Direction song on his iTunes and getting his first boner at a performance of The Nutcracker. He’ll talk to anyone who will listen about some TV show he discovered on Netflix or the new Game of Thrones book, but ask him what he wants to be when he grows up and you’ve crossed a line.
I used to be drawn to that about him; Brent was this nut I’d do anything to crack. And I thought I did, when he opened up about his diabetes and we started dating and I learned about how screwed up his family is. Now it’s a reminder of why we broke up: Brent puts up walls when he gets mad. Brent looks for reasons not to trust people.
Brent didn’t believe me. If the situation were reversed, I probably wouldn’t have believed him. I’d never believe that my own father was involved in a murder, or covering one up.
I should have understood why he wanted me to let the Matt Weaver thing go. But I couldn’t, so I lied to him and went behind his back.
I want to believe that things could be different this time. That he’d believe me if I told him what was going on with Ms. C.
But wanting something isn’t enough to make it happen.
Once I get rid of Brent, I grab a laundry basket from my room and head for the Amherst basement. I push the bookcase that conceals the tunnel entrance, but it doesn’t budge. I catch my breath—I can’t really be that out of shape from sitting in my apartment all summer. (It is not easy to do Pilates in an eight-by-eight-foot bedroom, but I managed.)
I plant my feet close together to anchor myself and push again. The bookcase isn’t going anywhere.
It’s bolted to the wall.
I run my fingers behind the half an inch of space between the bookcase and the wall, searching for the rough wood of the door.
Instead I find smooth drywall.
Wheatley finally closed off the tunnel entrances.
CHAPTER
NINE
Someone at this school is one step ahead of me. If I can’t get into the tunnels, I need a Plan B to get Caroline Cormier-Frey’s information—and anything else I can dredge up on Natalie Barnes.
Anything she didn’t get to first.
After the morning orientation activities, I ditch lunch and head for the Student and Alumni Services building.
The receptionist is on the phone. Even though there’s a waiting area outside with a couch and an armchair outside the office, I hang out in front of his desk.
He covers the receiver. “Can I help you?”
“There’s something wrong with my schedule.”
“You have to file a report through the student portal to make an appointment with your advisor,” he says.
“I already did that. I never got a response.”
His mouth forms a line. “Could you wait outside until I’m done here?”
“Sure.” In fact, I was counting on it. I sit on the couch and glance over at the door. I can’t see the receptionist, which means he can’t see me. But I can hear him on the phone.
With a quick sweep of the hall to make sure no one’s coming, I head for the water cooler. I grab a paper cup and pull back the lever for cold water. Then I keep pulling until the lever snaps off and the water spills out onto the floor.
I head back into the office and tap on the receptionist’s desk until he looks up. The jerk isn’t even on the phone anymore. “I think the water cooler is broken.”
He looks over and sees the water spilling all over the carpet. He leaps up and rushes out of the office. I run around to the other side of the desk.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper as I scan the icons on the computer’s desktop. Bingo: There’s one labeled ALUMNI DIRECTORY.
I type in “Natalie Barnes” and hit Search.
It says, “No results found.”
Does that mean she didn’t graduate? I gnaw my lip. I don’t have time to speculate. I try “Caroline Cormier-Frey” and poke my head around the desk. The receptionist is gone; probably getting paper towels. The cursor spins as the system runs the search. One result loads as footsteps sound outside the office. I take a picture
I used to be drawn to that about him; Brent was this nut I’d do anything to crack. And I thought I did, when he opened up about his diabetes and we started dating and I learned about how screwed up his family is. Now it’s a reminder of why we broke up: Brent puts up walls when he gets mad. Brent looks for reasons not to trust people.
Brent didn’t believe me. If the situation were reversed, I probably wouldn’t have believed him. I’d never believe that my own father was involved in a murder, or covering one up.
I should have understood why he wanted me to let the Matt Weaver thing go. But I couldn’t, so I lied to him and went behind his back.
I want to believe that things could be different this time. That he’d believe me if I told him what was going on with Ms. C.
But wanting something isn’t enough to make it happen.
Once I get rid of Brent, I grab a laundry basket from my room and head for the Amherst basement. I push the bookcase that conceals the tunnel entrance, but it doesn’t budge. I catch my breath—I can’t really be that out of shape from sitting in my apartment all summer. (It is not easy to do Pilates in an eight-by-eight-foot bedroom, but I managed.)
I plant my feet close together to anchor myself and push again. The bookcase isn’t going anywhere.
It’s bolted to the wall.
I run my fingers behind the half an inch of space between the bookcase and the wall, searching for the rough wood of the door.
Instead I find smooth drywall.
Wheatley finally closed off the tunnel entrances.
CHAPTER
NINE
Someone at this school is one step ahead of me. If I can’t get into the tunnels, I need a Plan B to get Caroline Cormier-Frey’s information—and anything else I can dredge up on Natalie Barnes.
Anything she didn’t get to first.
After the morning orientation activities, I ditch lunch and head for the Student and Alumni Services building.
The receptionist is on the phone. Even though there’s a waiting area outside with a couch and an armchair outside the office, I hang out in front of his desk.
He covers the receiver. “Can I help you?”
“There’s something wrong with my schedule.”
“You have to file a report through the student portal to make an appointment with your advisor,” he says.
“I already did that. I never got a response.”
His mouth forms a line. “Could you wait outside until I’m done here?”
“Sure.” In fact, I was counting on it. I sit on the couch and glance over at the door. I can’t see the receptionist, which means he can’t see me. But I can hear him on the phone.
With a quick sweep of the hall to make sure no one’s coming, I head for the water cooler. I grab a paper cup and pull back the lever for cold water. Then I keep pulling until the lever snaps off and the water spills out onto the floor.
I head back into the office and tap on the receptionist’s desk until he looks up. The jerk isn’t even on the phone anymore. “I think the water cooler is broken.”
He looks over and sees the water spilling all over the carpet. He leaps up and rushes out of the office. I run around to the other side of the desk.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper as I scan the icons on the computer’s desktop. Bingo: There’s one labeled ALUMNI DIRECTORY.
I type in “Natalie Barnes” and hit Search.
It says, “No results found.”
Does that mean she didn’t graduate? I gnaw my lip. I don’t have time to speculate. I try “Caroline Cormier-Frey” and poke my head around the desk. The receptionist is gone; probably getting paper towels. The cursor spins as the system runs the search. One result loads as footsteps sound outside the office. I take a picture
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