Deadly First Day, page 13
part #1 of Embassy Academy Series
Callahan, who has probably heard enough, shoves away from the table and stalks out.
Asif swipes his apple off his tray and follows, shooting a dirty look over his shoulder at Gul.
Unfazed, she moves on to tell her juicy tale at the next table.
My mind reels as I tap my fingers soundlessly on my thigh. What if the rumors are true? What if Na was sleeping with Professor Rook, and Callahan found out about it? That would definitely give him a good reason to be mad, but mad enough to hurt her? Now that I think about it, it’s obvious that Callahan doesn’t like Professor Rook. He doesn’t talk in class at all unless the professor calls on him directly, and even then it’s a quick, mumbled answer without eye contact.
Beside me, Charlotte relaxes once Gul is several tables over and we can no longer hear the gossip spewing forth from her tongue.
“Why are you friends with her if she annoys you so much?” I ask, flushing at my boldness.
Charlotte shakes her head. “We are not friends. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me. Please.”
“You remember her dad is the ambassador from Pakistan?”
“Yes?” I don’t know where she’s going with this.
“So, the U.S. and Pakistan don’t always have the best relationship.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” Dali cuts in.
“Okay, but why does that mean you have to be friends with Gul?”
Charlotte huffs. “Daddy is one of the most famous U.S. senators. How do you think her dad would take it if he found out I was being mean to his only daughter? It wouldn’t exactly help U.S./Pakistani relations, would it?”
I bite my lip. This is heavy stuff. “I never would have considered that.”
“Welcome to my world. It’s not easy being on the big stage.”
I never want to be on this so-called “big stage.” “I guess not.”
Charlotte picks up her bag and goes through it, her brow furrowing. “I forgot something. I’ll catch up with you two later, all right?” Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she leaves.
That’s when I notice her phone sitting on the tabletop, flashing.
I pick it up slowly, trying not to read her notifications. I can’t help the top one is a message from Ken Doll. It’s a brush-off. “I’d better get this back to her. See you in class?”
Dali nods, returning her attention to her food.
I jog down the hallway, looking for Charlotte in all of the empty classrooms, their doors propped open against the wood paneled walls. Turning the corner, I get a glimpse of her just as she steps into Professor Rook’s classroom.
“Charlotte,” I call. “Your phone.”
She must not have heard me, because the door shuts behind her.
I pick up my pace, guilt pricking at me for reading that message from her boyfriend. My fingers close around the knob and twist, but it doesn’t move. The door to Professor Rook’s classroom is locked, and he and Charlotte are inside. Alone.
I have to tell someone.
Whirling around, I run smack into another heavy wooden door. Pain slices through my forehead, and a trickle of warmth runs down into my eyebrow. “Ouch,” I bite out, reaching up with hesitant fingers to touch the cut. Wincing, I close my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Asif asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.
I open my eyes to find him and Callahan looking at me. Well, Asif is looking at me. Callahan is staring at the open cut on my forehead, and his skin is turning a distinct shade of green.
His cheeks balloon, and he clamps a hand over his mouth. “Mmph,” he heaves, hurrying away from us down the hall.
“You’ll have to excuse him,” Asif says, dropping his hand. “Strong gag reflex.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s get you to the health center. You may need stitches.”
When we come to the eatery, Asif waves Dali over, and she agrees to show me the way.
“That looks like it hurt,” Dali says, frowning in solidarity.
“It felt like my head had been split open,” I admit.
Bobbing, she leads me through the academy to an area I’ve never seen before. “Don’t worry. Doctor Paloma will patch you up. She’s really nice. You’ll like her.”
“You come here a lot?” I ask, hoping Dali’s talking will distract me from the pain still radiating through my skull.
“I get migraines,” the girl shrugs, leading me through a door under an archway that reads, Student Health Center. It’s painted a soothing sea glass green. It’s two weeks until Halloween, but the reception area is already decorated. Paper decorations of witches and ghosts hang from the ceiling by black streamers. Tiny orange and white pumpkins with faces drawn on in black marker adorn the edge of a practical wooden desk, behind which sits a woman in crisp blue scrubs.
