Oxford Blood
Author: Rachael Davis-Featherstone
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Description: The first in a series of compelling and skillful dark academic thrillers from a brilliant new voice in YA fiction. Love, Lies, Legacy... Eva has one dream: to study English at Oxford University. Not only will she receive a world-class education – getting into Oxford is a path to freedom. But when Eva and her best friend George are invited to interview week, they find themselves in the cutthroat ultra-competitive world of elite academia, and at the center of gossip on anonymous student forum Oxford Slays. When Eva finds George dead near the steps of a statue in the college, she knows he's been
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

Thank you for buying this

St. Martin’s Publishing Group ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

For email updates on the author, click here.

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillan.com/piracy.

To Mum, Dad, Elodie, and Felicity,
love you always x

CHAPTER 1
DECEMBER 5

George

Can’t see you. You here yet?

1:38 p.m.

Eva

You’re early?!!

1:39 p.m.

George

Had to beat you x

1:39 p.m.

Eva

Whatever x

1:40 p.m.

“You ready?” Dad asks.

“As I’ll ever be,” I reply, trying not to let the nerves crack my voice. I step off the park-and-ride bus in Oxford city center, clutching my suitcase. I feel like I’m walking through a postcard as we mingle through the picturesque high street. University colleges are interspersed between designer clothes shops and fast-food chains. It’s hard to know where the university starts and the city ends.

I stop dead in my tracks outside the front of Oxford’s domed library, the heart of the city. I’ve longed to explore the Radcliffe Camera’s arched bookshelves since I was little. Pictured myself curled up in a secluded cubbyhole on the upper floor of the dome, looking out onto the bustling cobbled streets, full of tourists and students on their bikes. Imagined myself poring over books that could be hundreds of years old, making notes on my latest essay. Then running my fingers along the cold banisters of the winding spiral staircases as I make my way out, off to a lecture by a world-class scholar.

“Your mum would have loved this,” Dad says, taking another photo.

We do a full lap around the cylindrical building, which looks more like a mini palace than a library.

“It’s just like Mum described it,” I say. “No wonder it was her dream to study here.”

Dad winces. “It was, for a long time,” he says, turning to face me. “But this—this—right here, right now, was your mum’s greatest dream, and mine. To see you, Eva, following your own heart and studying here.”

I smile and fight back against the deadweight pressure pushing on my shoulders. Mum had the grades to study here. But she never got to go. Not after she fell pregnant with me. There’s a lot riding on the next few days and it’s not just about book smarts. Whether I get to be an undergrad at Oxford or not all comes down to how I perform during interview week.

Eva

Just seen Radcliffe Camera!!!!

1:48 p.m.

George

Defo going into the Rad Cam tomorrow. You in?

1:49 p.m.

Eva

Let’s get our interview schedule first. But HELL YES!

1:49 p.m.

“Excuse me, are you In—?”

“No comment.” Dad holds his hand up to block my face, as a random man flashes a camera at us.

A nearby tour group is edging closer. This is the last thing I need.

Dad grabs me and whisks us down a cobbled alley, away from the crowd. He power walks alongside the bike park, and in the blink of an eye, we’re on Turl Street, where so many great writers have studied over the years. I know the layout from the university map on the website.

Tolkien’s former college, Exeter, is to my right.

Dr. Seuss’s old college, Lincoln, is to my left.

But none of that matters now, because in a few minutes I’ll be in Beecham College.

Beecham.

That’s how students refer to their colleges, apparently.

I need to start acting like I belong.

Fake it ’til you make it.

We walk through the ancient gates of Beecham.

Whoa. I thought jaw-drop moments only happened in movies, but this is as close as I’m ever going to get to it in real life. A mixture of giddy excitement and nerves is bubbling inside me. This could be my home for the next three years if this week goes well.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost time. Beecham will be welcoming interviewees for English and classics at 2 p.m.

I’ve never stayed anywhere like this before. Inside is a pristine square courtyard, divided into four quadrants. Each quadrant must be four times the size of our back garden at home. A small black iron plaque at ankle height says DO NOT STEP ON THE GRASS and I get the sense I’m being watched.

I know it’s a bold move—a risk—applying for English at Beecham, and not one of the other Oxford colleges. Me, an inner-city state-school English literature hopeful with no connections, alumni teachers, or wealthy parents who’ve made generous donations.

Each year, around 350 students are awarded a place to study English, classics, and English-and-classics joint honors. But these places are split between all the colleges. Each college has complete autonomy over choosing which students they admit. That’s why picking the right Oxford college to apply to is so important.

Beecham isn’t the biggest college—there are only five slots across English, classics, and combined honors up for grabs, making the odds of getting in even smaller. But it’s the best of the best for humanities, and it’s no secret that the top-ranking English and classics students at Oxford have all been from Beecham for the past five years running.

George didn’t hesitate about applying.

“Don’t let all that elitist bullshit put you off,” he’d said, leaning over me to get to my computer. He’d scrolled to the drop-down menu on my application and selected the college for me.

“We have to apply for Beecham. Both of us,” he’d said firmly.

“Ahh,” I’d cooed, trying to laugh it off. “So we can be together?”

“That,” he’d said, kissing my neck gently, “and because it’s the best, and you deserve the best. Fuck the competition.”

I’d rolled my eyes and he’d shrugged. “It is what it is.”

George made a convincing argument. But still, the nerves and self-doubt had crept in when it was actually time to hit Send on my application.

Of course, George had the confidence to apply to read classics at Oxford. If I asked anyone else in my school to name three Greek authors, or three Oxford authors—or even three famous authors—they’d probably all say the names of white men who look just like George.

It’s hard to find a famous Black scholar from Oxford. It’s even harder to find one who’s Black, mixed-race, and a woman.

Was I good enough? Did I deserve it?

But then I’d given myself a firm talking-to. Or rather, I listened to my mum—her voice in my head, telling me to go for it. I’ll never forget what she told me in the hospice the night before she died. She gave me her ring, which Nanna had given to her: “You astound me, Eva. There is nothing you can’t do.”

The truth is, no matter my skin color, socioeconomic status, my education: I’m just Eva.

Just me.

And if Beecham is where I want to be, then Beecham is where I should apply.

A few days later, I did hit Send …

… and George and I both received those thick, creamy embossed envelopes, stamped with the insignia of Beecham College, on the same day.

“On three. One, two…”

Yes! Both of us got called to interview week—we’d passed the first hurdle. Of the twenty-odd thousand applications, we were in the top 40 percent and had the opportunity to show Oxford what we could do in person—stand up to the rigor and challenge of some of the greatest thinkers through multiple interviews held during one week in December. But only one in three interviewees get an offer to study at Oxford. George and I were interviewing at the same college, so the chances we’d both get offered a place felt even slimmer.

Was it asking too much of fate?

“But what if only one of us gets in?” I’d asked George, clutching my letter.

“Quit worrying,” he’d replied.

And that was that.

Because George has this way of making everything sound so simple.

No drama, no problem.

I take a confident step forward on Beecham’s paved pathway. Time to start the rest of my life.

Sure, it’s nerve-racking as hell.

But, I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?

CHAPTER 2
DECEMBER 5

George

Boom! Time to put on your game face!

1:55 p.m.

Eva

Bring it!

1:55 p.m.

My heart feels giddy with anticipation as I slowly walk through Beecham. These are the hallowed grounds where some of the world’s greatest minds have wandered, conjuring theories and theorems that have shaped the modern world.

This place! The majestic buildings. The vibrancy.

I don’t know where to look first.

Or what to do.

Or how to act.

Could this ever be home?

I take a breath.

I can do this.

I’ve worked for this.

Thin, paved pathways lead to a graveled area in the quad featuring an imposing stone statue of an old man. Despite the bitter breeze, there are some current students lounging around on the steps that surround the foot of the statue, laughing and sharing earbuds. They’ve got badges on, so presumably they are here to greet all of us nervous interviewees.

Dad and I are a bit early, as always. The students look up and smile. One of the girls comes running over to us, her shoelaces undone and her gown catching in the wind.

“Sorry! We haven’t quite got set up yet. Hi, I’m Amber. I’m a third year.” She holds out her hand; her nails have black polish chipping off where she clearly bites them.

