The Long Game
Page 34
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“What did you see, Tess?”
The whispered question broke through the whir of my thoughts. In the dark, hushed room, I wasn’t even sure who’d asked it.
“What happened?”
“Whose blood is that?”
More voices, more questions. I didn’t realize I was shaking until Henry laid a hand on the back of my neck.
The questions were just going to keep coming. They would come and come and come, and the answers would always be the same.
Someone shot John Thomas. Someone shot him, and I found him, and—
The guard at the door received a call. “We’re clear,” he said a moment later. “There’s no evidence of a gunman on campus.”
The lights came on. The room exploded into conversation, a dull roar that pressed in against my ears. If there wasn’t a gunman, if this wasn’t the start of some kind of shooting spree—then John Thomas had been the only target.
Someone had wanted him dead.
I will bury you. I remembered saying those words to John Thomas. I remembered meaning them. John Thomas had been making threats—and my gut said that my friends hadn’t been the only targets.
Nauseous, I began scrubbing at the dried blood on my hands. The door to the room opened. On some level, I was aware of a police officer stepping into the room. I heard him say my name, but I barely recognized the sound of it. All I could think about was getting rid of the blood.
“Hey,” Vivvie said softly, reaching out to grab my wrists. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I jerked back from her grasp. She turned to look at Henry, and he stepped forward.
“Tess, these gentlemen need to speak with you,” the teacher called from the front of the room.
I would talk to the police. I would tell them everything, just as soon as I got the blood off my hands.
Henry caught one of my wrists in each of his hands. His touch was gentle, but when I tried to break his hold, I couldn’t.
“Water,” Henry told me. He had an uncanny knack for sounding calm and reasonable no matter the circumstances. “You need water.” He guided me over to the emergency shower. He pulled the cord. Water rained down. Slowly, Henry guided my arms into the spray. He ran his hands over mine, gently scrubbing at the blood crusted to my palms, my fingernails.
For a moment, I watched as if from a great distance, his fingers working their way between mine, his skin brown and smooth, mine paler than usual beneath John Thomas’s blood.
“I’m okay.” If I said the words, I could believe them. I came back to myself, felt Henry’s touch on my skin, felt his body next to mine. He seemed to realize, the same second I did, that this was the closest the two of us had ever been.
We both froze. Henry stepped back. I stared down at the pools of red washing into the drain.
“Miss,” I heard someone say behind me. “If you’ll just come with me, we need to ask you some questions.”
Vivvie handed me a stack of paper towels. As I dried my hands—mostly, though not entirely, clean now—Henry eyed the police officer.
“Perhaps you could give her a moment?” he said. That wasn’t really a suggestion. Staring down the police officer, Henry slipped off his Hardwicke blazer and began unbuttoning the white collared shirt underneath. It wasn’t until he stripped the shirt off that I realized his intent.
“You don’t have to,” I started to say.
“Kendrick,” Henry replied firmly. “Do shut up.” He was down to his undershirt now, but he spoke with the polish of someone wearing black tie. Moving efficiently, he handed me his shirt. All too aware that every set of eyes in the class was on the two of us, I turned to the police officers.
“Can I change?” Like Henry, I aimed for a tone that invalidated the question mark at the end of that sentence. The officer gave a curt nod.
“We’ll need to bag your shirt.”
Bag it. For evidence. That sent another wave of whispered conjectures through the room. With one last glance at Henry and Vivvie, I made my exit. In the bathroom, I took off my own shirt and looked at the unblemished skin underneath. Clean. My body was clean. My hands were mostly clean, but I could still feel the blood.
I could still smell it.
I slipped on Henry’s shirt. It was too big for me. As my fingers struggled with the first button, I breathed in. This time, instead of blood, I smelled the barest hint of Henry.
My fingers made quick work of the rest of the buttons. I didn’t even stop at the sink on my way out of the bathroom. I handed my shirt to the police officer.
The whispered question broke through the whir of my thoughts. In the dark, hushed room, I wasn’t even sure who’d asked it.
“What happened?”
“Whose blood is that?”
More voices, more questions. I didn’t realize I was shaking until Henry laid a hand on the back of my neck.
The questions were just going to keep coming. They would come and come and come, and the answers would always be the same.
Someone shot John Thomas. Someone shot him, and I found him, and—
The guard at the door received a call. “We’re clear,” he said a moment later. “There’s no evidence of a gunman on campus.”
The lights came on. The room exploded into conversation, a dull roar that pressed in against my ears. If there wasn’t a gunman, if this wasn’t the start of some kind of shooting spree—then John Thomas had been the only target.
Someone had wanted him dead.
I will bury you. I remembered saying those words to John Thomas. I remembered meaning them. John Thomas had been making threats—and my gut said that my friends hadn’t been the only targets.
Nauseous, I began scrubbing at the dried blood on my hands. The door to the room opened. On some level, I was aware of a police officer stepping into the room. I heard him say my name, but I barely recognized the sound of it. All I could think about was getting rid of the blood.
“Hey,” Vivvie said softly, reaching out to grab my wrists. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
I jerked back from her grasp. She turned to look at Henry, and he stepped forward.
“Tess, these gentlemen need to speak with you,” the teacher called from the front of the room.
I would talk to the police. I would tell them everything, just as soon as I got the blood off my hands.
Henry caught one of my wrists in each of his hands. His touch was gentle, but when I tried to break his hold, I couldn’t.
“Water,” Henry told me. He had an uncanny knack for sounding calm and reasonable no matter the circumstances. “You need water.” He guided me over to the emergency shower. He pulled the cord. Water rained down. Slowly, Henry guided my arms into the spray. He ran his hands over mine, gently scrubbing at the blood crusted to my palms, my fingernails.
For a moment, I watched as if from a great distance, his fingers working their way between mine, his skin brown and smooth, mine paler than usual beneath John Thomas’s blood.
“I’m okay.” If I said the words, I could believe them. I came back to myself, felt Henry’s touch on my skin, felt his body next to mine. He seemed to realize, the same second I did, that this was the closest the two of us had ever been.
We both froze. Henry stepped back. I stared down at the pools of red washing into the drain.
“Miss,” I heard someone say behind me. “If you’ll just come with me, we need to ask you some questions.”
Vivvie handed me a stack of paper towels. As I dried my hands—mostly, though not entirely, clean now—Henry eyed the police officer.
“Perhaps you could give her a moment?” he said. That wasn’t really a suggestion. Staring down the police officer, Henry slipped off his Hardwicke blazer and began unbuttoning the white collared shirt underneath. It wasn’t until he stripped the shirt off that I realized his intent.
“You don’t have to,” I started to say.
“Kendrick,” Henry replied firmly. “Do shut up.” He was down to his undershirt now, but he spoke with the polish of someone wearing black tie. Moving efficiently, he handed me his shirt. All too aware that every set of eyes in the class was on the two of us, I turned to the police officers.
“Can I change?” Like Henry, I aimed for a tone that invalidated the question mark at the end of that sentence. The officer gave a curt nod.
“We’ll need to bag your shirt.”
Bag it. For evidence. That sent another wave of whispered conjectures through the room. With one last glance at Henry and Vivvie, I made my exit. In the bathroom, I took off my own shirt and looked at the unblemished skin underneath. Clean. My body was clean. My hands were mostly clean, but I could still feel the blood.
I could still smell it.
I slipped on Henry’s shirt. It was too big for me. As my fingers struggled with the first button, I breathed in. This time, instead of blood, I smelled the barest hint of Henry.
My fingers made quick work of the rest of the buttons. I didn’t even stop at the sink on my way out of the bathroom. I handed my shirt to the police officer.