“What happened to you?” she asks, rising from her chair and stepping toward us. Peering at my forehead, she hisses. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I’m Nurse Karen. And you are?”
“Adrienne Lewis. Hi.” She leads me behind the desk into a narrow hallway lined with doors. It looks just like a doctor’s office. We go through the first door on the right, where there’s a clean, white hospital bed against the wall.
Nurse Karen has me sit on the bed as she rolls a neatly organized med cart toward me. She makes quick work of cleaning my cut, but insists I stay here for a few minutes so she can observe me. “How are you feeling, Dalitso?” she asks as she finishes applying my bandage.
“Fine, thank you.”
“No migraines lately?”
“Not since the first week of school.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Why don’t you head to class? I’ll send Miss Lewis along in a few minutes.”
“All right. See you.” She leaves, and the nurse retreats to her desk, typing something into her laptop.
My thoughts are splintering, and I’m not sure if it’s everything that’s happened today, or my head wound. No matter how much I try, I can’t get Callahan’s green-tinged expression of revulsion out of my mind. If he reacts that way to a minor cut on my forehead, how might he have reacted to seeing Na bleeding out? I have no idea how he knew she’d been stabbed in the neck, but I do know one thing. Anyone who got that woozy at the sight of a little blood would have lost it if they’d seen what I saw in that bathroom.
It’s not likely that Callahan killed Na.
But if he didn’t, who did?
And what’s going on with Charlotte and Professor Rook?
17
If Charlotte knew where I was right now, I’m pretty sure she’d kill me. But honestly, the hammock in Ricardo’s room is sooooo comfy, I may never leave. I’m so glad he dragged me up here.
We’re taking a break from studying, and Ricardo’s in the dormitory kitchen microwaving popcorn. I can practically smell the warm, buttery snack from here. Letting my head go weightless against the blue weave of the hammock, I scope out his room. My nerves are tingling at being alone in here. I’m tempted to snoop, but it’s not nice to paw through people’s things without their permission. Plus, Ricardo will be back any time now, and I would be terminally embarrassed if he found me poking around.
So I use my eyes to poke around, instead. On the wall above his bed are several large posters of professional soccer, I mean football, players wearing blue and white. A well-loved soccer ball rests between the dresser and the mini fridge. On his desk is a photo of a little boy in the lap of a smiling woman, her terra cotta brown skin shining in the sun. His mom, maybe? I want to take a closer look.
Sliding ungracefully out of the hammock, I tiptoe across the room and study the photograph. A low squeal escapes me before I can stop it. The little boy is definitely baby Ricardo, and he is so cute. They’re sitting on the porch of a mint green house, squinting into the sun. My mouth peels up into a smile. The two of them look so happy.
“I was a lady killer, even at four, right?”
Ricardo’s voice makes me jump and spin around, as if I’ve been caught with my hand in the cookie jar without permission.
He huffs in amusement, eyes glinting, as he holds out a bag of popcorn. “For you.”
I smile, biting my lip. “Sorry for being nosy. I just wanted to see if it was you.”
He nods. “Like I said. Baby Ricky was irresistible.” A corner of his mouth tips up.
“Yeah, what happened?” I gesture over him.
“Hey. I got you up here to my room, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but I didn’t, I don’t…” My face goes beet red, and an erratic fluttering starts in my stomach. Why did I agree to come up here? I’m embarrassed, and flustered. Then an even worse thought strikes. I bet he’s brought other girls up here. Including Genevieve. Nervous energy spikes in my core. Coming up here was maybe not such a good idea. My eyes dart from him to the half-open door, and I take a hesitant step toward it.
Ricardo laughs. “Relax, chouchou. I’m not going to take advantage of you. It’s just popcorn, all right?”
I nod, taking the bag from him with a whispered, “Thank you.” Retreating to the hammock, I sit and pick at the hot, salty kernels.