“Eva,” I say, my voice hoarser than I expected. I shake her hand in an oddly formal way—it’s even colder than my own.

“Sorry, I need gloves.” She laughs. “No idea why I did the handshake, honestly. We’re totally chill here.”

She pulls her hair behind her ear. I wasn’t sure I’d meet many matriculated students during interview week. The Michaelmas term for students is over, and most will have gone home for the Christmas holidays.

“So, welcome to interview week!” Amber says, as if she’s suddenly remembered her volunteer training. “There’s a couple of you dotted around already, but we’ll kick off properly when everyone arrives. We’ll take you to your room. I just need to get the list of who’s where. The porters might know—they’re over there. Steve, Matt, Ben. Oh, and you’ll meet Danielle later too. She’s our admissions officer. Sorry. I’m bombarding you now, aren’t I?” She laughs, her cheeks flush from the cold, or maybe she’s blushing?

She seems more nervous than me.

Then I clock her peering at my dad.

My heart sinks.

She knows who he is.

I’d hoped Dad wouldn’t be so recognizable outside of London.

Wishful thinking.

Dad had appeared on every news channel in the country over the past two weeks.

“Do you guys want to hang with us until Danielle gets here? You can ask us anything.”

Dad gives the group of students a fleeting glance and his shoulders flex. I can sense his reluctance to walk over to them. He won’t be taking a photo of the statue they’re standing around, that’s for sure.

I know all about this statue, of course.

So does Dad.

Everyone does.

The first result on Google when you search Beecham College isn’t a pretty picture of the quad, like most of the other Oxford colleges. It’s a picture of this very statue—of the infamous and controversial Sir H. C. Glanville—and the growing campaign to destroy it.

Glanville is standing tall, holding a cricket bat, with his head tilted to the left to accentuate his strong jawline. He studied here in the 1800s, was captain of the college cricket team, and invested a lot of money in the sport for the country. It was all money he made from his sugar plantation—a plantation filled with workers he enslaved, a fact many choose to ignore in favor of what he did for not just Beecham College but the whole of Britain.

What bothers me even more than how he made his money is that it seems like the majority of people want to overlook it simply because having the conversation about slavery makes them uncomfortable. But life is uncomfortable. Feeling uncomfortable is part of my everyday life as a mixed-raced girl who has to walk the tightrope between two worlds.

“I think we—”

“Ho, ho, HO!”

I gasp. Standing on the roof of the cloisters behind the statue is a student wearing all black and a Santa hat. He does a running leap holding a piece of red tinsel and crash-lands on Glanville’s head. He locks his legs around Glanville’s large waistline and pretends to behead him with the red tinsel.

“Woo!” cheer the students sitting around the steps.

“That was ridiculously dangerous!” Dad says.

“I am so— I need to speak— I have to go. Please, make yourself at home!” Amber says, running over to the students by the statue.

Dad’s about to march over but I hold him back. “Please, Dad, don’t make a scene.”

He reluctantly relents. More cheers and clapping come from the far side of the quad. I look over and a big grin spreads across my face. It’s George.

I’d recognize that boy from any distance. The only boy I know who proudly states he loves yoga, who has perfect posture, and who never has a chestnut lock of hair out of place.

My heart hops up and down like a child on Christmas morning, but of course there’s no change to my body on the outside. It’s an art form I have mastered over the past eighteen months, since George enrolled at my school, Crawlingtons. I knew from the first moment our eyes met that we’d be friends. There is something so honest about him, nonjudgmental. There’s a warmth that radiates from him when he smiles; his charismatic voice gives him the edge in any conversation, any debate.

I wish Dad could see it.

Dad seemed to instantly dislike him.

Probably because I did like him.

George hasn’t noticed me, and Dad hasn’t noticed George, which is probably for the best. The last thing I need is for Dad to lay on the overprotective routine in front of everyone. George is talking to a girl in a long black coat. I reckon she’s mixed-race like me, but her curls are tighter than mine and her skin a little darker. Another interviewee maybe?

Click, click, click.

“Seriously, Dad, can you stop taking photos like you’re working for Oxford police? Please.”

It’s like Dad wants to draw attention to himself, walking around documenting everything like he’s at a crime scene.

While normal people would be taking photos of the immaculate garden and majestic chapel, Dad is focused on getting close-ups of the gargoyles that line the college stone walls, their little scrunched-up faces scrutinizing every inch of us. Perhaps Dad feels he has something in common with them: Scrutiny is his middle name. Dad will always be an inspector, no matter where he is. Not even his only daughter’s Oxford interview week could see him clock off for an hour.

“Hurry up, slowpoke,” Dad calls, making me cringe. “Let’s check out the rest of the grounds.” I glance over my shoulder, hoping no one heard him. Why does he always have to say embarrassing stuff like that? But I know he wants to get away from the crowd.

Following the sign to the right of the quad, Dad and I walk under a large archway to what must be the main Beecham quad. It’s four times the size of the quad we were just in. The grass—which has been mowed to create a checkered pattern, like a giant green chessboard—is encased on all sides by the old buildings of the college. One side must be the chapel, because there are colossal stained-glass windows lining the ancient walls.

“Good afternoon!”

The chirpy voice startles me. A smartly dressed twentysomething woman comes up beside us, with such a wide, infectious smile that I feel myself relax for the first time since arriving. She twitches her freckled nose as if she’s about to sneeze, but she doesn’t. Her shoulder-length blond hair is blowing in the wind. She holds out her hand, her nails painted dark green.

“Amber said you two came this way. Welcome to Beecham, Eva. I’m Danielle, the admissions officer. We’re going to have a kickoff meeting in the JCR—”

“The what?” asks Dad.

“The junior common room,” explains Danielle. “At about … three thirty. But would you like me to show you your room? Some of the students will be taking the other interviewees, but seeing as we’re here, I can do it myself if you’re happy?”

“Yes, please.” I nod and I can’t stop a smile taking over. This is properly exciting now.

I still can’t get over the fact that I am going to be staying here for the next few days. You’d think it was a few months from the amount I’ve packed. I’ve got an outfit for all kinds of weather and every occasion. Who knows how many formal dinners there’ll be, or chances to learn to play croquet? I had no idea what to pack, so I brought my whole wardrobe, including a crisp new shirt and trousers for my interviews.

Danielle leads us inside the college through a heavy wooden door. I can feel the cold of the thick stone walls as we walk up a rickety wooden staircase. This is when you can really tell it’s an original fifteenth-century building. Each slat of the stairs is twisted and uneven, making you second-guess your footing like you’re staggering up the wonky steps inside a haunted house at the fairground.

“This is you,” says Danielle, turning the key to one of the two second-floor rooms.

I step inside ahead of Dad and gasp. I don’t even care if I look goofy—this room is unbelievable. It’s twice the size of my bedroom at home. There’s a sofa, an en suite, and a desk under the huge window that looks out onto the small front quad. I can see more interviewees arriving now, and that tourist group from earlier look like they’re about to come in for a tour of the college too.

Eva

Just in my room. Saw you in the quad.

2:05 p.m.

George

Stan

2:07 p.m.

What stairwell are you? I’ll come and find you.

2:07 p.m.

Eva

Dad’s still here.

2:08 p.m.

George

Lol. Better you find me then.

2:08 p.m.

“Is that a single-key lock on the door?” Dad asks Danielle. “No chain?”

“They don’t need chains,” I say, and roll my eyes. “It’s a university, not a prison.” Trust Dad to ruin the vibe.

“Do the windows lock?” Dad continues, nudging me out of the way to examine the window frames.

“Err—”

“Presumably they can’t be opened from the outside?” Dad asks, cutting Danielle off before she can answer.

“Well—”

“Does the college run regular safeguarding checks?”

“We—”

“Is that a tour group coming in? How do you manage who’s allowed inside the college? Do you keep a record of ID?”

“Erm—”

“I think a room on the top floor would be best. I assume your buildings meet fire regula—”

“Dad!” I say. I look over at Danielle and try to send her an I’m so sorry, please ignore him smile.

