Gupta pushing Kenneth along in front of them. He’s handcuffed, the expression in his ice blue eyes primal. Animalistic. Desperate. “Char, you have to help me. I didn’t kill him. Please.”
Detective Cahill turns to me. “We’re going to need to speak to you, Miss Cavendish-Holt. Can you come down to the station after classes today?”
Resolve hardens in the pit of my stomach. It’s time to come clean. Tell them anything they want to know. I nod in assent. “See you this afternoon.”
“Charlotte. Please! I didn’t do it.” Kenneth’s voice sounds guttural and thready now, as if extracted from him unwillingly.
I watch with a cold expression as the detectives take him away.
31
By the time I’m done talking to the police at the station, I’m exhausted. Wrung out, as if all of the energy has been wrenched from my body. I’d much rather remain here, in this squeaky aluminum chair beside Detective Gupta’s desk, but I can’t. Despite the bone-deep fatigue I’m feeling, I still have to face the press that are crowded onto the sidewalk outside. A politician’s work is never done.
Our family lawyer, Ms. Cain, prepared a statement for me to read that implies my involvement with the investigation without explaining that I was secretly dating the suspect up until a couple of months ago. Best not to add personal entanglements to the public arena, Daddy said.
I glance over to where he’s standing near the station door, conferring with Ms. Cain in low tones. When he catches my eye, his face changes to a gentle smile. I smile back.
I happen to agree with Daddy about keeping my involvement with Kenneth private, but for other reasons. Daddy’s worried about his image in light of his spot on the party’s presidential campaign ticket. I’m worried about my dirty laundry being aired in front of the entire world. Everyone knowing I’d been dumped. Whatever. It’s not going to get out, so who cares? It’s old news. It doesn’t sting anymore. Mostly.
“Are you ready, Charlotte?” Daddy’s hand is heavy on my shoulder.
Meeting his piercing green eyes, I nod. “I was born ready.”
To my surprise, he squeezes my shoulder before letting go. It’s nice.
I stand up, fastening the buttons on my wool coat. No faux fur in front of the cameras, because no matter how much I insist it’s faux, not everyone believes me. And I do not want to end up splattered with crimson paint by an animal rights fanatic.
Bodyguard Steve pushes open the glass door and the four of us step outside into the blustery, cloudy day.
The press swarm on the sidewalk but don’t enter the parking lot, as if they’re dogs wearing high frequency collars that prevent them from setting foot on the premises. The frenzy of shouted questions and flashing cameras reminds me more of a pack of dogs salivating over a juicy, meaty bone than it does of the journalists they really are. I shiver, pulling my jacket collar tighter around my neck. Can’t leave my jugular exposed when working with the feral creatures.
Working to keep my expression serene, I approach, stopping at a careful distance.
“Miss Cavendish-Holt will take three questions,” Ms. Cain says, pointing to one of the journalists. Predicting the questions they would ask was tricky, but together we worked on some responses that should give the media something to analyze to death for the next few hours. Hopefully something more interesting happens before too long, though.
“What is your relationship with Kenneth Alderman?” A woman holds her microphone out toward me to catch my answer.
“I was acquainted with Mr. Alderman this semester when he began working as a medical intern at the health center at school.” According to Ms. Cain, Headmistress Morgan insisted we avoid mentioning Brat Academy by name, as if that will prevent any more bad press. Like that’ll help. Since the murder last semester, a fair few articles have been written about the safety of our school. In fact, I’m surprised so few students have withdrawn after the months we’ve had.
“Were you close with Professor Rook? How has his death affected you?” The man who asks shoves his glasses up his nose with one hand before poising his fingers over his phone.
“Professor Rook was a good teacher who didn’t deserve to be killed in this manner. I wish his family comfort and support during this time of grieving.” Thanks again to my lawyer, I know that the professor is survived by his parents and two older sisters. And although I wasn’t a fan of his,