Page 24 of Death's Daughter
But it’s not there.She’snot here.
7
Carter only gets about halfway to Branwick before the road is blocked by emergency vehicles and a blank-faced campus cop directing traffic to turn around.
My bare foot bounces the floor mat in restless agitation I can’t contain. I need to find Chessa. I can picture her so clearly, lying on the pine-needle-strewn running trail, eyes staring up vacantly toward the sky, ice collecting in her hair and bouncing off her glasses. Her blood seeps out, forming steaming pools around her lifeless body.
Forget this.I push the car door open, and a blast of icy air slices through the warmth of the car against my bare skin, reminding me that I am still barefoot and wearing damp sleep shorts. Also, the storm seems to have intensified in the short time we’ve been driving.
Carter’s hand snags the back of my—his—sweater, stopping me from exiting.
“What are you doing?” he demands.
I twist around in my seat toward Carter, forcing him to let go. “One of my friends was murdered this morning and left like a pile of garbage under my window. Chessa went for an early morningrun,alone, and I haven’t seen her since. So maybe it’s not logical to you, but I need to make sure she’s okay.” He doesn’t understand the danger. He can’t. But I don’t have time for this bullshit right now. In my head, the sleet on Chessa’s cooling body has stopped melting and started to form a thin shroud of white ice.
Carter’s expression softens. “I’m not suggesting that you shouldn’t look for her, just not on foot. Barefoot.” He arches an eyebrow at me. “Chessa could be anywhere. The union, the library, they might have even opened up one of the academic buildings to get everyone out of the cold.”
I throw my hands up. “What’s your plan?”
He pulls his phone from its charging cubby in the center console—the white charging cord neatly threaded in place—and holds it up. “Try calling her?” His raised eyebrows suggest that this very basic solution is something I should have thought of myself. And well, yeah, but…
Shit.Frustration and preemptive embarrassment flood my face with painful heat. “I can’t,” I say through clenched teeth.
He frowns. “Does she not take her phone with her? I feel like I’ve seen her running and she always—”
“I don’t know her number.” The words come out faster and louder than I mean them to, the verbal equivalent of tearing off the bandage. “Or Daan’s either, before you ask.”
The masochistic part of me watches Carter, waiting. It only takes a second or two for realization to dawn. His expression tightens, and his gaze veers away from mine.
Oh God. I know that look. “You should know, though, that’s only because Chessa and Daan are saved in my phone. They’re an actual part of my life, people I can be seen with in public, who won’t pretend not to know me when I speak to them.”
To be fair, I understood why he did that, three months ago at the Welcome Back departmental event for all the psych students and faculty. It was better that Carter and I didn’t appear too cozy or familiar with each other. But I don’t think “Hello” would have been pushing the envelope too much. Or even a nod of acknowledgement.
His full mouth compresses into a thin line, and I wait for the explanation. Again.
“Close the door, put your seat belt back on,” he says instead, surprising me.
“What, why?” I ask.
“I’m taking you to Daan’s. I’m assuming his phone has Chessa’s number in it?” Carter asks in a dry tone. He gives me a pointed look.
It does. Even better, Daan’s part of our location-sharing group. And knowing Daan, he’ll likely still be asleep in his room at the Foreign Language House, hopefully alone, at this hour.
It’s the smart move, the practical one, though the thought of immediate action—albeitstupidaction—is still somewhat tempting.
I nod curtly and close the door, feeling a muddy mix of embarrassment, relief, and, strangely, more guilt. It takes me a second to figure out why: I’d assumed the worst of Carter. Again. And, in the process, hurt him. Possibly.
Then again, he’s given me plenty of reason to do exactly that.
Carter turns the car around and works his way through central campus, around the blockade by Branwick. The drive to the Foreign Language House is usually only about five minutes—the road bends and curves around buildings, adding precious extra seconds. But I will time—and Carter—to go faster.
It’s strange, after so many years of sensing absolutely no magic within the confines of Beecher, I can feel the remains of it now. It’slike Lennie’s death woke something up, and it’s twanging now like the exposed root of a tooth.
Once, when I was really little, my mom took me to meet her parents in southern Illinois. My grandfather was a farmer of some type—I was too young to pay attention to many of the details. But I remember him showing me the wire fence surrounding an enclosure and how if you banged on it with a stick it would send the vibrations and noise all the way down the line.
That’s what this reminds me of.
The sensation is strong by Branwick, as we cut back around by the back side of it. I make myself look to see if I can pick anyone out of the watching crowd, someone who screams, “NOT FULLY HUMAN.” But it’s just faces, blurred behind the moisture and windshield wipers.