Dad shrugs. “I am just looking out for—”

“This room is awesome, thank you,” I say to Danielle and plonk my suitcase on the bed, deliberately messing up the duvet so there’s no chance of switching rooms. “No one will be bothered about coming into a student room,” I say to Dad, trying to reassure him. “Besides, Beecham is a quiet, secure, safe college.”

“MURDERER!”

CHAPTER 3
DECEMBER 5

George

Shit going down in the quad. Where are you?

2:15 p.m.

“MURDERER!” someone shouts again in the quad.

Perfect timing, I think to myself. I don’t need to look at Dad to know he’s frowning. I look out the window, as do Dad and Danielle.

“Oh, students, eh?” Danielle chuckles. “There are no murderers here in college. Well, not living anyway,” she adds with an awkward laugh.

Some sort of commotion seems to be going on outside. At first glance it looks like the students are just pretending to behead Glanville again, but something is different this time. A larger crowd has formed, not just student-age people either. It’s a huddle. And George and that girl he was with are in the middle of it. I recognize a few of the faces from earlier on, outside the Radcliffe Camera.

“Are those the tourists…”

“They are not tourists,” Dad says, his voice stern, work-mode in effect.

“WHAT DO WE WANT? JUSTICE! WHEN DO WE WANT IT? NOW!”

“Protestors.” Danielle sighs. “I’m so sorry. Mr. Dawkins and Eva, I assure you it’s rare they get past the porters these days. They pose as a tour group and then—”

“This has happened before?” Dad asks, his frown deepening.

“I’m afraid so. They’re protesting to have the statue of Glanville removed from the front quad.”

“Is there a reason the college hasn’t removed the statue?” Dad asks, using his diplomatic tone that he saves for when he has a very strong opinion on something, which is most of the time.

“Money. Politics. All the usual, I’m afraid,” Danielle says. “The truth of the matter is, the university is dragging its feet because the Glanvilles have made massive donations in the past and, in fact, still do.”

Dad visibly puffs out his chest.

“Perhaps the Glanvilles should spend their time focusing on making reparations for their ancestors’ involvement in the slave trade rather than trying to alleviate their guilt by donating to a university,” Dad says, making me gasp. I get why he hates the statue, but it’s almost like he hates the Glanvilles. Like he actually knows them.

Suddenly the chanting outside switches to arguing.

“This is escalating,” Dad says, and I can see the cogs turning.

“Don’t stress, Dad. Isn’t it time you headed out now? I should really prep for my interviews.”

But Dad isn’t listening. He’s completely focused on the events in the quad.

I almost wish he hadn’t insisted on dropping me off now. I’d thought it was nice. He’d taken a day’s holiday. The first since Mum died. But deep down I think he only did it because George offered to travel up with me if he didn’t. George and I are going to be staying away from home together, and yet he was worried we were going to have sex on the train up to Oxford?!

I think if Dad had known that Beecham was reverting to in-person interviews and I’d be staying up here with George, unsupervised, he’d have made me apply to another college—well, attempted to, at least. But an in-person experience was what convinced me Beecham was for me; that and Professor Bernard’s pioneering access scheme for Black state-school students. Their dedication to creating equity—not just equality but focusing on how to achieve equal outcomes—is spot- on. Dad couldn’t disagree with that. Even if he didn’t like the idea of George and me being alone.

“It’s not compulsory that parents drop you off, you know,” I’d said. “George’s parents aren’t dropping him off.”

“That’s because George’s parents don’t do anything,” Dad had replied. He was never subtle about his disapproval of their hands-off approach to parenting.

I mean, he is kinda right. George and I have been inseparable since we met, but I’ve only met his mum once, very briefly. His dad seems like he’s never home, always away on business. They’re too wrapped up in their own lives, according to George. He is an inconvenience.

I find it hard to imagine anyone could think of him as an inconvenience.

“I don’t need sympathy,” George had said, when he’d caught my expression. “It means I get to do what I want, when I want, with who I want.”

“And by that you mean spend all your time with me and piss off my dad,” I’d said, swinging onto his lap and giving him a quick kiss.

“Sounds about right,” he’d said, laughing.

“MURDERER!”

Shit, it’s getting worse out there.

“I’d better go down and sort this out,” says Dad.

“I’m sure it will all blow over in a minute,” says Danielle.

“Don’t get involved,” I plead.

“You just said it was time for me to leave,” says Dad.

“Yes, Dad, leave, not become the college’s bodyguard.”

Dad rolls his eyes, imitating me, and looks out the window again, assessing the “situation.” He’ll have noted all the possible escape routes and calculated the probability of things turning violent and the risk of getting involved without a backup team. Nothing is ever left to chance with Dad.

“Honestly, it’s not a big deal. Can you please just—”

“Is that George Danvers?” Dad asks, now fully invested in intervening.

“Yeah, but please don’t make a scene, Dad.”

“I won’t,” he says, holding up his hands defensively. “But I really do need to sort this out. These things have a way of turning nasty quickly.”

“Honestly, Inspector Dawkins,” Danielle says, “the porters know how to handle—”

Dad is out the door before Danielle can finish her sentence. It was futile from the start. He had that determined look in his eye that he gets whenever he goes in the field. Dad was gone. Inspector Dawkins was here.

“He does that a lot, I guess?” Danielle nods toward the door.

“You have no idea.”

Everyone at school thinks it must be so cool having an inspector for a dad. All they see is the fame after a “big win” like his recent TV interviews about how he “Nailed the Nail-Gun Killer”. What they don’t know is that Dad’s always stressed, always working a case, worried there’s a killer on the loose. Dad was so in the zone just now that he hadn’t even remembered to say goodbye to me when he left the room.

I guess I don’t mind, really.

I hadn’t been looking forward to the goodbye. Dad and I haven’t spent a night apart since Mum died five years ago, and, frankly, I can’t deal with getting emotional about the enormity of this interview week. I need my game face on.

“Is this really a student’s room?” I ask Danielle, stretching out on the bed.

“Yep. There’s nothing quite like living in college,” says Danielle.

“Yeah, I bet.… God, this interview week is brutal.”

Danielle laughs. “It hasn’t even started yet!”

“I know, it’s just … we get to have a taste, and not just for an afternoon but a week, of life as a Beecham student. And then it could all be taken away.”

“A life that could have been…” Danielle says, wistfully looking out of the window. I get up and join her to see what’s going on in the quad. Dad is down there now. One look at his badge, and shared looks of panic ripple through the group before the protestors quickly scatter.

“Take my advice,” says Danielle. “Don’t treat this as an interview week. Treat it as the first week of your degree and life here at Beecham. A lot of the students you’re here with are from fancy private schools; some will even be from boarding schools that look just as prestigious as this place. They’ve had seven years or more feeling comfortable in this kind of environment, and they are going to walk around here like they own the place. They’ll have been doing interview prep since they were eleven. This entire week will feel like a holiday to them.”

I gulp. “No pressure.”

“Act like you own the place too,” Danielle says, gently punching me on the arm. “Believe you deserve to be here, and that confidence will shine through. Everyone who makes it to interview week is intelligent enough to study here. The difference between who wins a place and who doesn’t is who wants it more, and who truly believes in themselves. It’s slay or be slayed, as the students say.” Danielle does an awkward laugh. “I’ve no idea who started it, but the slogan’s stuck. Been around since the days when I studied at Beecham.”

“Slay or be slayed, got it,” I say, and click my fingers like I’m shooting a gun.

She pretends I shot her, and we both laugh at the cheesiness of this conversation.

“It’s silly, I know, but it actually inspired an entire social enterprise,” says Danielle.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Have you heard of OxS? OxS with a capital S?” says Danielle.

I shake my head.

“It’s short for Oxford Slays and it’s the students’ anonymous social. It’s basically a long-running confessions forum,” she continues. “There’s a few threads that give prospective students tips on how to get through interview week, so you might want to check it out. Without an official ox.ac.uk email address, you can only register as a read-only user, though.”

“Who created it?” I ask, downloading the app on my phone.

“A computer science undergrad coded the app for their first-year coursework. It was supposed to be a joke but it took off.”

How have I not heard this story?

The app launches and I quickly set up an account.

