“Abigail,” I said. “Her name is Abigail.”
Holmes shrugged; it was a small point to concede. Every other detail had been spot-on, gold star, perfect.
The cold wind chapped at my face. It blew her hair about, obscuring her eyes. “I’m sorry, you know,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear her. “I don’t mean for it to . . . to hurt. It’s just what I’ve observed.”
“I know. It was well done,” I said, and meant it. I didn’t hate her so much as I hated being reminded of what my father had done. How I couldn’t seem to get over it. And I hated the dread in my stomach as I looked at Michener Hall’s heavy wooden doors and thought about the people waiting for me inside. My father. The detective. I’m not guilty, I reminded myself.
I wondered why I felt like I was.
She took my arm again. “You also wear the jacket because you think it makes you look like James Dean,” she said as we walked in. “The eyes are right, but the jaw’s all wrong, and though you’re handsome, you’re no tortured artist. More of a wiry librarian.” She thought for a moment. “I suppose that’s not all bad.”
No one else in the world would put up with this girl. “You are awful,” I said, and even then I was forgiving her.
“I’m not.” Relief was written all over her face. “How am I awful? I want examples. Give me an itemized list.”
“Jamie?” a hesitant voice asked behind me. “Is that you?”
I turned to face my father.
three
I’D BEEN TOLD ALL MY LIFE THAT I WAS MY FATHER’S SPITTING image, and after years apart, I could see it more than ever. The dark, unruly hair—though his was beginning to gray at the temples—and dark eyes, a certain stubborn set to the jaw. Watsons might be stubborn, he’d told me when I was younger, but we temper it with a love of adventure.
Well, here was my adventure: a dead misogynist jerk, me the prime suspect, and my estranged father waiting to sit in on my questioning. Detective Shepard hovered a few steps behind. Someone must’ve filled him in on my family history, and he’d decided to give the two of us a moment.
In the background, Mrs. Dunham fussed noisily with an electric kettle. A series of mismatched mugs were lined up on the front desk. “I’m making tea,” she said unnecessarily. “So many English people. It seemed like the thing to do.”
Honestly, she wasn’t far off. “Cheers,” my father and I said at the same time. Next to me, Holmes smothered a laugh.
My father’s eyes lit on her, clearly casting around for something, anything to say. “So, Jamie, aren’t you going to introduce me to your girlfriend?”
Her hand tightened on my arm—in horror, I assumed. I didn’t dare look over at her.
“This is Charlotte Holmes,” I said quietly. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
I’m not sure what reaction I expected. My mother would have gone thin-lipped and silent, saving up ammunition to barrage me with in private. Isn’t she a bit pale, and She seems very unfriendly, don’t you think, and, ultimately, You know, she’ll just bring you to grief in the end.
My father was delighted.
“Charlotte! Wonderful!” he said, and to my shock and Holmes’s, he pulled her into a bone-crushing hug. She actually squeaked. I hadn’t thought she could even make that sound. “Do you know, I sent my son all your press clippings. You did such marvelous work with the Jameson diamonds—and so young! You remember the story, right, Jamie? She’d been eavesdropping on Scotland Yard briefing her brother Milo. From behind a sofa in the library, isn’t that how it went? And then she wrote them a detailed letter, in crayon, telling them where to find the loot. Marvelous.”
At that, he let her go, and she swayed a bit on her feet. “I never owned a set of crayons,” she said, but he didn’t seem to hear her. Clucking, Mrs. Dunham pressed a cup of tea into Holmes’s hands.
“Wait a minute.” Detective Shepard cleared his throat. “You mean that you’re that Holmes? Which makes you—”
“Yes, yes,” my father said, waving a hand. “That Watson. Let’s go have a sit-down and clear this whole mess up. Where’s your room, Jamie? Upstairs, I imagine.” He strode off toward the stairwell, the detective at his heels.
“She was ten?” Shepard asked, and my father’s laugh echoed down the stairs.
Holmes clutched her mug of tea in disbelief. “He hugged me.”
“I know,” I said, making to follow them.
“I think I might like him,” she said miserably.
I went back and ushered her up the stairs. “Don’t feel bad,” I told her. “Everyone does, except for me.”
THE FIRST THING THE DETECTIVE ESTABLISHED WAS THAT Holmes and I both had alibis for the night before, courtesy of our roommates. The second thing he established was that those alibis didn’t really matter.
“We’re exploring a number of options,” he said, perched in my desk chair, “based on the forensic evidence. And we’re not confining our scope to last night. I want to hear the full story of what happened between you two and Lee Dobson. After that, I want to hear exactly why, despite all reports to the contrary, the two of you appear to be thick as thieves.” He looked at Holmes, then me, with narrowed eyes. “It wasn’t my plan to interrogate you two together, and I don’t think I can. Miss Holmes, since I don’t have a parent present—”
“Check your email,” she said smoothly. “You’ll find a message from my parents giving permission for Mr. Watson here to stand in as my guardian.”
As Shepard took out his phone, my father pulled a notebook and pen from the inner pocket of his blazer.
“I don’t need you to take notes,” the detective said, bemused.
“Oh, no. These are for me.” He smiled. “I have an interest in crime.”
Shepard glanced over at me for help, and I shrugged, sitting down on the bed. I wasn’t my father’s keeper.
It didn’t take very long at all for Holmes to tell her side of it. How she had come here as a freshman, and how Dobson had gone after her almost immediately. (Understandably, she left out the bit about him calling her a junkie, but I watched her tug at her sleeves as she detailed what he’d said to her.) She hadn’t been to school before this, and so, she told the detective, she wasn’t sure how to handle his abuse. Others had witnessed it—Lena, she said, and her brother—if Shepard wanted to corroborate her account.
“It’s important to note that I didn’t want him dead.” There was steel in her voice. “Of course I wanted him to stop. But quite honestly, I was fine. His actions didn’t have much bearing on my life here.”
I remembered her wariness when I first approached her on the quad. Who put you up to this? Was it Dobson? But then it was my turn to tell a few half-truths, so I guessed I couldn’t blame her.
Yes, it was true that I’d punched Dobson because he was being disgusting about a girl, a family friend, and because no one was saying anything to stop him. Yes, there were better ways of solving my problems; yes, if I could do it again, I’d use words instead of fists. (A lie.) Holmes and I had fought, and very publicly, but I told the detective that I’d found her the next day to make sure there were no hard feelings. (A lie.)