Chapter Twelve

Over the next few days, I scour the comments on the school's posts about the Whispering Wall demolition and send dozens of DMs. A handful of people get back to me, and by Friday, I have enough notes from my interviews and a decent outline to send to Mel. I'm on my way home from my shift at the library that evening when their response comes through: How fast can you have it done?

So, there goes my weekend. It's not an enthusiastic yes, gushing with praise, but it's still a yes. And it feels good to have something to focus on other than the statistics assignment I scored dismally low on and the crushing reality that if I don't do something to improve my grade, I might have to retake it next semester. The thought of the money wasted if that happens turns my stomach—not to mention the time lost.

I stretch my neck, sighing as I reach the door to my building. But as I wave my ID over the reader, the elevator doors slide open, and Lincoln steps out.

Can't run now, I think as I pull the door open. I've seen him in passing but haven't really spoken to him since the day I was questioned by the police, when he admitted to turning me in along with Ellie. I expect him to look uncomfortable, but his expression brightens when he spots me.

"Hey," he says as the door swings shut behind me. "How's it going?"

Relief floods me as the awkwardness dissipates. "Not bad." I pause at the elevator, then turn to him without pressing the button. "Are you on duty?"

He smiles. "No, I have a kickball game."

"You play kickball?"

"Yeah, in the intramural league."

I blink at him. "Enough people play kickball at this school that we have a league?"

He laughs. "Yeah, some of the fraternities play, so we managed to scrape one together." He nods toward the door. "Do you want to come watch?"

I hesitate. I do want to, but when I think of my unwritten Whispering Wall story, something like panic squeezes at my insides. I'll never win the Campus Life spot if I don't buckle down and focus.

In my silence, Lincoln's smile droops a little. "It's okay," he says quickly. "I guess it probably would be kind of boring."

"No, it's not that! I just have this story I have to write. The Torch is letting me do real reporting now."

"Oh, yeah. I read the, uh, porn ban one."

I groan. "God, I hope that's not my legacy."

"You've got three and a half years to outdo yourself. And you know, it might be better if you don't see me play kickball, anyway. I'm kind of embarrassingly competitive."

"Over kickball?"

Lincoln grins. "Oh, I'm competitive over everything. I think my inability to play Clue without making lifelong enemies is the reason my last girlfriend broke up with me." He pauses, flushing. "Not that you needed to know that. Anyway, kickball is great—it's the sport for all of us who are too intense for board game night but who lack real athletic talent."

I didn't expect this from him, and something about it makes me pause. Lincoln is competitive.

Hayesis competitive. Ultra-competitive. Ruins Monopoly kind of competitive.

It's one more coincidence in a sea of coincidences lately. But each one connects, like a quilt of Hayes.

I'm silent for too long, and Lincoln must read it as the end of the conversation. He starts to turn toward the door but stops. "Hey, are we good? After—"

I cut him off. "Absolutely. I was just having a rough day. I'm over it now. I mean, there was nothing to even be over. You were doing your job."

"Well, I am sorry, for what it's worth."

"Don't worry about it."

He gives a wave as he turns to go, pushing out into the night.

I stand in the lobby for a few extra seconds, mind racing. If Lincoln really is Hayes—and I know it's a stretch, but I can't stop myself from considering it—then maybe I do want to know. If it's him, maybe I'd be okay with him knowing I'm Pomerene. I don't think it would send him running.

And if he's not Hayes, do I really care? The worst thing that happens is I make a friend. Something I've been desperate for since I got here. And I'll never make any friends at all if I keep holing up in my room, frantically writing story after story for the Torch.

"Lincoln!" I call, rushing out the door after him.

He hasn't made it very far, and I jog the rest of the way to him, even though it's kind of embarrassing.

"I'll come watch."

My bed is a sea of granola bar wrappers after I skipped dinner to get through the rest of my statistics assignment, which took a back seat to the Whispering Wall story I worked on all day.

I should deeply regret spending so much time at Lincoln's kickball game last night, but it doesn't feel like a waste. Afterward, I grabbed pizza with him and his friends, and I think he might have even been flirting with me at one point. The more time I spend with him, the more I think, with his awkward sense of humor and that mature older-boy thing he has going for him, where everything he says is with authority, he could very well be Hayes. And that is definitely worth losing my entire Saturday over.

Somewhere beneath my collection of wrappers, my phone buzzes with an incoming call. When I finally unearth it and see the name on the screen, I gasp and immediately choke on granola remnants.

I scramble to answer, wheezing to clear my airway. "Hello?"

"Come let me in."

I blink and check the screen again. "Did you call the wrong person?"

"I know who I called. Come downstairs and let me into your building."