“Wow, OK, so a lot of threads,” I say, skimming over them. There’s one with students having full-on debates about Oxford life, and one on Glanville’s statue that is blowing up.

Slayer 17644: Glanville protest in full force at Beecham right now!

Dec. 5, 2:22 p.m.|500+ views, 220 likes

Slayer 28245: Holy shit—is that the #NailedIt Detective breaking up the protest?????

Dec. 5, 2:33 p.m.|450+ views, 33 likes

“OxS is more gossip than resource these days, I admit,” says Danielle.

“Yeah … I don’t think it’s for me,” I say. “With Dad being Dad, I usually avoid social media.”

“Fair enough,” says Danielle, heading toward the door. “I’ll see you at the JCR at three thirty?”

“Sure,” I say, hoping I didn’t offend her, “and thanks!”

After she’s gone, I turn off notifications on OxS. I haven’t got time for that shit. The last thing I need right now is a distraction. After all, Oxford interview week is slay or be slayed.

CHAPTER 4
DECEMBER 5

George

The view from my room is AMAZING. Come see.

2:42 p.m.

Eva

Jumping in the shower. See you in the JCR at 3:30 p.m.

2:43 p.m.

Feeling better after a hot shower, I walk confidently over to the JCR. The arched door to the junior common room is heavy. It creaks as I open it, and all the eyes in the room fall on me the moment I set foot inside. To my left is a kitchenette with a sink full of used glasses and mugs with a coffee machine on one end of the counter. To my right is a board full of posters about various upcoming events. There’s a carol concert in the chapel next week, but I’ll be gone by then. One for the ACS catches my eye—the Oxford African and Caribbean Society—I’d like to know more about them. Next to it is a poster about a pool tournament that reads TOWN VS. GOWN. Is that a thing? An uncomfortable tickle moves around my stomach, that slight feeling of unease, like I’m out of my depth.

At the far end of the JCR is a pool table next to a foosball table that leads on to a lounge area with big black leather sofas and a huge TV with the latest Xbox and PlayStation.

That’s where everyone is.

The eyes. Staring at me.

Thankfully there is one set I know.

“Hey you,” says George, climbing over the back of one of the sofas and coming over to me.

“Hey yourself,” I say. “I was beginning to forget what you look like.”

“The next Beecham classics undergrad.” He grins.

I roll my eyes. He kisses my cheek and a warm glow rushes over my body as I instantly feel more at ease. I didn’t know if he’d want everyone to know about us. Given there isn’t an official us. Yet.

“Ignore him,” I say, as the others come over to join us. “He can’t help himself.”

“Is he like this all the time?” asks a boy with shoulder-length brown hair.

“Basically.”

“You must be Eva,” the boy carries on, holding out his hand for me to shake. “George told us about you. Two students from the same state school getting Beecham interviews. Pretty impressive. I’m James, by the way. And this is Tessa, George—you clearly know—and Lily.”

“Nice to meet you all,” I say, trying my best to remember their names.

Lily is the girl I saw talking to George earlier.

“We were all just swapping numbers in case we want to hang out between interviews,” says Tessa.

I take out my phone and start adding them all as contacts.

“So, what shall we call ourselves?” asks James, rubbing his hands together. “The Beecham Beginners, or the Mighty Musketeers?”

A momentary silence forms before we all burst out laughing.

“OK, we can work on that,” says James, adjusting his shoulders and trying to brush it off.

“Have you seen any of the tutors yet?” asks the girl who I think is named Tessa. She has short, bobbed blue hair that’s pinned back with a rainbow hair clip. She looks as nervous as I feel.

I shake my head. “Have you?”

“No,” she says, biting her lip.

“Don’t worry,” says Lily. “They’re lovely. Not scary at all. I know them really well.”

“Huh?” says James.

“I was chosen for the access scheme, so I’ve met them all before. Beecham feels like home to me already. They’re all so welcoming. You’ll feel less nervous in no time,” Lily says with a patronizing smile.

I force myself not to react. She wants the attention.

The thing about Oxford is that it attracts the top 2 percent of students in the country, and the top 2 percent tends to be the geeky kid from every class. Which effectively means I’m in a college full of geeks—and it doesn’t take more than a few minutes for me to suss out the room.

Lily is undoubtedly a teacher’s pet geek, while James is a geeky geek, the out-and-out nerd and proud of it. Tessa, I’m less decided on, but I’m leaning toward the shy geek, who prefers to stay out of the limelight. Then of course there’s George, the cool geek who is a natural genius, doesn’t need to pay attention in lessons, and just gets it; and finally me, the workaholic geek, who’s smart but not so gifted that the grades come without a lot of hard work.

The door creaks open and we all swivel round to gawk at who it is.

“Good afternoon, everyone.” Danielle beams. “Please grab a seat,” she says and gestures to the sofas. I squeeze between George and James. “I’m the admissions officer for Beecham and access scheme coordinator. It’s lovely to see a familiar face—hi, Lily!”

“Hello,” says Lily, standing up and giving a little curtsy.

A pang of jealousy rushes over me. I was gutted when I didn’t get selected for the inaugural Beecham access scheme. I’d spent ages writing my application and researching Professor Bernard and what the program had to offer. I listened to her TED Talk about how changing an institution can be done from the inside, how creating an inclusive student body will evolve into an inclusive academic faculty and offer the opportunity for groundbreaking research because diversity is at the heart of truth, evolution, and discovery. Her program was more than just a token “experience Oxford” day trip. They offered weeklong courses to Black students from state schools to learn about life at Oxford, give interview tips, and even long-term mentorships from college tutors.

My rejection letter from the access scheme said nice things that effectively amounted to “don’t give up.”

I almost did. But now I’m here. And I still have a chance.

“Think of this JCR as your hangout room while you’re here,” continues Danielle. “I know it’s hard when it’s called ‘interview week,’ but switching off and leaning on each other is so important.” She leaves a pause. “The elephant in the room is that there are more interviewees than there are places at Beecham. However, as you know, that’s why you’ve all been allocated a second-choice college, which is in your packs along with your individual interview schedule.”

She hands us each an envelope.

I rip mine open and my heart sinks. My second-choice college is St. Thomas’s, one of the most sought-after colleges at Oxford. Your second college is supposed to be a lifeline. If Beecham doesn’t have space, the professors link up with the other college to see if they can take you instead. But if Beecham doesn’t want me, I hardly think St. Thomas’s will.

“You’ll notice there are three interviews. Usually there are just two, but part of the extensive research Professor Bernard did for the access scheme, on making sure the interview process is fair for all, revealed that—alongside a strong preference to have the option to stay at the college and have in-person interviews—interviewees often felt pressure with only two interviews, and they wanted more time to warm up and get used to the college. You’ll see from your individual timetables that we’ve scheduled it in such a way that there will be one interview per day, so you’ll have a fair amount of free time to explore the college and Oxford. Please feel free to use the library and the JCR, of course. Any questions?”

“Food?” asks George, always thinking about his stomach.

“Oh yes,” Danielle says, laughing. “Thank you for reminding me. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are served in the dining hall, and the times are on the board by the steps outside the hall. As we’re out of term time, dinner is semiformal with a waiter service. All that means is that the tutors seated at high table will be in gowns, but it isn’t compulsory for students to wear their gowns, which we hope will make all of you feel more comfortable.”

“Sounds good, thanks,” says George.

Danielle looks around at us, inviting more questions.

I want to ask what she means by the tutors sitting at “high table,” but I don’t want to look stupid. There’s really only one question that I keep thinking about …

“When do we find out if we’ve got in?” I ask.

“Early January,” says Danielle.

“You still have some schedules left,” says Lily. “Are there more of us?”

“Yes,” says Danielle. “There are a few more traveling up together but their minibus was delayed.”

“Minibus!” says James. “How many are there?”

“Oh, not many—just five.”

“All from the same school?!” asks James.

“Err, yes, that’s right,” says Danielle, scrunching the envelopes in her hand ever so slightly. She heads for the door. “The college map shows where my office is, so please stop by if you need anything. See you all at dinner.”

“Wait!” says George as Danielle turns to leave. “What school are you waiting on?”

“Reapington Manor College,” says Danielle dryly.

