by Frankie Rose
******
“Overdose?”
“Yeah.” Morgan swats tears from her cheeks, trying to keep it together. In the three days since the library, there haven’t been many times when she’s been able to accomplish that. We’ve been waiting for the coroner’s report for days, and eventually we read it in the newspapers, just like everyone else. Like we hadn’t been part of Tate’s life and didn’t deserve to know. Morgan swallows thickly. “The people in the neighboring buildings didn’t see his body on the roof, because…” her voice wobbles, “because of the snow. They probably wouldn’t have found him for weeks if the janitor hadn’t gone up there for a smoke. He spotted one of his shoes.”
I reach out and take her hand. It’s cold, but more worryingly she’s shaking. She just hasn’t stopped shaking. “Have Tate’s parents talked to you yet?”
She shakes her head. “They told the Dean to make me stop calling. They think I know how he got up there, but I don’t. I’d tell them if I did. I’ve told them everything I know. I blacked out. The last thing I remember is some guy shouting at Tate because he was throwing up in the bathtub, and then…nothing. I only took one pill. He,” she sobs, “he took three!”
“Shhh, it’s okay. I got you.” I pull Morgan to me. She’s barely left my apartment since we all found out, and I have no intentions of making her go. She is a wreck. “Tate’s parents have no idea what went on, the same as the rest of us. How they think you’re withholding information is a mystery. Don’t freak out, though. We’ll get it all sorted out this afternoon.”
This afternoon I’m Morgan’s ride to the police station, where she’s required for questioning. Her parents don’t know anything about Tate’s death. She doesn’t want them coming back to the city after they’ve only just left her in peace.
Morgan slumps down on my bed, her spine curved as she hugs herself tightly. “They’re going to ask me where we got the drugs from,” she whispers.
“Of course they will. You have to tell them, Morgan. It’s important. This guy could be out there selling the same stuff to other students. People need to know.”
Morgan’s eyes, a watery grey from her constant crying, focus on me. It’s perhaps the first time since the news that she’s looked at me and really seen me.
“You don’t understand, Avery.”
“I would if you told me,” I say quietly. No matter how many times I’ve asked, she point-blank refuses to give up the name of the dealer. Today is no exception.
“I can’t. I’m sorry…I…it’s someone you know.”
Someone I know. It’s someone I know? My mind races a million miles an hour. And it keeps racing, lightning speeds compared to the twenty mile an hour traffic we find ourselves in as we crawl across the city later. When we finally reach our destination, we enter the building together but Morgan is immediately whisked away. I’m abandoned to my own company in the thankfully empty waiting room, until a buzzing sound disturbs the silence and Noah emerges from inside the station. Our eyes meet and my stomach falls through the floor.
It’s someone you know.
Surely not Noah? “What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice a sub zero level of cold. Noah winces. He approaches me slowly, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He gestures to the chair beside me and I’m too confused and concerned over everything and everyone to object. He slumps down into the chair, sighing heavily.
“I had to give a statement about when I last saw Tate,” he says quietly.
“Right.” It’s someone you know. Somehow the possibility that Noah could be the one responsible for Tate’s death and for Morgan’s time in hospital hurts way more than the secrets he kept from me. It’s all I can think about—is this all his fault? Memories of Noah meeting Tate and Morgan in the library that day, them swapping a huge amount of money for some textbooks, come flooding back to me. Oh, Lord, no. Dealers do that, don’t they? Put their stashes inside books or CD cases or whatever they have handy to disguise them. I glance at Noah cautiously out of the corner of my eye, only to find him staring at me.
“Avery, I really would like to talk to you, please? If that’s okay?” He reaches out to touch my knee. I go stiff, which he reacts to instantly. He doesn’t withdraw his hand, though. He tightens his grip, squeezing so hard his fingertips go white. “Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened in your place. And in the hallway, too. I get a little hot headed sometimes, but I would never hurt you. There’s no reason to freak out.”
“Well, I am freaking out,” I tell him. I shift my leg but he doesn’t let go. I swallow down my panic and turn fully to face him, wanting to look him in the eye when I ask him. “This isn’t just about that. I have something I need to know. That day…when we met Tate and Morgan in the library?”
Noah goes totally still. “Yeah…”
“Well, those books. Were they just books, or—”
I can’t finish my sentence. I can’t finish my sentence because one second Noah is gripping tightly onto my leg, a cold blankness in his eyes, and the next he is sprawled across the police station floor. A fury of black and gold rushes forward, and Luke—Luke!—grabs a fistful of Noah’s shirt, practically lifting him off the ground.
“Get your fucking hands off her, you freak.”
“I wasn’t doing nuthin’ wrong!” Noah cries, hands held high. “She’s my girlfriend.”
“She is not your fucking girlfriend.” Luke raises a fist back, and the cold realization that he’s about to hit Noah and end his career shoots through me. I leap up and launch myself at him, grabbing hold of his wrist from behind. The second my hand touches his skin, Luke’s fist uncurls. He blows out a sharp blast of air through his nose, growling at the back of his throat, and then lets Noah go. Noah slumps to the floor, eyes round and filled with fear.
“Get the fuck out of here, right now,” Luke snaps. “If I ever so much as hear you’ve whispered her fucking name, I will break every bone in your goddamn body.”
Noah struggles to his feet and hightails for the door. Luke pivots slowly, his dark eyes almost black with anger.
I swallow, trying to keep my back straight. I’m flooded with relief and gratitude that he showed up when he did, but I’m too worried to tell him that. Instead, I say, “What are you doing here, Luke? This isn’t your station.”
Luke’s eyes narrow. “Prisoner transfer. Why are you here?”
“It turns out our friend Tate died the same night Morgan got sick. She’s in there giving a statement right now.”
Luke’s anger falters. “The guy on the roof?”
“Yeah.”
He nods once, clenching his fists by his sides. This really isn’t good. I’ve never seen him like this before. “You need to come see me later. I have some more news about your dad. I tried calling.”
He has tried calling, but frankly I’ve been avoiding his ass. “I can’t, I have to take care of—”
“Just come.”
He turns and stabs a code into the keypad by the door that leads into the station proper and disappears without looking back once. On any other day, I’d ignore a demand like that. But not today. Not after what just happened. And Luke hardly seemed happy about the prospect of my company. Whatever he needs to tell me probably has something to do with the feds’ investigation. I wait alone for another awkward hour, tensing when the door buzzes open, hoping and praying in equal measure that is and isn’t Luke each time. Finally the door opens and it’s Morgan that walks through. She cries the whole way home, refusing to tell me anything besides the fact that she admitted to who provided the pills.
Twenty Five
Admissions
