and Margot echo instantly. Good little soldiers falling in line again.
“Uh, right,” I add meekly.
That ruthless bitch would have killed me. That ruthless bitch would have killed me. That ruthless bitch would have killed me.
“And, Olivia.” Avery’s grip tightens on my arm. “Text us right after and tell us everything she asks.”
I blink assent. With a questioning look and a flip of her hair, Avery leaves with Sierra and Margot.
Shit. I replay the whole conversation again. The bossiness, the taking charge—that was just classic Avery taking the lead in a stressful moment. She’s always been like that. This isn’t abnormal behavior for her. I shake away the thought. I’m letting Rebecca get inside my head. I need to tamp down these suspicions stat, or Cataldo will see right through me. The Ivies are my friends. They’re ambitious, but they’re not psychopaths. I can’t throw them under the bus until I know more.
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Play it cool until I find out more. But coolness eludes me. My throat feels uncomfortably dry. I need water—or cheese. Cheese makes everything better. I turn on my heel, right into a pair of outstretched arms, the only things that stop me from smacking into a chest.
“Olivia!”
I let out an undignified yelp. “Ethan! What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing. I saw you coming out with the Ivies.”
I grab him by the arm, drag him across the hall into a doorway. I can’t run the risk of Cataldo hearing from the bathroom. “What do you mean? And since when do you call us the Ivies?”
“Hey, hey.” He raises his arms in surrender. “I overheard them talking to you. And, uh, everyone calls you guys the Ivies. I don’t say it to your face out of respect.”
That brings heat to my cheeks, that Ethan knows who I am. He reads me like a book, my panic, and takes my hands.
“Hey, are you okay?”
Sweet Ethan. Good Ethan. He’s still grasping my hand in his; it’s sweaty. Or I’m sweaty? Am I sweating all over Ethan? I pull my hand back, wipe it discreetly on my dress.
“I don’t know. Margot, Sierra, Avery, they’re being shady about the night Emma died. I left the party before them, so I assumed they all went home, but maybe not? Ethan, I think they’re lying. I think…maybe they killed her.”
“Oh. Shit. Wow.” Ethan’s brow furrows.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. You must think there’s something wrong with me. It’s probably nothing.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you. And you’re not the first person who’s been pointing fingers.”
This is news to me. I step farther into the doorway, pretending at privacy. “What?”
Ethan turns sheepish. “It’s wild speculation mostly, since she was murdered, and so it was obviously someone on campus. I’ve heard everything from it was Paul the security guy to one of the teachers to—” He cuts himself off.
“One of her friends,” I supply. Ethan’s expression confirms it.
“Avery is the top contender, given what happened with the fight,” he says. “I know people turned over their videos to the cops. Not that they had to, since they were public.”
Ethan is very on top of this situation. Makes me wonder. “Are you writing a piece on this?”
“What?” He hesitates. “No, of course not.”
I arch a single brow. “It’s what I would do, you know, if I weren’t embroiled in it.”
Ethan coughs. “All right, you got me. It did cross my mind.”
“Aha!” I brandish my finger at him, delighted to be proven right. Ethan narrows his eyes at me. Maybe I’m a little too excited to discover he’s as ruthlessly ambitious as I am. Canadian Ken isn’t too nice for the likes of me.
Ethan doesn’t press further. Instead, he touches my forearm, sending shivers up my spine. His expression turns tender. “Are you okay, though? You lost your friend, and suspecting your only other friends…” He trails off. Whether crack journalist or caring friend, Ethan gets right to the heart of it.
“I don’t want to,” I say. “But they’re lying to me about something.”
“Well, have you considered asking them? One-on-one, I mean. As a group you’re all rather frightening, but I’ve always liked you when I get you on your own.”
I can’t tell whether this is Ethan’s version of flirting or his straightforward, honest nature. But he’s not wrong. Instead of stewing, I should simply ask. Not Avery. No fucking way. But I could talk to Sierra, perhaps even Margot, and just ask them about the timeline.
Shit, the