The JCR door closes behind her with a loud thud, and James begins humming the retro game-over music from some classic ’80s video game—Pac-Man, I think.

“Oh, come on,” I say as the others slump down onto the sofas. “It’s hardly surprising there’s some interviewees from Reapington. It’s like the most prestigious private school in the country.”

There isn’t a person in Britain who hasn’t heard of Reapington Manor College. It’s the school for children of the elite. Practically every prime minister, billionaire, and international royal for generations is a Reapington alumnus.

“A busload, Eva,” says James with a sigh. “Or did you miss that part?”

“Professor Bernard knows what she’s doing,” says Lily. “I know her. Access matters here. It’s not the Reapington show.”

“Or you’re just the poster girl,” says James, and Lily glares at him so viciously James looks actually scared.

“I’m gonna get some air,” says George.

I follow him out. Despite being late afternoon, it’s now completely dark outside and the December air bites.

“George, wait!” I call, catching him up. “Don’t tell me the Reapington thing got you spooked?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, practically running toward the cloisters. “I’m fine.”

“You know you don’t have to put on a front with me?” I say, matching his pace.

I go to take his hand in mine, but he shoves his hand in his pocket.

“Hey,” I say softly, pulling him into the dark shadows of the deserted cloisters. “Why are you being cold?”

“I’m not,” he says.

“Are you nervous?”

“No.”

“Then what’s up?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

“George, it’s me you’re talking to.”

“It was just getting a little intense in there.” He sighs and rests his forehead on mine. I can see our breath merging into one single cloud beneath our chins.

“You’re going to do brilliantly,” I tell him.

“You too,” he whispers. We kiss, and a welcome pang of excited déjà vu hits me as I think back to the night that was almost the night. We were in my bedroom, surrounded by revision notes, laughing at some mindless joke. Our eyes had locked, and all the weeks of pent-up desire had taken over. It was perfect.

I’d moved my hand down his body.

“Wait,” he’d whispered. “Not today.”

“You said we should make it memorable,” I’d replied. “The day we get our letters about interview week is memorable.”

George had laughed lightly and shaken his head.

“We can’t do this now, here.”

“Why?” I’d asked, shaken. I could feel he wanted it too. The way he was looking at me.

“You mean aside from the fact your dad hates me already and is an inspector who literally knows how to kill me and cover his tracks?”

“Shut up,” I’d said, kissing him gently. “Dad won’t be back for hours.”

“It’s not just that,” he’d said, reluctantly untangling our bodies.

I’d crossed my arms, suddenly feeling exposed. I’d let my guard down and he’d rejected me.

“Hey, hey, don’t look at me like that,” he’d said, taking my hand in his. “I want to. I really want to. I just want you to have all the facts first.”

“Facts? I get the birds and the bees.”

“Not that.” He’d blushed. “About Oxford and life and stuff.”

“It’s not a history lesson.”

“Can we just wait? Please?” he’d urged. “Until … until after we get into Beecham and we know where our lives are heading?”

“If we both get in.”

George had grinned. “Oh, we will,” he’d said, kissing me again. “I promise.”

“Do you swear?” I’d breathed.

George had pulled me in close and looked me straight in the eye. “I swear to you. On my life.”

George wasn’t always sensible, but he was a gentleman.

He wanted us to be sure.

But suddenly tonight feels different. Like that night in my bedroom all over again. Our bodies are so close.

“Shall I come and check out your room now?” I ask, my heart racing.

“Maybe not,” he says and pulls away. He looks at me and I know he wants to. But something’s stopping him. “We shouldn’t. We’re not in yet,” George says, and I can feel the moment has passed.

“Of course you pick this moment to be pedantic,” I say, half joking to mask the disappointment. If it wasn’t so cold and dark, he’d be able to see my cheeks have flushed.

A weird and unusual silence falls between us. Suddenly an intense look ripples across his face.

“Will you please tell me what’s bothering you?” I ask. “It can’t just be nerves.”

“You know how much I care about you,” he says.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not saying no to us,” he continues.

I don’t know why but I feel myself having to hold back tears. I think maybe it’s just the pressure of actually being here taking over.

“I’m just saying not yet,” says George. “We had a plan. To wait until after we got into Beecham. We’re so close.” George begins pacing. “After all this,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “Let’s not … fall … at the final hurdle.”

Now George looks like the one about to cry. His usual cool, calm, collected vibe evaporates and I can’t help but wonder …

“George, are you still just talking about you and me?”

He takes a step back, and it suddenly feels like there is a gulf between us. “I— Yes. No. I— We should go. You know it’s going to take hours for you to decide what to wear to dinner.”

“OK, let’s—”

He doesn’t wait for me. He just turns and leaves.

What the actual? One minute he’s talking about our future, the next he’s running off. I don’t know whether to be pissed or hurt.

I decide on both.

I can’t put my finger on it, but something isn’t right.

He’s hiding something from me.

CHAPTER 5
DECEMBER 5

Dad

Sorry about how I left. How are you settling in?

6:30 p.m.

Eva

Good. On my way to dinner … semiformal hall!

6:31 p.m.

As I step into the grand dining hall, my nostrils fill with a strong oaky smell. Now that I’m here, it’s obvious what the tutors’ high table is. While the four long student dining tables run vertically down the length of the hall, the tutors sit on a horizontal table at the back on a slightly elevated platform, a bit like the top table at a wedding. A ginormous Christmas tree is in the far corner, covered in baubles and thousands of twinkling lights. The table napkins are Christmas themed too. Green-shaded lamps line the center of all the tables. Each place is set up for a three-course meal, with silver-plated sets of knives and forks of ascending size and a bread plate.

The walls must be at least two stories high.

It feels regal.

I think about Dad and me sitting at our small pine table at the end of our galley kitchen diner in our East London terrace house.

I do a sharp intake of breath.

Act like you belong. That’s what Danielle said.

The heels of my shoes bang on the stone floor and the echo reverberates around the hall. In between the oblong stained-glass windows hang large portraits in gold-mounted frames. They’re former fellows and principals of the college, no doubt. Their painted eyes follow me as I walk down the aisle of seats, but I keep my head high.

I worked my arse off to get to interview week.

I deserve to be here.

Now I just need to figure out where the hell to sit.

A ripple of laughter echoing across the ornate ceiling pulls me from my thoughts. I turn and see George with the other interviewees I met earlier.

“George,” I call and wave. He looks up from his feet, gives me a weak smile, and directs the group toward me. He doesn’t seem to have made much effort for formal dinner, rocking up in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie. He and the two girls walk along the other side of the table while the boy from the JCR, James, makes a beeline toward me. So I guess this is where we’re sitting. I take my seat.

Lily has changed into a glitzy midi dress that makes my outfit look mundane. But the other girl—I can’t remember her name … Melissa? Tanya? No, Tessa!—she’s wearing a dull-yellow turtleneck, so I don’t feel underdressed. Or is she wearing the Beecham College signature color?

I’m overthinking. It’s my worst habit.

It’s also my greatest strength—I analyze things in a way others don’t.

Like George’s face right now. He’s nodding along to Lily’s monologue, but he’s not really listening. Something is seriously up with him.

Before I can get his attention, a loud bang comes from the back of the hall followed by the marching of footsteps. We all stand, instinctively, along with the other students. I watch, open-mouthed, as the professors make their way down the hall toward the high table, their long, flowing gowns and scarlet velvet robes signifying their doctorates.

Professor Celeste Bernard is leading the way, looking even more elegant than her picture on the website. She walks with perfect posture that seems to make her tower over the other professors, despite the fact she’s only about five feet tall. As she passes each student, she nods and smiles; she knows them personally and they all smile back. She has an air that commands respect—every intellectual here wants to be near her, speak to her, be her. Professor Bernard is the definition of “top of your game.” Globally recognized as the leading Shakespearean expert, she is the reason Beecham has become the place on Earth to study English and classics.

“That’s Professor Bernard,” James whispers to me. “She’s being considered for the next Beecham principal.”

“It’s not going to be her,” whispers Lily.

How do they know all this?

