In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead

Chapter 43

Now

The cops shoved me through the angry crowd, pushing me forward by my shoulders. My arms were wrenched painfully behind my back, hands locked in cold metal cuffs. Someone yelled, “Murderer!” and someone else echoed it. Instead of backing away, the crowd pressed closer, their faces hardening against me.

I couldn’t help but think of the daydream I’d had just two days ago: becoming the center of attention, the shining Homecoming queen. The star of the show.

Look at me now.

I gritted my teeth and shouldered forward.

“Get back,” the cop behind me yelled, and people grudgingly made room for us to pass. Campus had descended into chaos, everyone shouting and running, ambulances and fire trucks wailing. I’d caught the barest glimpse of Caro in the back of an ambulance before they’d slammed the doors and rushed off.

Caro and the others were being taken care of, treated carefully for burns and smoke inhalation. I was a different story. As soon as the firemen cleared the inferno at the top of the tower, they’d shuffled me down the winding staircase, where I’d been met by a wave of cops. They had seized me, barely adjusting their grips when I screamed I’d been stabbed in the side. They’d asked if I was the one who’d pushed the man from the window, and when I said yes, they’d shoved me down the steps, ignoring my protests, my gasps of pain.

If I’d known what was waiting for me when we emerged out of the doors of Blackwell Tower, I might have refused to ever leave, taken my chances with the burning room.

There was a wall of people, horror and accusation in their eyes. People I’d gone to college with, shock on their faces, tears streaking their cheeks. I’d killed Mint, the golden boy. They didn’t know he was a murderer. Only that I was.

I was living a scene from a nightmare. But it was going to be okay, because Caro and Eric and everyone else were being taken care of. Everything was going to be okay.

I’d repeated it as they twisted my hands into cuffs, pinching the skin and pulling the cut in my side as the crowd barely shifted to let me through, wanting to see me up close, the murderess, the witch of Blackwell Tower.

Now, as the cops pushed me toward the last remaining ambulance, I caught sight of the Homecoming stage where Frankie should have stood next to the chancellor, giving a speech to rile the crowd. Instead, the stage was empty, balloon arch swaying in the wind. The dumbfounded chancellor stood gaping at the madness around him: Blackwell Tower, the symbol of Duquette, still smoking; Homecoming, the event of the year, descended into mayhem.

The sight of the chancellor shook something loose inside me. I twisted, trying to face the cop who was pushing me forward. “He killed Heather,” I said urgently. “Mint, the man on the ground. You have to believe me. He killed Heather Shelby, and he was going to kill me. I pushed him to save my life. It was self-defense.”

The cop shoved me harder. “Save the excuses for your lawyer.”

It was too late; I faced the ambulance, and the doors swung open, medics rushing out. But before they touched me, a figure darted forward, pushing frantically through the crowd.

“Jessica,” Jack yelled.

The medics turned me so the cop could unlock my cuffs. I craned my neck to find Jack’s face. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Jack looked like he was about to explode. “What am I… What are you doing? What happened?”

Suddenly, it hit me. He didn’t know about Heather. My knees went weak, and the medics grabbed me, holding me upright. “Jack, Mint killed Heather. He’s the one.”

Jack froze. “Mint?”

The medics were cutting off my shirt with scissors to look at the wound in my side, exposing me to everyone. But that was the least of my problems. “He thought she was me. It was me he was after.”

“I don’t understand.” Jack tried to step closer, but a cop forced him back with a forearm across Jack’s chest.

Now that they’d found my stab wound, the medics were lifting me into the ambulance. I twisted, finding Jack’s eyes.

“I’ll explain everything,” I promised, raising my voice. “He confessed. Then he tried to kill me again and I pushed him. It was self-defense.”

Jack stopped struggling against the cop. He stood stock-still, wonder dawning on his face. “I can’t believe it worked,” he said, so faint that I almost didn’t hear. “The plan actually worked.”

“What?” The medics strapped me into the gurney, pressing something against my cut to clean it, something that burned like fire, but in that moment I didn’t care.

Jack ducked under the cop’s arms and ran for the ambulance doors. “I was going to tell you,” he called. “Before you left, at the bar, I was going to warn you. Eric had been writing me letters for months. We’d come up with a plan. He said I couldn’t trust anyone, and I—” Jack looked ashamed. “I decided not to chance it. Some part of me thought it could’ve been you.”

Two cops caught up to Jack and wrestled him back, but his eyes stayed on me, desperate with apology.

Jesus. Jack had been in on it the whole time. He and Eric, two of the only people in the world who thought Jack was innocent, plotting to use Homecoming to unmask Heather’s true killer. And Jack had almost warned me, excluded me from the suspect list. Then he’d thought better of it.

I tilted my head back and laughed, so loud it stilled the medics. They eyed me warily, but I kept laughing, the sound filling the small space.

“Jack,” I called, right before the ambulance doors swung shut. “You have good instincts.”