Ricardo sits in his desk chair, still chuckling, and takes a couple of bites. “Hmmph.” He retrieves a small bottle of bright red hot sauce out of the mini fridge and sprinkles it liberally over his popcorn. “Want some?”
My nose wrinkles. “No, thanks. I don’t like hot sauce.”
He looks up at me, and his forehead creases. Is that… concern? “I’m glad your forehead is all right,” he says finally. “That’s quite the large bandage you’re wearing.”
My fingers rise to my forehead, running over the white gauze above my right eyebrow. “Thanks.
I take another bite.
“You can’t believe everything you hear around this place, you know.”
My head pops up. “Like what?”
Ricardo looks at me, and then gives a minor head shake. “Never mind. So, tell me. If Callahan didn’t kill Na, which in itself would be incredibly salacious, why did he have that poster of her?”
I chew, thinking it over. We may have been mistaken. The poster may not have been Callahan’s. We didn’t actually see him anywhere near that stretch of studio space. And the poster could have been of any girl. Yes, I thought she looked a lot like Na, but I could have been wrong. Since she died, Na has consumed my thoughts. Maybe I saw what I wanted to see. Maybe the poster was simply a massive coincidence. “I don’t know what to think. I just know that when Callahan saw the cut on my forehead, he practically barfed all over me. If he’d killed Na, the police would have found puke all over that bathroom.”
Ricardo swipes at the patchy auburn stubble along his jaw. “Just as well. It’d be a shame if it turned out your stepbrother was a murderer.”
“Understatement. What I don’t understand is—”
“Adrienne, are you in here?” Dali comes barreling into the room, braids bouncing over her shoulders and eyes wide. “Thank goodness. Charlotte is looking everywhere for you.”
I spring out of the hammock clutching my popcorn. She cannot know I’m here. “Where is she? Does she know I’m up here?”
“No, but it’ll probably occur to her soon. Genevieve spent quite a bit of time up here last year.” This last part is spoken lower as she cuts her eyes toward Ricardo, who sighs loudly. I guess that answers that question.
“Let’s go. I have to go. Thanks for the popcorn.” I set it on the dresser and practically sprint out of the room without giving him a chance to speak. “Thanks for getting me.”
Dali loops her arm through mine. “Any time, but you should have kept the popcorn as an alibi.”
We hurry down the stairs to the third floor and find Charlotte pacing up and down the hallway. “Where were you? The police are downstairs. They want to ask you a few more questions. Why do you smell like popcorn and hot sauce?”
My throat closes. “Me? What for?”
Charlotte shakes her head. “I don’t know, but you’d better hope it’s just a formality. Daddy will not be happy if this goes anywhere serious. This could ruin his campaign. Not to mention our chances.”
“Our chances? What are you talking about?”
“Forget about it. Just get downstairs. And remain calm. Our lawyer is here, too.” She shoves me toward the stairs.
“Good luck,” Dali mouths when I look at her over my shoulder.
The weight of scrutiny makes tiny hairs stand on the back of my neck. I don’t turn to look, but if I did, I’m positive there’d be a crowd of students watching me descend the stairs in this ersatz walk of shame.
I try to swallow, but my throat is clamped so tight it’s making it harder to breathe. Nerves well inside me like ocean waves breaking against a craggy shoreline, rivulets of icy water working their way into every crack and crevice. Why do the police want to talk to me again? Whatever the reason, I wish they didn’t. Talking to them makes me nervous, makes my head throb. My composure frays, and I’m scared I’ll end up confessing to something I didn’t do just to get out of there.
And then there’s Callahan and the poster.
Do I tell them?
Do I not?
The walk down seems incredibly short, and then I’m standing on the carpet, facing the detectives I talked to the day of the murder. Cahill and Gupta, but this time they seem much less friendly. Detective Cahill’s ponytail is a tad on the messy side, as if she can’t keep from running frustrated fingers over it, and Detective Gupta is typing on her phone with quick jabs of her thumbs. She looks up and her dark eyes move over me slowly, probably deducing things I didn’t know one could learn from a single look at another person.
