Three

Just a few hours ago, Meredith Brown stood in front of a roomful of people and mesmerized them with only the sound of her voice. How can she now be lying here on the floor of the stacks, all the life gone from her body? I kneel over her, trying not to think of the surge of jealousy I felt watching her stand on that stage. Of how badly I wanted what she had. Of how much I resented her for it. Now, in the face of such emptiness, my feelings seem hateful, almost cruel.

I put my ear over her chest to listen for the sound of breathing. There's no movement in her lungs, but I inhale a sweet floral perfume, potent enough that I can taste it. I feel the place at her wrist where a pulse should beat. It's completely still, her skin like ice.

"She's gone," I say to Dr. Hendrix, shaking my head. I look beyond the professor, to where a small number of students have gathered. "Can someone call nine-one-one?"

A girl whips out her phone and dials.

"Should we do CPR?" the guy from the reading room asks, biting his nails.

I cup Meredith's cheek and look into her eyes. "There's no point," I say. "She's long, long gone. I think she's been here for a while." I feel numb, unreal. I feel like I'm watching myself from a distance.

"What happened to her?" someone asks.

"I don't know," I murmur. There are no marks on her body. No blood, no bruises. Her face reveals nothing, no signs of fear or anger or despair. Only—

I tilt my head. There are tear tracks on her cheeks, long since dried.

What does a girl like Meredith Brown have to cry about?

The light overhead flickers again, and the student who called 911 lets out a squeak and hurries away. The other students back away too, but Dr. Hendrix stands frozen, staring, apparently unable to comprehend what has happened.

"Did you know Meredith?" I ask gently.

Dr. Hendrix blinks at me for a moment before she nods. "She was so gifted. I've never had a student produce work like hers."

"She was in Magni Viri," I say, thinking of how she walked with her friends earlier this evening, how they moved together like a single organism, even while arguing. Dr. Hendrix's face darkens, but she doesn't say anything else.

I sit back on my heels, my mind stuttering like the fluorescent light overhead. I don't understand how Meredith can be lying here dead without a mark on her body. A heart attack? A drug overdose? I can't imagine a single scenario that makes sense.

A few minutes later, the campus security officer arrives and shoos us away from the body. I go back upstairs and get my things, then wait with Dr. Hendrix for the police to come. We sit on the floor, a bookshelf between us and Meredith's body. We don't say anything. The professor's hands tremble so badly that I reach out and lay my fingers over hers. With a convulsive movement, she grabs my hand and clings to it, her eyes still staring straight ahead. This is the most human contact I've had in months. It makes my skin prickle, makes all the hair on my arms stand on end.

The last person who really touched me was Mom, on the day I left home, my car already packed with everything I owned. Mom's grip was more desperate than Dr. Hendrix's is now. She clung to me, weeping, begging me not to go. Begging me not to leave her.

I told my mom I loved her and kissed her cheek, then I got into my car and drove away. Her tears turned to screams, and she swore at me until my car pulled out of the parking lot of our apartment complex.

We haven't spoken since. Every time I've tried to call and check on her, she lets it go to voice mail. She never calls me back.

I'd like to believe that weird call from earlier was her. A broken, muffled voice whose words never reached me.

But I know it wasn't Mom. She holds a grudge for too long to have given in already.

So who was it? What was it?

It's a foolish thought, but here in the gloom of the stacks with a body lying on the other side of the bookshelf, I can't help but wonder: What if the call was from Meredith Brown? Her spirit reaching out in the moment of death, desperate for someone to hear?

I shake my head. Putting the sheer bizarreness of the thought aside, why would she call me, a girl she doesn't even know? I'm no one and nothing, a person so lonely I'm imagining a dead girl reaching out to me.

The police don't have many questions for me, so as the EMTs roll Meredith out on the stretcher, her body covered from curious eyes, I follow behind them, a mourning train of one. I can't help but picture Meredith's ghost walking beside me, trailing her spent body in shock and confusion. She couldn't have known when she woke up this morning that today would be her last day, could she? She couldn't have known as she walked arm in arm with her friends that her skin would be cold in a few hours. She was bright and vibrant and alive in a way I've never been. She took up space in the world; she drew our eyes. How could she have guessed she'd leave Corbin College swathed in fabric like furniture in an empty house?

Just as we exit the front doors of the library, the two Magni Viri students I saw Meredith with at the reading come running up, their chests heaving as if they ran all the way from Denfeld Hall.

"Is that Meredith?" the girl calls. "Is that Meredith Brown?" She looks frightened and pale, the flashing red lights cutting across her tawny skin and glinting in her dark brown eyes. I didn't recognize her before, but now I remember she was in my history class for a week before she dropped it. Her name is Azar, which I remember only because I watched her write it in all caps, then slash a horizontal line through the z in a decisive, precise way I found intimidating.

The EMTs ignore her, working together to load the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. One of Meredith's hands slips out, as pale as the sheet that covers her, except for the dark beds of her nails, painted the color of a twilight sky.