"Um, no?"

"Evans, I need your help. Let me in."

I slide off my bed, bringing a handful of granola wrappers with me. They flutter to the floor like helicopters from a maple tree.

"What do you mean, you need my help?" I'm struck with the image of him being shot or stabbed, bleeding out at the door to my building, having barely made it here.

I must sound panicked, because Three exhales a laugh. "No one's dying. But it's nice to know you'd be worried about me."

I scoff as I push into the stairwell, dashing down to the first floor. "I wouldn't be worried," I spit out as I reach the lobby. "I was hoping I'd be able to watch."

Three waits on the other side of the door. He's wearing a hooded sweatshirt underneath his jacket, and it's zipped over a misshapen bundle—like a backpack worn the wrong way. He has one arm around it, the other holding his phone to his ear. He's hunched weirdly, his hood pulled up so I can't see his eyes.

As soon as I push the door open, he rushes past me, heading for the elevator.

"Gee, hello to you too," I say.

He hits the button with his elbow, and the doors slide open.

"Do you plan to tell me what's going on? And why it looks like you're smuggling a frozen turkey under your shirt? It's a little early for Thanksgiving." I blink at him as his sweatshirt moves. "What the f—"

"Inside," he says roughly, using his body to usher me into the elevator. He elbows the button for my floor.

"Why is it moving? What did you do?"

He crowds me into the corner of the elevator, leaning so close, our foreheads nearly touch. I'm acutely aware of his thigh pressing against mine, holding me in place. He has one arm cupped under the bundle in his sweatshirt, and when he lowers the zipper, a little head pops out.

"Is that a go—"

He covers my mouth with his hand.

I shake him off, making a gagging sound. "Gross! Don't touch my face with your dirty hand! Who knows where you've been and what you've touched tonight!" I motion to his hoodie, where he's zipping the goat back inside in preparation to leave the elevator. "Case in point!"

He ignores me, stepping out as the elevator doors open and making a beeline for my room.

"Hey, I don't think so," I whisper, quickening my pace as I follow him. "I don't know why you thought you should come here, but I am absolutely not—"

"Open it," he says, kicking my door lightly.

I glare at him. "You don't get to show up here and start bossing me around!"

"You owe me."

"I don't owe you," I hiss, but I unlock my door and push it open anyway, because it's at least safer to argue with him in my room than out in the hall.

Inside, he pokes his head into the bathroom, then pulls the door shut and locks it. Dara is with Kayla and Yasmin, but Madison got home a little while ago. I can hear her music playing softly from their room.

"I just need you to watch him for a little while. I'll be back in, like, two hours."

"Two hours?"

He's crouched down to let the goat out of his sweatshirt, and when he looks at me over his shoulder, my heart gives an extra thump. I don't know if it's a warning or… something else. He looks more serious than I've ever seen him, and there's a trace of panic beneath it, badly hidden.

"You owe me," he says as he straightens. "You threw up on me, remember? And I stayed with you. So this is how you can repay me." He waves the goat away from one of the fallen granola wrappers. As he picks up the ones from the floor, he glances at the others littered across my duvet, and his brows arch up. "Jesus, Evans, are you making a blanket out of these things?"

I move between him and my bed, blocking his view with both arms out. "This is an invasion of privacy."

"That's fine, keep your weird art project or whatever the hell this is." He tosses the wrappers into the trash can next to my desk. "Just make sure he doesn't eat those."

I catch his elbow as he heads for the door. "Hold on a second! You said you were taking whatever I did and said that night as payment. It's one or the other—you can't have both."

He blows out an exasperated breath, pushing a hand through his hair. His hood falls back. "Fine. What, you want me to tell you everything that happened?"

"Obviously, yes!"

He nods quickly. "So the part where you admitted you had a dream about me? And how you cried and grabbed onto me and begged me not to leave you? And when you threw up on my shirt? And how you told me I'm distracting?"

"You're lying! I knew you'd do this. You're taking advantage of the fact that I can't remember so you can make stuff up!"

"And you said you don't have friends." His voice comes out twisted with frustration, and I'm surprised to see a flash of regret as soon as he says it.

My stomach gives a nauseating kick, and I stare at Three in horror.

His mouth presses into a grim line. "I have to go. If I'm not back in a few minutes, someone will figure out I'm the one who took him. I promise I'll come back as soon as I can. Two hours at most. Hopefully sooner, and then he'll be out of your hair."

He turns to leave but stops once more with the door cracked open an inch. He looks back at me, then down at my arm, stretched out to where I've caught the back of his jacket.

"We're even," I say. "Whatever else we've done up to now, this makes us even."

He hesitates long enough that I glance at his face. His expression is hard.

