In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead

Chapter 29

Now

It was so close to my Homecoming fantasy—every eye on me, rapt, waiting to see what I’d do next, just like it used to be with Heather—that for a moment, I felt an absurd flash of joy. Of gratefulness. Jessica Miller, star of the show.

But of course, now that it was finally happening, it was all wrong. They weren’t gathered around me to applaud, set a crown on my head. They were waiting for me to confess.

It was getting hard to breathe.

“Well?” Eric asked. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“I didn’t kill her.” My voice cracked. “I’m not hiding anything.”

Liar.

“That night, someone took the scissors from Caro’s desk and used them to cut up three photographs.” Eric stepped closer. “Someone who was very angry. And then those very same scissors—do you remember what happened next?”

Don’t say it.

“Someone used them to kill Heather. Stabbed her seventeen times.”

One, two, three cuts.

“A crime of passion, the cops said.” Eric took another step, and there was nowhere else to go. The railing bit into my back. “They thought it had to be Jack, the boyfriend. On the surface, it made sense. But Jack wasn’t so passionate about Heather, was he? Oh, he loved her, don’t get me wrong, but he wasn’t so angry that he could do that to her, like the cops thought. He was already moving on. No, someone else hated her.”

Four, five, six.

Eric pointed the photographs at me. “It was either you”—he turned to Caro—“or her.”

Coop shouldered his way past Eric and stood in front of me, arms out like a shield. “Enough. We played your games. We confessed our sins. There’s nothing left to say.”

“Coop?” Caro looked at him, standing boldly in front of me like a knight before a dragon, then at the empty space in front of her. She frowned.

“Coop’s right,” Mint said. “We’ve practically given you our entire Homecoming. Because you’re Heather’s brother, and we feel bad. Really, we do. You’re clearly hurting. But sometimes, as terrible as it sounds, mysteries go unsolved. Cases remain cold.” Mint gestured at the line of floats behind us. “Why don’t you go and use this day to mourn your sister?”

Eric’s calm mask shattered. His eyes flashed. “I’m not going anywhere until her killer is brought to justice.I promised her.” His eyes found mine over Coop’s shoulder.

“I didn’t do it,” I said, my voice hollow.

Seven, eight, nine cuts.

“If no one will confess to killing her,” Eric said, “maybe you’ll confess to the other crimes.”

“What other crimes?” Courtney asked warily.

Caro was still looking at Coop, measuring the distance between him and me.

“The night of Heather’s murder, two other crimes were committed, but of course, neither got as much attention. The second crime the cops investigated but, like Heather’s case, never solved. The first was never even reported. It was considered minor, only a campus issue. That crime was my most important clue. It took me years to find it. Took joining the Alumni Office, making friends with the one person who was on staff back then, who remembered the night Heather died. And what they found the next morning.”

My heart, pounding and pounding.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

“Jesus Christ, Eric,” Coop started, but Eric cut him off.

“Do you remember a professor by the name of John Garvey?”

I stepped outside myself. I was not here. I was a million miles away.

Coop clenched his fists in front of me. He was going to hit Eric. I could see it happening already, unfolding like a foregone conclusion. Even Mint went rigid as a board, feeding off Coop’s tension.

Caro squinted. “The economics professor? The big shot who went to work for the president after we graduated?”

“That’s the one. Amazingly tight-lipped, Professor Garvey. Didn’t want to talk at all about his years teaching at Duquette. Even less excited to be asked about the night Heather was killed, the night someone—”

Coop took a threatening step forward. “I swear to god, Shelby, not here. You’re dealing with people’s lives.”

“I’m dealing with her life,” Eric growled. “That’s the only life I care about.”

“Let him talk,” Mint said in a flat voice.

“That same night,” Eric said, looking at Coop defiantly, “someone broke into Professor Garvey’s house. Smashed it up. Glass shattered, paintings ripped from the walls, shelves turned over. The damage was nearly a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. But you want to know the most interesting part? Whoever broke in wrote the word ‘rapist’ in every room of his house.”

What? The shock filtered through me. I searched myself, combing through memories, but I couldn’t find the break-in. There was a point in the night when the reel went black—utterly, utterly dark—so it was possible. It was possible, but it didn’t feel right.

No, it didn’t feel right. Not like thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.

“If you say one more word, I’ll shut you up myself,” Coop said. “You don’t have the right to bring this up. It’s not yours to talk about.”

Caro looked at me with the strangest expression.

Rapist.Someone had written it, over and over. An accusation, a punishment. Who even knew, besides me? Were there other girls? The thought made me dizzy.

“It is mine to talk about. Because Professor Garvey was connected to Heather. He wrote her a letter—the recommendation that landed her the Duquette Post-Grad Fellowship. Ring any bells?”

“That’s right,” Courtney said, a faraway look in her eyes. “That award she won. She found out the day she died. I remember she was excited. She told me she’d applied on a lark.”

A lark.The words brought the pain back, as fresh and vivid as it was ten years ago. A knife straight through the heart.

Sixteen.

“February 14th, 5:03 p.m. Heather called our mom to tell her she’d won the fellowship. The Duquette version of a Fulbright, the highest honor any graduating senior could receive. My mom told her she was proud. It was the last time anyone in our family spoke to her.”

Coop couldn’t seem to help it. He turned over his shoulder, searching my face for a clue. His own was a mask of uncertainty.

“The people Heather beat for the fellowship must have been livid,” Courtney said, tapping her chin. “She wasn’t even an econ major and Garvey wrote for her.” She gave a puff of laughter. “She kept going on and on about how she didn’t even care, then she goes and wins it.”

“Funny you say that.” Eric smiled at me, and I knew what was coming. Mint and Coop turned, following the direction of Eric’s smile, and suddenly, all eyes were back on me.

“It turns out Professor Garvey wrote one other recommendation letter for the fellowship. But it took me nearly a decade to find out, because the evidence went missing from campus the night Heather died.”

“The first crime,” Mint said softly. “The one they said was only a campus issue.”

Eric nodded.

Lucky number seventeen.

“Who?” Courtney breathed.

She didn’t remember, of course, but the rest of them did. There had only ever been one econ major among us.

Caro turned to me, her eyes wide and frightened. “Oh my god. What did you do?”