Alex shook her head. “North claims he isn’t there.”
“That’s got to be a good sign,” said Dawes. “On Wednesday we’ll call him back. We’ll bring him home. Darlington will know what to do about everything.”
Maybe. But Alex wasn’t going to bet her life on waiting.
“Do you know much about the Bridegroom murders?” Alex asked. Just because she knew North’s name, she didn’t have to make a habit of using it. It would only strengthen their bond.
Dawes shrugged. “It’s on all of those Haunted Connecticut tours along with Jennie Cramer and that house in Southington.”
“Where did it go down?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t like reading about that kind of stuff.”
“You chose the wrong line of work, Dawes.” She cocked her head. “Or did it choose you?” She remembered Darlington’s story about waking in the hospital at age seventeen, with an IV in his arm and Dean Sandow’s card in his hand. It was something they had in common, though it had never really felt that way.
“They approached me because of the topic for my dissertation. I was well suited to research. It was boring work until—” She broke off. Her shoulders hitched like someone had yanked on her strings. Until Darlington. Dawes brushed at her eyes with her mittened hands. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”
“Dawes—” Alex began.
But Dawes was already hurrying back toward the Hutch.
Alex looked around, hoping to see the Bridegroom, wondering if the gluma or its master knew she had survived, if an ambush would be waiting around the next corner. She needed to get back to the dorm.
Alex thought of the passage the Bridegroom had quoted from Idylls of the King, the sinister weight of the words. If she remembered right, that passage was about Geraint’s romance with Enid, a man driven mad by jealousy though his wife had remained faithful. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Rather die than doubt. Why had Tara chosen those lines for her tattoo? Had she related to Enid or had she just liked the sound of the words? And why would someone from Scroll and Key share them with her? Alex couldn’t imagine one of the Locksmiths saying thank you for a particularly sweet high with a tour of the tomb and an education in its mythology. And even if Alex wasn’t making something out of nothing, how had dealing weed to a few undergrads turned into murder? There had to be something more at play here.
Alex remembered lying on her back at that intersection, seeing through Tara’s eyes in her last moments, seeing Lance’s face above her. But what if hadn’t been Lance at all? What if it had been some kind of glamour?
She swerved down High Street toward the Hopper College dining hall. She longed for the safety of her dorm room, but answers could protect her better than any ward. Even though Turner had warned her off Tripp, it was the only name she had and the only direct connection between the societies and Tara.
It was early yet, but sure enough, there he was, seated at a long table with a few of his buddies, all of them in loose shorts and baseball caps and fleeces, all of them rosy-cheeked and wind-buffed despite the fact she knew they must be nursing hangovers. Apparently wealth was better than vitamin injections. Darlington had been cut from the same moneyed cloth, but he’d had a real face, one with a little hardness in it.
As she approached, she saw Tripp’s friends turn their eyes to her, assess her, discard her. She’d showered at the Hutch, changed into a pair of Lethe sweats, and combed her hair. After being shoved into traffic and drowning, it was all the effort she owed anyone.
“Hey, Tripp,” she said easily. “You got a minute?”
He turned her way. “You want to ask me to prom, Stern?”
“Depends. Gonna be a good little slut for me and put out?” Tripp’s friends whooped and one of them let out a long Ohhhh shit. Now they were looking at her. “I need to talk to you about that problem set.”
Tripp’s cheeks pinked, but then his shoulders squared and he rose. “Sure.”
“Bring him home early,” said one of his buddies.
“Why?” she asked. “You want seconds?”
They whooped again and clapped their hands as if she’d landed an impressive put.
“You’re kinda nasty, Stern,” Tripp said over his shoulder as she trailed him out of the dining hall. “I like it.”
“Come here,” she said. She led him up the stairs, past the stained-glass windows of plantation life that had survived the name change of the college from “slavery is a positive good” Calhoun to Hopper. A few years back a black janitor had smashed one of them to bits.
Tripp’s face changed, eager mischief pulling at his mouth. “What’s up, Stern?” he said as they entered the reading room. It was empty.
She closed the door behind her and his grinned widened—like he actually thought she was about to make a move.
“How do you know Tara Hutchins?”
“What?”
“How do you know her? I’ve seen her phone logs,” she lied. “I know just how often you were in touch.”
He scowled and leaned on the back of a leather couch, folding his arms. The sulk didn’t suit him. It pushed his round features from boyish sweetness to angry infant. “You a cop now?”
She walked toward him and she saw him stiffen, tell himself not to back up. His world was all about deferral, moving in sideways patterns. You didn’t step to someone directly. You didn’t look them in the eye. You were cool. You were fine with it. You could take a joke.
“Don’t make me say I’m the law, Tripp. I’ll have trouble keeping a straight face.”
His eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”
“How stupid are you?” His mouth fell open. His lower lip looked wet. Had anyone ever spoken to Tripp Helmuth this way? “It’s about a dead girl. I want to know what she was to you.”
“I already talked to the police.”
“And now you’re talking to me. About a dead girl.”
“I don’t have to—”
She leaned in. “You know how this works, right? My job—the job of Lethe House—is to keep entitled little shits like you from making trouble for the administration.”
“Why are you being such a hard-ass? I thought we were friends.”
Because of all the beer pong we played and the summer we spent in Biarritz? Did he really not know the difference between friends and friendly?
“We are friends, Tripp. If I wasn’t your friend I’d have taken this to Dean Sandow already, but I don’t want hassle and I don’t want to make trouble for you or for Bones if I don’t have to.”
His big shoulders shrugged. “It was just a hookup.”
“Tara doesn’t seem like your type.”
“You don’t know my type.” Was he really trying to flirt his way out of this? She held his gaze and his eyes slid away. “She was fun,” he muttered.
For the first time, Alex had the sense he was being honest.
“I bet she was,” Alex said gently. “Always had a smile, always glad to see you.” That’s what dealing was about. Tripp probably didn’t understand that he was just a customer, that he was a pal as long as he had cash on hand.
“She was nice.” Did he care that she was dead? Was there something more haunted than a hangover in his eyes or did Alex just want to believe he gave a damn? “I swear all we ever did was fuck around and smoke a couple of bowls.”
“You ever meet at her place?”
He shook his head. “She always came to me.”
Of course figuring out her address couldn’t be that easy. “You ever see her with anyone from another society?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. Look, Lance and T were dealers; they got the best weed I’ve ever had, like the lushest, greenest shit you’ve ever seen. But I didn’t keep track of who she hung out with.”