I tug his jacket. "Say it."

"Fine," he bites out, sounding angrier than I expected. "We're even."

I release him. "I knew you hated to lose, but I didn't think you hated it that much."

"Yeah, well, we've all got our flaws." He pulls the door open wider and steps out, yanking it shut before I can say another word.

There's a small crash behind me, and I turn. "Oh no," I whisper, rushing across the room.

Because the goat is standing on my nightstand, poised to jump onto my bed.

Somehow I think two hours of this should have been worth a little more from Three, but it's too late now.

I've sent Three six texts since the exact two-hour mark, all of which went unanswered. Now it's after midnight, nearing the third hour.

Chewy, which is what I've named the goat since he ate some paper out of my trash, the edge of my blanket, and part of the curtain hanging over my closet, is nowhere near tiring. He spent the first hour wandering my room, looking for new things to eat, destroy, or headbutt. The last one got some attention from Madison, who insisted on being let in so she could confirm I wasn't being held hostage. As soon as she saw Chewy, she shifted into babysitter mode and grabbed a glittery baton from one of her glee club performances and some floral scarves she tied together like a rope.

We have Chewy chasing the scarves in what must be his ten thousandth circle when there's a knock at the bathroom door and Dara pokes her head in.

"Hey, I hope you don't mind. I ran into him outside." She's barely finished speaking before Three pushes into the room.

"Where the hell have you been?" I demand. "I've been texting you!"

"Yeah, I know." He's carrying an empty backpack, which he sets on the floor. "I got stuck at the house."

It's no mystery which house he means—obviously he was at Tau Delt.

When Chewy ventures close enough, Three scoops him into the backpack. For the most part, Chewy doesn't struggle, and Three zips it just enough that he can still poke his head out.

"Thanks for watching him." He glances up, briefly meeting my gaze. "But I need another favor."

"You're joking."

"Not even a little." He pulls a key fob from his pocket and holds it out to me. "I need you to drive."

I push his hand back to him. "You drive."

"I can't," he says, and as he stares at me, I get what he means. His gaze is a little unfocused and slightly glazed. If he were wearing his glasses, I might not have noticed, but he's missing that extra layer of protection tonight.

"You got drunk?" Disdain saturates my voice. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Madison clears her throat, pushing to her feet. "I should go to bed. I have church in the morning."

"Thanks for your help," I say as she retreats. She shoots me a smile before slipping past Dara into the bathroom.

Dara waits in the doorway, her expression questioning. When I give her a reassuring nod, she mimes to text her before following Madison.

"I told you I was stuck at the house," Three says once they're gone. "I couldn't exactly be like no, sorry, I can't drink tonight, I have to drive a goat I stole to a farm an hour and a half away." He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'll never ask you for anything again."

"How did you even get the car here if you're wasted? Don't tell me you drove drunk."

Three jerks back, looking appalled. "No! I got the keys earlier. It's already on campus. And I'm not wasted. I had to go back to the house so I had an alibi, and they made me drink—yeah, I'm a fucking pledge, Evans. What do you expect?"

"Sounds like being in a frat is a real fun time. You haven't even told me where you stole him from."

"Another frat. Obviously."

"Why would a frat have a goat?" I lean back, giving him a dark look. "Why does this feel like a setup? Are you messing with me? Am I about to—"

"They make the pledges raise it! They get a goat, and the pledges raise it, and then…"

I blanch. "And then what?"

"I don't know!" he explodes, throwing his hands up. "I don't know, but I didn't want to find out!"

Chewy makes an agitated noise, rustling in the backpack.

Three sighs, hanging his head. I reach out, hit with the overwhelming urge to smooth my hand over his hair. But I change course halfway there, knowing what a bad idea it would be, and take the key fob instead.

Three looks up, his whole body slackening with something like shock. Then he says, "I just need you to drive. Please. I'll—I'll owe—"

I hold up a hand, not quite covering his mouth. But it's enough to make him stop, and his eyebrows arch in question.

"I don't make deals with drunk people." I grab my bag from my desk chair. "Right now I'm just doing this. If you want to talk about payment, we can do it tomorrow. Or later. Whenever you're sober."

He doesn't get up right away, remaining hunched over Chewy. Then he slips the backpack on so it hangs down his front, zips his hoodie over it, and stands.

"Who'd you borrow a car from, anyway?" I ask as I follow him to the elevator. "One of your frat bros?" I can't even say the words without putting a sarcastic twist on it, like a garnish in a drink.

Three snorts. "Yeah, right. They cannot know I had anything to do with this." The doors slide open as he answers. "I borrowed it from Christopher."

"Christopher?"I yelp.