I managed to catch a few more hours of kip before I felt a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. Groggily, I peered up into Lottie’s freckled face.
‘Hey,’ she said softly, a messy lock of blonde hair floating free of her French plaits. Her breath smelled of apple sweets. ‘Sorry to wake you, but it’s a little after half three. Dean Mordue is addressing the student body in the chapel at four.’ A swallow. ‘Attendance is mandatory. Want to walk over there together?’
Despite the awful circumstances, the simple suggestion of walking there together spread an unfamiliar warmth through forgotten corners of my chest.
She hadn’t submitted the dorm transfer request because of me. There was still a chance for us to be friends.
Unless you’re a killer, of course.
The easy conversation of that morning had dissipated, replaced by a companionable silence as we walked down the cobbled walkways to the chapel. As we passed the crooked-elbow tree, I could’ve sworn I saw Lottie peer at the ground beneath it, as though searching for evidence of my supposed fall. I wondered how much she knew. What had the detectives told her, if anything? What gaps had she filled in on her own? The tentative peace treaty between us seemed too fragile to ask.
The chapel’s scuffed old pews were as packed with people as they were during the inauguration speech. Beside the ornate brass sconces, thin autumn sun poured through the stained- glass windows, bursts of brilliant-yellow maple leaves visible through Mary Magdalene’s open palm. The chapel was deathly quiet. Salem was perched on a window ledge, watching with feline disinterest.
Dean Mordue stood behind the lectern, staring at the handwritten sheet of paper in front of her. Her hands were clasped tightly, as though trying to stop them from shaking. Her features were drawn, eyes lowered.
Students traipsed in silently, sliding along pews with none of the jubilance or fervour of that first day of the semester. Once everyone was seated and the lines had stopped filing in, Mordue spoke clearly but quietly into the small microphone at the top of the lectern.
‘It is with the deepest sadness that I confirm the passing of Poppy Kerr.’
Absolute silence. Even the ancient radiators stopped groaning.
‘Poppy’s family have been notified, and ask that students and press alike respect their privacy during this difficult time.’
Mordue took a deep breath, steeling herself. ‘I have already made my official statement to the media, so allow me to be candid with you all for a moment. I cannot believe I am here again, saying these devastating words once more.’ Her voice was ripe with almost-tears and she spoke softly, heavily. ‘I cannot believe we are here again.’
The air was potent with an alchemical substance I couldn’t quite name; a charged feeling, like when the sky is about to rain. The silence played in the minor key: fear, or sadness, or something richer still.
‘For now, while the police investigate the circumstances around Poppy’s tragic death, Carvell will remain open. This decision has been made in consultation with both the police and the board of governors, and will be under constant review. Campus security will be heightened considerably, and you are urged to reportanythingout of the ordinary to either myself or to the nearest member of staff. Should you feel at all unsafe, please, reach out. If it emerges at any point that there is a sustained risk to the student body, I will not hesitate to close our doors once more.’ A shaky nod. ‘Thank you.’
My mind whirred, trying to slot together the emotive sentiments and the facts of the situation into something resembling an explanation. If Carvell was allowed to remain open, there had to be a reasonable chance that the police believed Poppy’s death could have been suicide.
What evidence did they have that pointed that way? It struck me that I knew very few details of her passing, beyond the fact she was found at the foot of the tower. What state had her body been in when it was found? Was there anything to suggest she jumped? Was there any evidence of another person’s presence that night?
Maybe Lottie knew more, since she went straight to the scene when she heard the news.
Or maybe . . .
No. Even though Lottie had been sleepwalking, and even though she’d already been awake at four in the morning, there was nothing to really suggest she could be a suspect. She was the most wholesome person I’d ever met. She was human sunshine. And besides, if she was the killer, why had she looked so horrified at the blood on my shirt? Why would she go to the trouble of taking it to the police, knowing that would only draw attention to herself?
As the silence crept up to an urgent din, I turned to face her in the pew – only to find that she was deep in conversation with the girl on the other side of her.
Hafsah Al-Hadi. The philosophy student who’d been with Poppy in the library.
Black hair pulled into space buns on the top of her head, she looked deeply shaken, her eyes red raw. She was making a repetitive finger-snapping motion, albeit silently. I strained to hear what she was saying to Lottie – would my name come up as someone she’d seen at Sisters of Mercy? – but their voices were too low to hear over the sound of hundreds of bodies pushing their way to the exit.
Deciding it would look too suspicious to linger and eavesdrop, I reluctantly headed back to Willowood. The dorm still smelled stale, so despite the cold, I propped the window open again. As I did, something in Lottie’s bin caught my eye: a scrunched-up piece of pale green paper. The particular shade of mint chimed something in my memory, and without thinking, I stooped to pick it up.
The dorm transfer request.
For a hopeful, fleeting second, I thought Lottie might have had a change of heart about me; that after all the nerdy philosophy talk, she’d decided I wasn’t so awful after all.
But then the pieces finally fitted together – the camera, the omnipresent notebook, the stack of true crime novels, her probing questions this morning – and I realised: she didn’tlikeme.
She was investigating me.