stack of white letters all addressed by the same hand.

Her head hurt. She got some ibuprofen and swallowed it with the now-tepid tea. Being here wasn’t good for her. The past came knocking here. In the city school the exhaustion of the daily commute, the constant need for vigilance in the school itself, had kept it at bay. Here, where she didn’t have to worry about safety, surrounded by schoolgirls and the quiet of the woods, her past flooded back and she couldn’t seem to stop it.

She would work here just long enough to pay off her debts and then she would start again somewhere else. There had to be somewhere to go where she could forget the past and no one could find her and remind her.