who’d killed his cousin. There were rumors it was the Russians—except the Russians liked guns, not bats—or the Albanians, or that someone back in Israel had made sure Ariel would never return from California.
Eitan had come to see Alex in the hospital, despite the police officer posted at her door. Men like Eitan were like Grays. They found a way in.
He’d sat by her bed in the chair Dean Elliot Sandow had occupied only a day before. His eyes were red and the stubble on his chin was growing out. But his suit was as slick as ever, the gold chain at his neck like some throwback to the seventies, as if it had been handed down by another generation of pimps and panderers, the passing of the torch.
“You almost die the other night,” he’d said. Alex had always liked his accent. She’d thought it was French at first.
She hadn’t known how to reply, so she licked her lips and gestured to the pitcher of ice chips. Eitan had grunted and nodded.
“Open your mouth,” he’d said, and spooned two ice chips onto her tongue.
“Your lips are very chapped. Very dry. Ask for Vaseline.”
“Okay,” she’d croaked.
“What happen that night?”
“I don’t know. I got to the party late.”
“Why? Where were you?”
So this was an interrogation. That was fine. Alex was ready to confess.
“I did it.” Eitan’s head shot up. “I killed them all.”
Eitan slumped back in his chair and ran a hand over his face. “Fucking junkies.”
“I’m not a junkie.” She didn’t know if that was true. She’d never gotten into the hard stuff. She’d been too afraid of what might happen if she lost too much control, but she’d kept herself in a carefully modulated haze for years now.
“You kill them? Tiny little girl. You were pass out, full of fentanyl.” Eitan cut her a sidelong glance. “You owe me for the drugs.”
The fentanyl. It had come into her blood from Hellie somehow, left enough in her system to make it look like she’d almost overdosed too. A last gift. A perfect alibi.
Alex laughed. “I’m going to Yale.”
“Fucking junkies,” Eitan repeated in disgust. He rose and dusted off his perfectly tailored trousers.
“What are you going to do?” Alex asked.
He glanced around the room. “You have no flowers. No balloons or anything. That’s sad.”
“I guess it is,” said Alex. She wasn’t even sure if her mother knew she was in the hospital. Mira had probably been waiting for that call a long time.
“I don’t know what I will do,” said Eitan. “I think your asshole boyfriend got into debt with the wrong person. He rip someone off or piss someone off and Ariel was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He rubbed his face again. “But it doesn’t matter. Once you are chump, is like a tattoo. Everyone can see it. So someone will die for this.” Alex wondered if it would be her. “You owe me for fentanyl. Six thousand dollars.”
After Eitan had left, she asked the nurse to move the hospital phone closer. She took out the card Elliot Sandow had left with her and called his office.
“I’ll take your offer,” she told him, when his secretary put her through. “But I’m going to need some money.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” he’d replied.
Later, Alex wished she’d asked for more.
Alex flipped the coin of compulsion once more. She pulled herself to her feet, ignoring the throb of pain that shot through her. She walked back to the desk where she’d spread Darlington’s scribblings beside her bloody Shakespeare notebook.
Once you are chump, is like a tattoo. Everyone can see it.
She took out her phone and called the dean’s house. His housekeeper picked up, as Alex had known she would. “Hi, Yelena. It’s Alex Stern. I have something to drop off for the dean.”
“He is not home,” Yelena said in her heavy Ukrainian accent. “But you can bring package by.”
“Do you know where he went? Is he feeling better?”
“Yes. Went to president’s house for big party. Is welcome back.” Alex had never been to the university president’s house, but she knew the building. Darlington had pointed it out—a pretty stack of red brick and white trim on Hillhouse.
“That’s great,” said Alex. “I’ll be by in a bit.”
Alex texted Turner: We got it wrong. Meet me at the president’s house.
She folded the list of names and placed it in her pocket. She was done being Sandow’s chump. “All right, Darlington,” she whispered, “let’s go play knight.”