Suddenly Lily starts waving frantically at a tall, early-fifties-looking tutor who walks in clutching an intricately designed cane that he seems to have as a sign of his superior status rather than a walking aid. Lily’s thick Cartier bracelets jangle in the otherwise silent hall. The tutor twitches his large hawkish nose, making his glasses tilt; he seems determined to look straight ahead and not make eye contact with her. But rather than look embarrassed, Lily is smiling, happy to have all eyes in the room on her. I cringe inside. Lily and I might be the only two Black candidates, but we couldn’t be more different.

Now that the high table is full, it’s impossible not to notice that there are only two tutors of color. For a college that claims to be woke, Beecham is still white at the top. Danielle and the student interview helpers I’ve met were all white too. It’s like I’ve stepped back in time. It’s incomparable to the canteen at my school.

Eventually the tight-lipped scholar gives Lily a nod of acknowledgment, while looking rather sheepishly at his colleagues.

“Who is he?” James asks Lily.

“Oh, don’t you know?” she says breezily. “That’s Dr. Declan Peters, senior fellow in classics. He’s my mentor. He was so impressed with me during my week in the access residency that he offered to keep in touch and mentor me personally. Dr. Peters is going to get principal, you heard it here first.”

“Surely that’s an unfair advantage?” says James.

“It’s a program to help the disadvantaged,” snaps Lily.

“But who defines disadvantaged?” asks Tessa.

I grind my teeth. I don’t want to get involved right now. Not in front of the professors. I like to pick my moments to give my opinion. Play my cards right, because the truth is the game just got harder for me. Now, not only am I up against students from private schools who get extensive interview training and guidance, but I’m also up against state-school students who have been through the access scheme.

Should I have tried to get a mentor privately?

I look over to George for some sign that he feels as out of his depth as I do. He’s sitting opposite me, but he might as well be on Mars. He’s staring at his empty water glass blankly. I bite my lip. I’m so used to George’s infectious energy that his subdued vibe is making me feel even more out of place. What the hell is going on with him?

The starters are served—they look like a work of art. I finish it in minutes. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

“That poor tuna is dying a second death,” I say across the table to George, who is aimlessly pushing food around his plate with a fork. “Earth to George?”

“Sorry, what?” asks George, looking up.

“Are you going to actually eat any of it?” I ask. Three hours ago, George was asking Danielle about free food during interview week, and now his appetite is nonexistent.

“Oh no…” says George. “Do you want it?”

A rumble of cheers erupts from the dining room entrance before I can answer. Five boys—I think interviewees—stride into the hall. They’re wearing gowns but not Oxford ones. They have a red logo, but I can’t make out the words.

“Oi, oi!” call out some of the students, and they are quickly shushed by high table.

George stiffens.

“It’s the Reapers,” James whispers. “I can tell by the crest on their gowns. I guess their bus got here.”

They strut through the hall like it’s their playground, their gowns billowing behind them, revealing matching tweed suits. In any other setting their clothes would be out of place, too old-fashioned even for retro, but here at Oxford they fit right in, like old buddies.

They sit down next to us. Two to Lily’s left, two to James’s right, and the last one sits at the head of the table, his back to high table.

“I’m Sebastian—Seb—though you probably knew that,” says a blond-haired boy who is clearly the adopted leader of the Reapers. “My reputation often precedes me.”

The rest of us fall silent.

“So come on, then,” says Seb, pounding his fist so hard on the table our empty wineglasses rattle. “Name, subject, state or private. Starting with you.”

“Who, me? I’m Lily, English and classics, joint honors, private but switched to state for the Beecham access scheme.” She smiles and holds her hand out across the table for Seb to shake, designer bracelets jangling again.

“Ah, playing the game already, switching schools to beat the stats. I like it,” says Seb. He half stands and leans over to gently kiss her hand, and I resist the urge to retch. Lily giggles and I wonder if she realizes how transparent she is. Social climbers are hardly going to be new to the Reapers, though Seb looks happy enough with the attention.

Then Seb sniffs the air. He gets up and walks behind the Reapers and Lily, right up to George. He sniffs all around him and wrinkles his nose like he’s smelled something rotten.

“Don’t bother telling me,” Seb says to George. “I smell a hopeless case.”

I look over at George, expecting him to react, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even blink. I nudge George under the table, and I notice him slip a note into his pocket. He looks up at me, his face rosier than usual.

“Are you OK?” I mouth silently.

He gives a small nod.

Clearly he’s not OK.

“Now, tell me,” says Seb, looking straight past George to Tessa, “who are you? Don’t be shy. If you don’t tell me your name, how can I put you on the guest list for the Rex Factorem party tonight? It’s invite-only for Reapington applicants and their plus-ones. You’ve heard of Rex Factorem, right? It’s the Oxford society of gentlemen for you clueless state-goers. It takes its name from the Latin rex factorem daturus, meaning—”

A loud crash from high table stops Seb mid-sentence. Looks like Dr. Peters dropped his cane by accident. Seb turns his attention back to Tessa.

“Don’t keep me in suspense…”

“It’s Tessa,” she says, blushing. “English, private.”

“I’m James,” James says, butting in before Sebastian can flirt any more. “I’m always happy to join a party. Just saying. Oh, and I’m doing English. State.”

Seb looks him up and down and nods. “Applying for, not doing.”

That only leaves me. I feel Seb’s eyes boring down on me. I’m tempted to say nothing. Who does he think he is, ordering us to disclose our names like we’re on a classroom register? Our eyes lock, both of us determined not to look away first. He smirks and I can’t be bothered with his games.

“Eva,” I say. “English.” He has no business knowing whether I go to a state or private school.

“A pleasure.” He grins, then addresses the table. “It’s always nice to make the acquaintance of the … alleged competition.”

Is he for real? Who talks like this? I look around at the other Reapers. They seem like little Seb-owned poodles, lapping up his every farcical word.

The dining staff have brought out roast pigeon with purple potatoes and root vegetables. It looks and smells wonderful, but a bit too fancy to be comforting.

“This is Maximilian, Hugo, Archie Junior, and that’s Alexander,” says Sebastian, speaking on behalf of the Reapers. “We’re all legacies. Oxford blood,” Seb continues in an over-the-top dramatic voice. “So … you have been warned.”

I raise my eyebrow and try to catch George’s eye, but he’s concentrating intently on his napkin.

I take a mental photo in my head to try to remember everyone’s names, like I would on a revision cue card. I don’t have a completely photographic memory, but I’ve trained myself as best I can. Tessa, George, Lily, Archie, Alexander, Seb, Maximilian, Hugo, and James. Ten in total. We’re a big group for only five undergraduate slots across English and classics.

The conversation moves on to one of George’s favorite topics. Homer’s Iliad, or, more specifically, English translations of the Iliad.

“You can’t deny Lattimore’s translation is dry,” says James.

“Perhaps.” Tessa shrugs. “But Fitzgerald lacks the fidelity one needs to—”

“Save it for the interviews.” Seb winks, getting to his feet.

The rest of the Reapers get up too, as if they were his subjects following a chain of command.

“Time to hit the college bar before we go to the Rex Factorem party,” says Seb. He studies our plates with a look of disdain that stinks of private-school privilege.

“Not a fan of crème brûlée?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“I’m sweet enough.” Sebastian winks again. He’s such a cliché.

I roll my eyes and clock Alexander smiling at me. He runs his hand through his straight black hair, styled to look unstyled. He may be a Reaper, but I sense he’s no fan of Seb.

“If any of the ladies want to join us in the bar before we head to the party, we’ll see you there.” Seb gives Tessa a wry smile.

With that the Reapers leave, Alexander tucking in their chairs behind them.

They begin muttering something in Greek, I think.

“What are they saying?” Tessa asks George.

“I … I … I can’t make it out.”

Lily frowns.

James sits up straight. “Sounds like ‘Bye, bye, Ephialtes’?”

“Ephialtes?” Lily’s eyes bulge. “He betrayed the Spartans.” Her brow furrows. “Who are they calling a traitor?”

CHAPTER 6
DECEMBER 5

Eva

Seriously George, what’s wrong? You’re acting weird.

7:33 p.m.

George

There’s something I need to tell you.

7:34 p.m.

BANG!

