Chapter 5

I don’t drink the water the detective give me.

I’ve watched enough SVU to know they can snag a suspect’s DNA off those little plastic cups, and though the petite, severe-looking detective made it clear that I’m not a suspect, the paranoia lingers.

The two-way mirror in the interrogation room isn’t doing much to help.

“Right now, I’m not investigating anyone,” Detective Mills assures me. “I’m just trying to piece together what happened. And why.” She’s reiterated this at least five times.

Then again, I’ve answered the same set of questions at least five times too.

No, Mickey didn’t say anything in the cafeteria that’d lead me to believe he’d hurt himself.

No, nobody else said anything that’d lead me to believe they’d hurt Mickey.

No, I didn’t see him jump.

No, I’m no longer a minor and I don’t need you to call my mom.

Yes, I’m fine.

She seems to pick up on the fact that I’m a little squirrelly around law enforcement, not that it’s stopped her from leaving me to stew in this stiff, metal chair while she confirmed my alibi at the scholarship presentation.

The same presentation that Mickey spent in his dorm room, most likely in the middle of –

I shake my head. “I saw him earlier today. During lunch.” It’s been hours since law enforcement pulled me, numb and horrified, from Mickey’s room, and shock still colors every word. “We had plans. We were supposed to give the presentation together. He made sure I knew about it.”

“And how did he seem when you spoke with him?” She tucks a wayward strand of chocolate brown hair back into her tight, military-style bun. She’s young. Maybe early thirties, but the shadows under her brown eyes suggest she probably hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep for the last ten of them.

I blink down at the metal table, at the empty slots where they’d feed a pair of handcuffs through if I was wearing them. “He seemed…” I keep trying to recall our lunch-time interaction but the details evade me. I can’t seem to remember if he was smiling or frowning or crying or anything else right now. “...Fine. He didn’t seem like he was going to go back to his dorm room and –”

My throat dries up.

I can’t bring myself to say it.

Suicide feels like the wrong word.

A vulgar word.

But it’s the one we’ve been tip-toeing around all night – me, the crying students who found his lifeless body splayed out on the concrete, and the paramedics who arrived on the scene first.

None of us want to be the first one to call a spade a spade.

Detective Mills sighs. “You and Mickey were the only scholarship students at Lionswood, right? A big competitive private school like that, being surrounded by a bunch of rich kids all day…I imagine that must feel very isolating. Were you two close? Did Mickey ever confide in you about things?”

My hands fidget with the empty slots on the table. “No. I wouldn’t say we were friends.”

I’m sure the police have confiscated Mickey’s phone as evidence, and now I’m thinking about all the angry text messages I sent during the presentation, which probably just make me sound like an asshole now.

Then again, I did spend Mickey’s last moments on earth cursing his existence, so maybe I am an asshole.

“Regardless. These sorts of incidents…” She clears her throat. “They’re not always out of the blue. Sometimes, there are warning signs. Indulging in drugs or alcohol, giving away prized possessions, expressing happiness after a recent bout of depression. Did you notice anything like that?”

I shake my head.

“I’m not the person you should be asking these questions to. Yes, Mickey and I were both scholarship kids, but we talked two times a year for academic obligations and that’s it. He wasn’t…” I drum my fingers on the table. “Confiding in me.”

The detective purses her lips and sighs again. We’ve been at this for a while, and I doubt I’m the first – or last – student to sit in this chair tonight. “Alright, Ms. Davis. If you remember something else about Mickey, even if it seems irrelevant, please let me know. Otherwise, I’ll be in touch if I have any further questions for you. In the meantime, it’s late. I’ll have one of my officers escort you back to campus safely.”

I haven’t consumed any caffeine today, but I’m a little jittery when I stand up and she guides me to the door with a pat on the back and an order to get some sleep.

A tall, mustached officer drives me back to the West Wing. There are still a few crime scene investigators milling around the building, sectioning off areas with bright yellow tape.

But no students.

Everyone’s been sent to their rooms for the rest of the night per the urgent email sent from the Dean’s office, citing a “terrible accident.”

The dorm is dead silent when I ascend the stairs, my room the same as I left it this morning – art supplies scattered over my cheap pine desk, my twin-sized bed half-made.

I don’t bother dealing with any of the mess. Not tonight.

I kick off my shoes, crawl under my navy comforter, and close my eyes – which turns out to be a mistake.

Because all I see is Mickey.

Mickey in the cafeteria. Mickey in the hall. Mickey’s brains splattered on the pavement.

I don’t get much sleep.