The boy, white and artsy-looking in that wealthy, careless way you see all the time at Corbin, rushes forward and grasps the sheet at Meredith's feet. "I need to see if it's her," he gasps out. The EMTs try to push him away, but he manages to yank the sheet off Meredith's feet, revealing shiny black Doc Martens with checkered laces.

"That's Meredith!" Azar yells, her voice shot through with agony. She clutches the collar of her shirt, the same way Dr. Hendrix did earlier in the library. "No, no, no, no, no."

"She's dead?" the boy asks, disbelieving. "She's really dead?"

One of the EMTs, a burly man, pushes him gently away with a murmured apology.

"Neil," Azar calls, but then she doesn't say anything else.

Now apparently drained of life, the boy—Neil—stands there gaping as the EMTs climb into the rig and slam the doors closed. Azar trails over and grips his arm, and together they watch the ambulance roll away into the foggy night, the siren off but the red lights still flashing a warning to anyone who might obstruct the vehicle's path.

"What the fuck?" Neil says. "What the fuck?"

Tears roll down his cheeks. He turns and catches me staring. "What the fuck are you looking at?" he spits.

Azar stares at me, her eyes wide with shock and grief.

"I—I'm sorry." I feel like I've been caught watching them undress, stolen away the privacy of their pain. "I was there when—when we found her."

Azar flinches but doesn't say anything. Neil just stares at me. I keep talking, barely aware of what I'm saying.

"You're her friends, right? From Magni Viri? The police are still up there on the third floor, where she... They—they'd probably want to talk to you. Since you're her friends and..." I swallow. I don't say the rest of my thought—that they might be the last people who ever spoke to her.

"What happened to her?" Azar whispers.

"I don't know," I say. "There wasn't a mark on her. She looked fine, except... except she was..." I trail off, not wanting to say the word dead.

Neil glares at me, tears running down his sharp cheekbones.

"I'm really sorry," I say, ducking my head. "I'm sorry about your friend." I hurry away into the darkness, clutching the straps of my backpack. I could swear that someone is walking beside me, keeping pace, but there's no one except me, alone in the cool air and the moonlight. A shiver runs over my skin.

My mind reels. I can't believe what just happened. I pull out my phone, wanting to tell someone, to talk to someone. I call Robin, and it rings twice before clicking over to voice mail, as if she rejected the call. I hang up without leaving a message, hurt washing through me.

A text comes in: With Charlie. Sorry, can't talk now!

My phone trembles in my hands. I know I shouldn't, but I dial my mom's number. It rings and rings and rings until her recorded voice comes on.

"Hey, this is Beth. Leave a message if you want to."

I squeeze my eyes shut at the sound of my mom's voice. When the tone beeps for me to leave a message, I hang up and shove my phone into my back pocket.

Beneath the ache of her rejection is relief. If she'd answered, she wouldn't have comforted me. She wouldn't have helped. She would have listened for thirty seconds before she launched into a description of her asshole boss or how she was afraid her boyfriend was going to break up with her. After Dad left, that's how it always was with us. Me putting her first, trying to be whatever she needed. That's how I let it be. Because she was my mom, and we were all each other had.

I walk aimlessly for a long time, seeing nothing, aware of nothing, lost in the memory of Meredith's body on the floor, before I realize I forgot to go to work. I forgot that I was supposed to be mopping floors tonight. I check the time on my phone. It's eleven thirty, which means I'm an hour and a half late for my three-hour shift. I have two missed calls from my supervisor, Mr. Hanks.

Shit.

When I look away from the screen, I realize I'm not sure where I even am. I seem to be standing in an overgrown garden of some kind, very dark, lit only by moonlight. There are stone angels half-covered in ivy, moss, and lichen, their clasped hands raised to heaven in supplication. A tall wrought iron fence rises above me, and I'm directly in front of a locked gate. I peer through the bars, but it's too dark to see anything.

"What the hell?" I whisper. I spin in a circle, trying to orient myself. The green hills rise up ahead of me, which means I'm on the north end of campus, the oldest part of Corbin College. This side of campus is heavily wooded and nearly always in shadow. I glance up and catch sight of Denfeld Hall on a slight rise, its dark, moody face bared to the moon. Suddenly, I know where I am. It's the campus cemetery, which is off-limits to students.

An owl calls out from somewhere close, startling me so badly I drop my phone. It smashes onto the uneven stone path with a sickening crunch. When I pick it up, the screen glows, revealing splintering cracks running along the glass.

I swear. I can't afford to replace this phone. And I'm probably about to lose my job. Mr. Hanks has a zero-tolerance policy for... well, everything. He will be deeply pissed off that I missed work, and "I found a dead body in the library" might not even be enough to sway him. I don't particularly enjoy mopping floors, cleaning toilets, and scraping gum off the undersides of tables, but it's work I need if I want to stay here.

I pull up my call log and tap his number, already cringing. But when the call connects, there's no angry Tennessean on the line. Instead, there's the same strange mix of sounds from earlier: nails on wood, buzzing cicadas. Maybe I messed up my phone more than I thought—it was already an old wreck before I dropped it. But when I end the call, the cicadas continue to buzz all around me in the darkness. I close my eyes and take a deep breath to steady my nerves.

