“Hey,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
Paul grinned as he walked toward us. “Mr. Marrow is helping me with my college admission essay.”
“Oh, yeah? Where to?”
He looked a little embarrassed. “MIT.”
“For real?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice. A lot of magickind decided to attend an ordinary college after graduating rather than go to one of the four international magickind universities, but I knew there weren’t many of us smart enough in ordinary classes to make it into a college as prestigious as MIT.
“It’s only an application. No guarantee of admission,” said Paul.
“He’s being modest.” Marrow stood and came around the desk. “Our Mr. Kirkwood here is quite brilliant with computers and other ordinary technologies.”
Well, that explained his fascination with my eTab, but I was surprised to learn his last name was Kirkwood. They were one of the most prominent witchkind families around, on par with the Rathbones. He hadn’t struck me as the politician’s-kid type.
“That’s fantastic,” I said. “I’m impressed.”
“Yes,” said Marrow. “But I’m afraid we do have a meeting now. Perhaps you and I can finish our conversation later. I’ll consider your request and get back to you.”
“Oh. Sure. Thanks.” I glanced at Paul. “Well, I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Definitely.”
I left the classroom as quickly as I could, absurdly happy at his friendliness and that I’d managed a whole conversation with a cute boy without being a klutz. It was a nice change.
I hurried across campus toward my dorm. The clouds hung low overhead, bloated and gray with the promise of rain. Thunder rumbled nearby.
By the time I reached Riker Hall ten minutes later, I was soaking wet and wishing I’d taken the tunnels. But I hadn’t wanted to be down there by myself this late in the day, not with a killer on the loose. The tunnels at Arkwell weren’t like those on other campuses. Sure, they served the same purpose of allowing people to get from any of the more than twenty buildings on campus without going outside, but they weren’t well-lit underground hallways. They were actual caves, dark and damp and with jagged walls and uneven floors. There were even canals running parallel to the walkways for merkind and naiads and other water types to use. In other words, there were lots of ways for a killer to do his business—drowning, head-bashing—and a lot of dark corners to do it in.
I trotted up the steps to the third floor, eager to strip out of my wet clothes. I thought I might even try to take a nap before dinner.
But when I came through the door into the living quarters, a girl I didn’t recognize was sitting on the couch across from Selene at her desk. The girl was tall with broad shoulders that sloped down from her neck, giving her a stooped appearance. In sharp contrast to her sturdy body, her face seemed made of porcelain, the features smooth and delicate. She was very pretty. Especially her eyes. They were so big and bright they looked like a pair of Christmas bulbs. Her small, pointed ears told me she was a fairy.
“Hi, Dusty,” Selene said, waving me in. “This is Melanie Remillard.”
It took me a moment to place the name. “Oh, you’re Rosemary’s best friend.”
“Was her friend,” Melanie corrected me.
I swallowed guiltily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
Melanie shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I’m still getting used to the idea that she’s gone. The past tense helps.”
“I understand.”
An awkward silence descended, and I wondered what to do with myself. A puddle of water had formed on the floor around my sneakers, and I was beginning to shiver from the cold.
Selene stood up. “Here, let me help.” She waved her hand over me and at the same time sang a couple of notes, invoking her siren magic. A burst of hot air swept over me, making me shiver harder. But a moment later, I was perfectly dry and warm.
“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help being envious—Selene made everything about magic look easy.
She waved me off. “Melanie’s here to talk to you, Dusty.”
“Oh, right.” I crossed the room to my desk chair and sat down. Even though it was against my nature to be patient, I managed to sit quietly, waiting for Melanie to begin.
“Go on,” Selene prodded. “Tell her.”
Melanie bent forward and picked up her shoulder bag from the floor beside the chair. The bag was covered in bright sunflowers, so at odds with its owner’s glum mood. Melanie reached inside and pulled out a small, tan-colored book. She handed it to me.
“What’s this?”
“Rosemary’s diary. I thought it might help.”
“With what?”
“Finding her killer.” Melanie’s voice trembled as she spoke, her anger coming off her in hot waves.
Selene said, “Melanie thinks there’re clues in there.”
“Then why give it to me? I mean, the police are investigating, right? You should give it to them.”
“Rose wouldn’t have wanted them to have it,” said Melanie. “There are personal things in there nobody should know about. Especially her parents.”
I nodded, having a pretty good idea of the sort of stuff she meant. I’d kept a diary myself until two years ago when a girl from our rival soccer team stole it from my backpack and posted an entry I’d written about my first kiss online. Lesson learned: writing about personal experiences in the Information Age—not such a good idea.