I threw back my shoulders and lifted my chin. Whatever Zephyr was doing, I was in no mood to indulge it.
“Listen, let’s get something straight. I’m not your fucking possession. You don’t lead me around on a leash like you did Erin Holland. Theo’s my friend, and if you can’t accept that, we have a problem.”
He was biting his lip, using every ounce of willpower he had not to tell me to fuck off. After a beat, he nodded, not in agreement but simply acknowledging that I’d spoken.
“You think he’s a saint, don’t you?” he sneered. “Believe me, Biba. Theo Brant has the same shit in his closet that I do. He’s just better at acting innocent.”
With that, Zephyr was gone. I felt suddenly like shit. Every guy in my life was storming off at the same time.
I had half a mind to skip my next class, go to my room, and shotgun a Swiss chocolate bar, but all at once, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Miss Amelia, another person I cared for but hadn’t seen in days. Her eyes were bloodshot, almost like she was on the verge of weeping.
“Miss Quinn,” she said, “I need to see you this evening. After supper. Something . . . urgent . . . has come up.”
CHAPTER 5
BIBA
Standing outside of Amelia’s office that night felt strange. There had been no closed doors between us for the past three and a half months, so it was peculiar—even a bit unsettling—to arrive at her office near the central nave of Stormcloud and find the lacquered oak door shut and bolted.
I pressed my ear to the near-petrified wood and heard Amelia speaking in hushed tones to someone else, but I couldn’t make out her words or identify the other person.
I knocked hard on the hulking wood slab.
“Miss Quinn?” Amelia shouted from the other side.
“Yes.”
“Sit in the waiting area until you are called for.”
I did as I was told, plopping down the tufted armchair to the left of the door. I felt like a naughty child waiting to have my knuckles rapped, but I couldn’t imagine what my specific offense had been.
After a quarter-hour, the door at last swung open, and Amelia poked her head out. Her gaunt, birdlike face looked even more cavernous as she sucked in her cheeks in an exaggerated scowl.
“Come in,” she muttered and ducked back into the room.
As soon as I crossed the threshold, I understood her discomfort. Dean Schmidt was seated in one of the chairs in front of Amelia’s desk, nursing a snifter of brandy. He was an imperious figure who troubled himself mostly with coddling the wealthiest students and pressing alums to donate exorbitant amounts of cash. He answered only to the Board of Regents, headed by Zephyr’s father, Peter, and left the running of the school to Amelia.
Dean Schmidt looked like the late-middle-aged finance guys that Dad used to represent in lawsuits against the tech entrepreneurs they bankrolled. He had pearly-white hair that seemed all the brighter against his lobster-red sun-scorched face. He was barrel-chested but kept the fat off, a fact accentuated by his tight-cut vested suits from various Savile Row tailors. From what I could tell, his expression never changed, even when he was angry. It was a perfect poker face, which made me nervous.
Amelia sat down behind her desk, meaning the only remaining seat was the other guest’s chair, right next to the Dean. I took a step toward it, but he halted me in my tracks.
“There’s no need for you to sit, Miss Quinn,” his low baritone rumbled. “This will not be a two-way conversation.”
Amelia spoke up: “We have received some distressing news, Biba—”
“No point in soft-pedaling it, Amelia,” he snapped. “I believe that our guest must be expecting this.”
“I have no idea—” I started to defend myself, but Schmidt wouldn’t have it.
“You met with Chief Inspector Soglio in June, am I right? Taking aside,” he went on, “the rank insubordination of a student meeting with the Wachsbrunnen police and failing to apprise the school of this fact . . . you seem to have done an admirable job of incriminating yourself in the murder of Gail Monfort.”
“Murder?” I gasped. Had they confirmed it?
“Her neck was broken before the belt was looped around her throat.”
“Sir,” Amelia said, scandalized. “Certainly, such details—”
“Inspector Soglio told me you denied any untoward activities with the late Miss Monfort. Unfortunately, you did not account for her diary, which Soglio has all but memorized—snooping about the archives after hours? Trying to pin slanderous accusations on some of our most distinguished former students? Why shouldn’t I hand you over to the authorities right now?”