Mr. Murphy's face snaps up suddenly, alarm striking across his handsome features. “Oh, it's not nonsense. It's very much real, and it's why I tried to get Charlotte to leave Adamson. As soon as they chose her, I started leaving the notes.”
“You're JR, aren't you?” I ask you, cocking my head to one side. “Junior. Jenica's suicide note, that was for you.”
“It wasn't a suicide note,” Lionel Murphy whispers, closing his eyes against the memory. “We were supposed to meet at the angel statues—”
“I fucking knew it!” Ranger roars, slamming his fist down on the table and then leaning forward to grab our teacher by the front of his pale blue button-down. He yanks him forward with enough force that Mr. Murphy's teeth rattle in his skull. I put my hand on Ranger's upper arm, warning him back from the edge of violence. He'll be eighteen in a few weeks, and the charges for physical assault are pretty damn serious. Although … I guess his mom would probably pay off the cops the way Spencer's family does for Jack, huh? “And you said nothing? My mom's a devoutly religious woman. She believes her daughter went to hell. And you thought it was okay to keep this all a secret?”
“They'll kill me if they find out I've spoken to you,” Mr. Murphy whispers, shaking. He really is too nice for this world. Well, unless he's a psychopath. Fuck! It's like, even finding out answers to some of my questions leaves more room for doubt. “And they'll kill you, too, if they know you know.”
“Know what?!” Ranger snaps, shoving Mr. Murphy back and then raking his fingers through his hair. He moves away from all of us and puts his forehead up against the door. I decide to leave him alone for the time being, turning back to the skittish English teacher as Church steps forward and puts his palms flat on the desk. He looks so … aristocratic. And knowing that he's like, some badass martial arts expert? Be still my beating heart.
“You wrote the notes to Chuck?” he clarifies, and Mr. Murphy nods. “You let her out of the trunk the night I locked her in?”
“You let me out?” I ask, looking at Mr. Murphy with wide, disbelieving eyes.
“And you chased her with the knife,” Church clarifies, and Mr. Murphy groans, putting his face into his hands. “Presumably, to frighten her?”
“I wasn't going to hurt Chuck,” he moans. “I'm sorry I wrote those awful things. I didn't know how else to get her to leave the school.” He lifts his face up, expression drawn and tired.
“How did you get the keys to my dad's car?” I question, blinking through the confusion.
“The break room,” Mr. Murphy admits sheepishly, and my brows go up. Of course. Just like I'd planned on stealing his keys. Why the hell didn't I think of that until now?
“Dear JR,” Church begins, reciting the suicide note—or rather the not suicide note—from memory. “I think they know about us. There's not much left I can do. If you want to meet me, you know where to find me. I'll be waiting with the angels. Love, J. Explain it, please.”
“The cult found out that Jenica knew about them, that she’d been watching them,” Mr. Murphy says, shame coloring his words. “We weren't sure if they were aware of me, too. She was going to leave campus, but she needed Jack to give her a ride; she didn't want to risk calling a car. She thought … well, it doesn't matter what she thought.”
“Jack?” Spencer says, his voice high and tight. I glance back in time to see a look of surprise cross his handsome features. The twins exchange a look behind him and step forward, like honor guards, taking up on either side of him. “Jack killed Jenica?”
“No, but I think he knows who did,” Mr. Murphy says, standing up suddenly and reaching for the cord on his blinds. When he opens them, I can see that we're done here. He's told us all he's going to. He's a nice man, a kind man, but he's also a coward. That much is obvious. “Try not to be too hard on him. If he spoke up, he'd be dead, too. Now, go back to the dorms and stay together. It's almost over …” His voice trails off, and I exchange a look with Church.
What the crap is that supposed to be mean?
And is it a good thing, or a bad one?Ranger slams a set of ceramic mixing bowls down on the counter, cracking one in half. He's positively fuming, anger-baking in a whirl of sugar, butter, and flour. His words from the other night—slap your ass and leave a flour handprint—flitter around my mind for a moment.
“Are you okay, man?” Tobias asks, trying to lightly touch his friend's shoulder. Ranger ignores him and continues to whip out all the ingredients necessary for a lemon meringue pie.
