Gail and I were going to sneak into Amelia’s office the last night of finals last year. Then I was attacked, and she was killed. Now I was in the room alone with ready access to her papers. I dashed forward to see what she’d been reading.
They were letters, scores of them, scrawled on torn-out notebook pages, hotel stationery, postcards from far-flung destinations.
My dearest Simone, some of them began, followed by protestations of love and desire and rueful references to “the damned affair with E.”
Sweet Rafael, the others began. These were the responses from Simone. They were breathless and lusty, but there was pain underneath them.
How I wish you could be with me. . . . The months drag on without respite. . . . I feel your lips on me even now. . . .
. . . My belly grows fuller with each week.
“Simone’s” handwriting was instantly recognizable. I’d seen it a hundred times over the summer. It was Amelia’s.
“I suppose it was only a matter of time before you betrayed my trust.”
My eyes shot up, and there was Amelia, sleepy-eyed. I opened my mouth to apologize but thought better of it. Amelia looked exhausted: eyes bloodshot, cheeks drawn. I’d never seen her like that. It was frightening in a way, like realizing your parent is fallible, fragile, mortal.
“You’ve contravened every other law of this school already,” she sighed. “Go on—keep reading my old correspondence.”
“What is this?” I asked.
“A message from another time. Not a gentler one. Just . . . different.”
“From when you were a student?”
She glanced around the room, looking lost in her own office. Her hand reached for mine for support.
“Just after. I was in my twenties and full of confidence. The young think they are wiser and more capable than they are. That never changes. You, for example—you think you’re invincible despite all evidence to the contrary.”
There was acid in her tone. She thought I was a most pathetic specimen.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I shot back.
“There’s no mystery to you, Miss Quinn. Your father died, so you’re poking every corner of Stormcloud to find out who killed him.”
“It’s not just that!”
“And Miss Monfort too. I do not doubt that you genuinely want to bring her killer to justice.”
She sat down heavily behind her desk. Even though I now stood above her, she still seemed to command the room.
“Be honest with yourself,” she continued. “If you and Gail hadn’t gone digging through this place’s secrets, she’d still be alive. Finding her murderer won’t bring her back. Neither will finding your father’s murderer.”
“Why are you saying this?”
“Because you’re going to die, Biba, and you cannot bring everyone else down with you. Not me and certainly not Theo Brant.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out. I had never seen Amelia angry before, but at that moment, she seemed enraged.
“You let him into the archives, Biba. I walked in on him digging through the files, but he was too engrossed to notice me. How could you let him do that?”
“I—I. . . .”
“He’s endangering himself for you because he loves you! If he’s hurt—”
“Hang on!” I shouted back. “I am not forcing Theo to help me. I’m trying to get him to stop.”
“Maybe you believe that—”