This has been a weird day, but it must all be a bizarre string of coincidences. My brain is overloaded. I'm stressed and probably a little traumatized on account of the dead body. But I can handle this. I just have to go find Mr. Hanks and explain myself. Tomorrow, things will be normal again. I'll work and go to class and write my papers. I'll disappear into my hectic schedule once more. There will be no dead girls or cemeteries in moonlight, only a cracked phone and an angry boss and a slew of deadlines staring me down.

At this thought I nod firmly and turn back to go the way I came, my shoes scraping along the stone path. It's actually quite beautiful out here, I realize. Quiet, undisturbed, less like a college campus than a private park. The woods are dark, huddled against the green hills. The air smells of dead leaves and old stone. Cicadas hum in the canopy, and owls call out, now close, now distant, their voices warm, deep vibrations, almost a purr.

I follow the woodland path, the trees on my left and the open green that slopes up toward Denfeld Hall on my right. I'm shivering in my cotton sweater, my backpack increasingly heavy. All I want is my warm bed and pajamas. I'm considering whether I should save my confrontation with Mr. Hanks until tomorrow when voices ring out across the green. I freeze, listening.

"Isabella!" a man bellows.

"Isabella!" a girl calls.

Then more voices, all layered over one another, calling out for Isabella. For a moment, I wonder if they are calling for a missing dog. Maybe Denfeld Hall has a pet that's run off.

Then I realize they probably aren't calling out a name at all. They're saying something in another language, maybe Italian or Latin. The voices call out to one another, echoing back and forth in an eerie litany. Goose bumps break out over my skin. Is this some strange ceremony for grieving a lost member of Magni Viri? Is this for Meredith?

I can't tell.

But I do know I don't belong here. I'm not a part of this. I definitely don't want to be caught loitering here in the dark, spying on them.

I hurry faster along the path, breathing a sigh of relief when the lights of campus twinkle in the distance. I walked much, much farther than I imagined. I leave the echoing voices of Magni Viri behind, exiting their ivy-covered grounds like a sleepwalker awakening from a dream. The newer redbrick buildings at the heart of campus, warm and ordinary, draw me on.

I head straight for Facilities Management, a small, squat building that houses Mr. Hanks's office. The closer I get, the faster I walk, until I start to run, my backpack banging painfully against my back. Mr. Hanks is standing at his door, locking it, when I come racing down the hall. He turns, startled, the deep furrows in his forehead bunching together. His eyes widen as I approach.

"Girl, you're white as a sheet," he drawls. "What the hell happened to you?"

I open my mouth to explain, but then my vision goes spotty and I sway. Mr. Hanks catches me before the weight of my backpack can slam me into the ground. He lowers me gently to the cold tile, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes inscrutable.

"Don't think fainting's going to get you out of trouble now," he says, but his gruff voice has a soft edge of gentleness to it. He kneels next to me and eases my backpack off my shoulders. "Hold on, I'll get you a cup of water."

He disappears down the hall and then returns with a triangular white cup filled to the brim with water from the cooler. I take small sips, waiting for my heartbeat to slow. The water makes me feel even colder inside, but it wakes me up too, brings me back to myself.

"This have anything to do with that ambulance?" He emphasizes the first syllable of the word and draws out the last, rendering the word like "AM-bu-laaance."

I've heard other students laugh at Mr. Hanks's accent, but I like it. It reminds me of how my grandpa from North Carolina used to talk. It's soothing, frightened as I am.

I nod and take another gulp of water. "A girl died in the library. I was the one who—" Found her dies on my lips, and my voice skips. "I touched her skin, and it was so cold." I shiver. I feel more frightened and repulsed now than I did in the moment.

Mr. Hanks shakes his head. "You're all right now. Don't worry about that missed shift. You can make the hours up later this week if you want. We've got to spiff up the chapel for some big shot speaker they're dragging out here for convocation."

"Who?" I ask absently.

Mr. Hanks snorts. "Hell if I know or care. Come on now and let's get you off this floor before you catch cold and miss another shift. Then I will fire you."

I smile weakly. This is the longest Mr. Hanks has talked to me since I started this job, his gruff nature softening for the first time into something warmer. Maybe he isn't quite as unyielding and terrifying as he makes himself out to be. He helps me to my feet and walks me to the front of the building. I watch him lock the front door and get into his little green Nissan truck and drive away. Only once the taillights of his truck have disappeared do I turn and head back to my dorm.

I realize I'm shivering so hard my teeth are rattling. I wrap my arms around myself and walk faster. I'm colder than I have ever been. I might be from Florida and experiencing my first true autumn, but even I know this cold isn't normal. It can't be less than fifty degrees out, not nearly cold enough for this hollow feeling that has settled in my bones.

It must be delayed shock, I decide. From finding Meredith's body. That's why I wandered over to Magni Viri's corner of campus. Why I felt so afraid. My body was reacting to everything even if my mind couldn't take it all in.

Still, when my phone rings in my pocket, I ignore it. I'm afraid that if I answer it, I might hear the cicadas again, afraid I might feel Meredith's ghost walking beside me in the moonlight.

I don't think I'm lonely enough to want a dead girl for company.

Not yet anyway.