I jump at the sound and quickly put my phone away like I’ve been caught texting during a lesson. The scholars at high table stand abruptly. Professor Bernard doesn’t look impressed that the Reapers have left before them. It might not be full formal hall, but clearly arriving late and leaving early is not OK.

We don’t all stand this time, but everyone has stopped eating to watch as the professors walk out in single file and head down a private stairwell. George’s text has got me worried. I knew he was hiding something.

“They’ll be off to the SCR,” says Lily, as the waiters bring round after-dinner coffee and chocolates.

I look confused and she delights in explaining. “Sorry, I forget you won’t know these things. It’s the senior common room. It’s where they go for a nightcap after formal hall.”

Professor Bernard is the last to leave. She studies each of us as she walks past. “I’m looking forward to meeting all of you,” she says, before stopping in front of Lily.

“Hello, Lily,” she says. “It’s nice to see you again.”

I feel the same whirl of frustration churn my stomach. Even Professor Bernard is treating Lily differently. Will the world never change? I can’t wait to get out of the hall, declining the offer of coffee. James, Tessa, and George stand up too.

“I need the bathroom. I’ll catch you up,” Lily says to us.

The night air bites when we reach the front quad.

I rest my hands on the cold stone window ledge and peer through the single-glazed sash window of the senior common room. Inside I can see the professors huddled around a large fireplace, drinking espresso. Behind them is a table laid out with handmade chocolates and fruit platters. What I’d give to be a fly on the wall, listening to their conversations; they’re probably brainstorming solutions to global warming and world poverty, or discussing their groundbreaking research. Or perhaps, like us, they are debating the purest version of the Iliad.

“I think we can all agree that prose translations of the Iliad are the devil,” says Tessa.

“Agreed,” says James, whipping his hair around like he’s in a shampoo advert. “George, any thoughts?”

George doesn’t answer. He is transfixed by a porter and a security guard tending to the statue of Sir H. C. Glanville. They’re gathering in the signs and flyers the protestors left behind earlier.

“George,” I say and nudge him.

He looks startled as he snaps out of a deep thought.

“Do you not agree it’s the devil?” James asks, interrupting us.

“Who’s the devil?” George replies, looking pale.

Tessa laughs and moves the conversation on. Lily is taking ages, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s scored herself an invitation into the SCR. I peer back through the window. Sure enough, Lily is inside, laughing at something Dr. Peters has just said. I grit my teeth. I turn to tell George but he’s looking down at something in his hands.

“You can’t send a text like that and then say nothing,” I murmur, putting my hand on George’s shoulder.

He jumps back in shock, like he thought I was going to mug him.

“What’s up with you?” I ask.

“Not here,” he says, slowly moving his hand down toward his tracksuit pocket. I can hear the scrunch of paper as he subtly tries to put whatever he was reading away without me noticing.

“Does whatever you have to tell me have something to do with that note?” I ask.

“What note? I don’t have a note,” George says, looking over his shoulder like he expects there to be someone behind him.

I raise my eyebrow. So, it is about the note. “George,” I say softly but firmly. “I saw you slip it in your pocket at dinner. You said you had something to tell me and now you’re acting weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” says George like a guilty schoolboy.

I take George by the wrist and march him away from the others, down a little walkway between two of the college buildings. Once there, I realize it’s narrower than I thought.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Let me see,” I say, reaching forward and digging my hand into George’s pocket. He grabs my hand, and our bodies are pulled so close I can feel his heart beating against my chest.

“Let go,” he whispers, looking so sternly into my eyes that for a moment I catch my breath.

“Are you really not going to tell me what it is?” I ask.

“No,” says George. “I mean, yes. It’s not a secret. It’s just … notes.”

“You’re a crap liar,” I say, folding my arms.

“It’s not a lie,” says George, and he attempts to give me one of his cool, laid-back semi-smiles. But the edge of his lip trembles.

“Really? Because your eye’s twitching like it did when you tried to convince me you could recite the periodic table backward,” I whisper, moving in even closer. “I know when you’re lying.”

George takes a step back. “It’s not a lie. It is a note.”

“A note,” I clarify. “As in, a note someone wrote to you?”

“Drop it, Eva.” George sighs. “Look, can we just rewind? The last thing I want is to fight with you the night before our interviews.”

George rests his forehead on mine and my mind goes blank. He pulls me in close and kisses my neck.

“I don’t get why you’re so adamant we need to wait when we’re already here,” I whisper.

“You know how much I want you. But this place … can change things.”

“What things?”

“Beecham. Oxford. Uni. It changes you, y’know.”

“No, I don’t know,” I say. “And neither do you. We’ve never been. This is our adventure. One we can take together.”

George smiles, but he’s sad, I can tell. “I want that. I do. I just…”

“You just what?”

“I want to wait until we’re in and all the facts are on the table. My dad says Oxford changes you. He went here.”

“Your dad went to Oxford? How come you’ve never said?”

“You know I don’t like talking about him.”

“OK. So why tell me now?”

George shrugs. “You asked why I want to wait. He’s why. Because this place … this place … it’s closely tied to my family. And if you knew, then you might not want me anymore.”

“Hey, that’s not going to happen. You aren’t your dad. Come on, you’ve said it yourself—you’re nothing like him. The fact you’re more concerned about my feelings than your own makes you nothing like him.”

I pull George in close. He kisses me more intensely than he’s ever kissed me before. “See,” I whisper. “You don’t want to wait.”

“Maybe I don’t,” breathes George. “But I have to.” He steps back. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask. A swirl of fury is rising in me. Why is he being so evasive all of a sudden? Where’s the speak-your-mind, no-holding-back, heart-on-your-sleeve George I know?

“Does this have something to do with that note?” I ask. Before I can stop myself, I lunge for his pocket again. My defiance catches him off guard and I grab the note and manage to sneak a glimpse of the scribbles.

“Is this ancient Greek?” I ask as George pulls the note back and shoves it deep inside his pocket.

“Yes, OK? It’s for my interview tomorrow morning. Happy now, Inspector Dawkins 2.0?” He sighs.

“Sorry, my gut was telling me … I’m not thinking straight. But I mean, what do you expect me to think when you’ll hardly make eye contact with me anymore, you’re sending cryptic texts, and you didn’t even defend yourself when Seb was talking shit to you at dinner!”

“He’s not worth it.”

“You’re right, he’s not,” I say. “But I don’t think that’s why you didn’t say anything. You looked—I can’t believe I’m saying this—you looked submissive, like one of his little Reaper lapdogs.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” snaps George.

“Really? Because it seems like I’ve hit a nerve,” I say. “Why didn’t you stand up to him? Why did you just sit there, cowering like a scared little boy? Why did you let Seb get under your skin?”

“Because I knew him, OK? Before all this,” George says and kicks the ground.

“Knew him how?” I ask.

“We … we went to school together. Before I started at Crawlingtons.”

“I … I don’t understand,” I say, trying to process. “Are you saying … you’re a Reaper?”

CHAPTER 7
DECEMBER 5

“Former Reaper, Eva, former! There’s a difference,” says George.

“I don’t fucking believe this!” I say, walking away from him. I can’t bear to meet his eyes right now. “All those nights we stayed up talking about how I was worried I couldn’t compete with private-school candidates and you sat there telling me I could. I thought you were so confident but really you were just smug. Because you’re one of them. Is this why you never wanted me to come to your house? Never meet your parents? Because I would have realized?”

“No,” says George, pulling me back to him as we get to Glanville’s statue. “Eva, I’m not one of them. At least, I don’t want to be. I left. I didn’t want my school, my family, my—things I couldn’t control—to define me. Reapington and all that … stuff, it isn’t me.”

“Don’t you get it?” I say, fighting back the tears. “I’m not pissed you went to Reapington. I’m pissed you lied to me.”

“I didn’t want you to judge me,” he says.

“But it was OK to judge me?” I ask. “To decide I couldn’t handle the truth? That I couldn’t make up my own mind about who you really are?”

George’s Adam’s apple moves up and down as he gulps, hard.

He looks like he might cry too.

It’s all too much.

“Eva, don’t go. We need to talk about this. I need to tell you—”

“What? What else could you possibly say that’s worse than what you’ve already told me?”

George shuffles on the spot.