“Um, Detectives?”
They both go still as I approach them.
“Miss Lewis.” Ms. Cain steps forward and places a protective hand on my shoulder. I don’t know if she’s trying to cheer me up by asserting her presence, but it’s not working.
“Follow us.” The officers lead us through the halls toward the administration office. Outside the glass walkway, the courtyard is lit by ornate vintage lamps that cast a glow over the trees, their outlines moving indistinctly in the cold autumn night air.
When we arrive at the office, Headmistress Morgan is waiting with her arms crossed over her chest. Oh, this is not good.
“Step inside, please.”
The five of us congregate in her office. She comes in last, looking hawkish in a sable skirt suit. Her shrewd eyes land on me, making my face go hot.
“Miss Lewis, may I call you Adrienne?” Detective Cahill gives a placating smile.
“S-sure, okay.”
“Great.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I blurt, then clamp my mouth shut. So much for keeping calm.
Ms. Cain frowns at me as if to say, What are you doing?
Detective Cahill’s eyebrows shoot up, and the look she gives her partner has an undercurrent I can’t identify.
“We’re not here to arrest you,” Detective Cahill says slowly. “We simply have a few more questions about the crime scene, where you found the body.”
I give a nervous nod, tucking my hands in between my legs to keep from fidgeting.
“When we spoke to you the day of the incident, you said you didn’t see anyone else in the bathroom. Did you see any evidence that someone else had been there?”
I close my eyes, willing my thoughts back to that day. To the murderous tableau I stumbled into when I stepped into the bathroom. There were three stalls, and I found Na in the middle one. I try to focus on the rest of the room, but try as I might, all I see is blood.
“Only the body, but that’s an obvious clue there was someone there, right?”
Detective Gupta types something and shows it to Detective Cahill, who nods.
“Here’s our problem, Adrienne. Our forensics experts have been over every inch of that bathroom, and they’ve found more fingerprints and bodily fluids than anyone should ever have to catalogue. However, the only DNA they found anywhere near the body belongs to you.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s impossible. Someone had to have gone in there, because Na was dead. She didn’t… could she have stabbed herself in the neck?”
Ms. Cain’s expression makes it clear that I need to control the word vomit, or else.
Detective Cahill shakes her head. “That’s unlikely, given the location of the wound.”
Detective Gupta slides her pad of paper toward me over the surface of the desk, and offers a pen. “Will you write your name for us, Miss Lewis?”
I don’t think there’s any harm in doing it since I don’t see how my handwriting could incriminate me. There wasn’t any writing at the crime scene. Reaching out, I scrawl my name on the pad in slow, careful strokes. I set the pen down and look up at Ms. Cain, who nods.
Detective Gupta picks up the pad and slides it into her pocket without even looking at it.
Her partner studies me. “We think the killer is left-handed.”
It’s like a punch to the gut. I’ve just unknowingly given the police another strike against me. They stood across that desk and watched me write my name with my dominant, left hand.
“This interview is over,” Ms. Cain says, gesturing for me to stand.
I move in slow motion, shocked at how this conversation has unfolded. I wish I could take it all back, but it’s too late.
I hesitate. There’s a way I can throw their suspicion onto someone else. I could tell them about Callahan. Still, I don’t speak.
Detective Cahill follows us. “Can I ask just one more question?”
Ms. Cain shakes her head. “No more questions. We’re leaving.”
Despite Ms. Cain’s clear urgency, I halt, foolishly hoping this final question will absolve me in the eyes of the detectives.
“When you were in the bathroom, did you see anything that might have been used as a weapon? A letter opener or a pen, perhaps?”
My shoulders sag. They don’t have a weapon, which means it’s one more thing they’re speculating about. One more piece of evidence that I can’t count on to exonerate me in their minds. I don’t dare answer.
Ms. Cain’s grip pinches my upper arm as she drags me down the hall.