I shake my head and walk away. The wind is bitterly cold now, and the sky is heavy with dark clouds, like it’s going to rain any second.

“Where are you going?” he calls.

“To the college bar,” I say.

“But that’s where the Reapers went,” says George, jogging to catch up with me.

“So?” I say. “They’re not going to stop me exploring college. Besides, they’re going to that party soon anyway. Don’t you want to see your old pals?”

George frowns and reluctantly follows me. I think he just doesn’t want me to see them alone. He must be hiding more, but I honestly don’t think I can take any more surprises.

“I think it’s along here,” I say, trying to visualize the college map. Memory training comes in handy sometimes.

A small doorway leads down a ramp, and I can hear the clink of bottles and the sound of merry chatting coming from inside. We follow the noise and walk in. It smells of booze and cork. The air is heavy and sweaty. There are a few alcoves and stools, then suddenly the room opens up and there’s about twenty-odd students and interviewees all crammed onto sofas, standing by the bar, or playing darts.

“Ah, Ephialtes, perfect timing!” cries Seb. “We were just separating the sheep from the wolves.”

So it was George that the Reapers were calling a traitor.

I kind of relate.

“Those applying for classics are on the right with me, and those for English on the left. Archie Junior and Lily are in the middle as those greedy buggers are applying for joint honors.” George and I must have been arguing for longer than I realized if Lily’s here.

“Well, hop to it, George,” says Seb. He’s leaning on the bar and claps his hands, commanding the attention of the whole room.

I can’t believe it, but George just does as he’s told, like a lapdog. Is everyone under Seb’s trance? He goes to stand between two of the Reapers who must be applying for classics too, Alexander and Maximilian.

“Oh, look at that, George and Alexander are reunited. How do you feel about that, Alexander?”

Alexander’s back stiffens. Then he shuffles farther away. “Who the fuck is George?”

The Reapers burst out laughing.

George doesn’t say anything, but I can tell he’s hurt.

Were George and Alexander friends once?

“Eva, darling,” coos Seb, “why don’t you go and join the lovely Tessa and James.”

“Don’t call me darling,” I say.

The Reapers give a loud ooooh.

“Love your sass.” Seb smiles.

I roll my eyes, remembering George’s comment. Seb gets off on banter. I stand by Tessa just to get away from the Reapers, George included.

“Poor Hugo, I feel sorry for you having to sit with all the English guys. Especially as you only applied for straight English so we could all get an interview at Beecham.… Come hang with us.”

Seb catches the confused look on my face.

“We couldn’t have all the Reapers applying for classics—we’d be each other’s competition. Now there’s places for all of us, and we’ll annihilate the rest of you.”

Seb may be a posh rich kid, but there are brains in there. He gets how to beat the stats and play the Oxford interview strategy game, and it seems like he really wants to be here, not just buy his way in. He radiates confidence, ambition, and focus.

I can see why some might find him attractive.

But he’s not for me. There’s Oxford interview strategy and then there’s forcing a friend to choose a different subject to increase your own chances of getting in.

George would never have done that to me.

Maybe I was too harsh on George earlier.

He’s not like all these other Reapers.

Then again, he did lie to me, and I’m not sure how easy that will be to forgive.

Now that we’re all segregated, the Reapers and Lily have started speaking in Greek—or is it ancient Greek?

“That’s not intimidating at all,” says Tessa, and I smile weakly. “I still can’t believe I’m here,” she says. “Are you going to the party tonight?”

“Not my thing. I want an early night.”

Tessa nods. “Same … I mean, I know I should, but … I always do the right thing. And well … I think it’s time to reinvent myself. Uni will be a fresh start. And interview week is my test run. I want to go tonight. Have fun.”

“What are you girls talking about?” asks James, leaning in and invading our personal space.

“The party tonight—what did Seb call it? Rex something?”

“Rex Factorem,” says James. “It’s an exclusive gentlemen’s club for rich kids at Oxford. Started centuries ago. So you can imagine the alumni—politicians, billionaires, diplomats from all over the world. The older it gets, the more powerful it gets.”

“So, Seb was just showing off at dinner?”

James nods. “The RF is guarded about who gets in. Even if you’re eligible, you still have to do a secret challenge to join.”

“What kind of challenge?” asks Tessa.

“It’s different for each member, and kept secret. But basically a dare, I’m guessing.”

“How do you know all this?” I ask.

James smiles. “When you grow up in Oxford, you hear things. The RF isn’t pretty. It’s been linked with espionage and even murder. Nothing ever proven, of course. There’s no way Seb is already a member of the RF when he hasn’t even gotten into Oxford yet. Not even him.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask.

“You do know who Seb is, don’t you?” says James.

I shrug my shoulders. “A Reaper.”

“That’s Sebastian Eldridge, son of Daniel Eldridge, the self-made billionaire.”

“Oh, so that’s why he walks around like he’s God’s gift.”

“That and his perfect jawline, emerald-green eyes, and toothpaste-ad-ready smile,” says Tessa.

“Don’t tell me—he’s your type,” I say.

Tessa shrugs. “I mean, girls are more my vibe, but, isn’t he everyone’s type?”

James laughs. “Eva’s only got eyes for George. You two are like a thing, huh?”

“We’re not, I mean, we are … kind of, or we were … It’s complicated.” I trail off into my own thoughts. After what George told me tonight, I don’t know where we stand anymore.

“So, I can’t believe I didn’t clock this earlier when you introduced yourself, Eva,” says James excitedly. “It’s Eva Dawkins, isn’t it?”

My stomach twists. I know what’s coming.

“I saw your name on the welcome list and couldn’t wait to meet you,” says James.

“Is that so,” I say, trying to sound unbothered. I glance over at the Reapers again. Thankfully, they’re too distracted to be listening.

“Yeah,” says James, clearly not taking the hint. “You see, my mum’s a detective and—”

“Your mum is a detective?” I say, cutting in. “That’s awesome. I’d love to meet her.”

“Are you messing with me?” asks James.

“No, seriously, a woman working her way up to detective in the police, with all the sexist bullshit that goes on? That’s inspiring. She must be some woman. Anyway, about my dad, I like to keep that stuff on the down-low. I’m sure you understand?”

“Yeah, that’s cool, no problem,” says James.

“So, are you going to the party tonight?” I ask James.

“Changing the subject like a pro,” he says.

“As are you,” I say.

“The invite was open to private schoolers and hot girls, which counts me out,” James says. “Seb could tell I was a townie.”

“A townie? You mean like Town and Gown?”

He nods. “You know about it, right?”

“Not really,” I say, shuffling on my seat. However small or understandable the fact, I hate admitting when I don’t know something.

“We Towns are the locals, born and raised in Oxford. The Gowns are the university peeps that just, like, took over our city. On the surface it looks all fun and games. There’ll be pub quizzes and darts matches, Towns vs. Gowns. But underneath it all is a story of the upper class swooping in and gentrifying an entire town, the local people being displaced and yet no one caring because isn’t Oxford University so fucking awesome!” he says sarcastically, waving his arms around in fake admiration of the college bar.

“I didn’t know,” I say. “But, like, if you feel like this, why the hell did you apply here?”

“To prove a point,” says James. “To prove to the knobheads like Seb that us Towns can study in our hometown. That we’re just as smart. Just as worthy. Important.”

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” says Tessa, looking uncomfortable.

“Hey,” I whisper, “I don’t think James was talking about you. Not all private-school kids are the way James is describing.”

Tessa mumbles something and then makes her way out.

“Guess it’s just you and me, kid,” says James in a silly voice. “Sorry,” he says, blushing. “I get nervous in front of girls and say stupid stuff.”

I believe him.

“I think you upset her,” I tell him. “And for the record, I don’t think Oxford is only full of backward-thinking old-money wankers. I think it was once, but things are changing.”

“You really think that?” asks James, raising his eyebrows. “Even with a big-arse statue of an enslaver to greet you on the front quad? Did you arrive in time to see the protestors?”

I nod.

“Didn’t you just think you’d be better off standing with them rather than sitting in a JCR with a load of toffs and Danielle talking about inclusion?”

“I’m not one to stand a protest,” I admit. “But I believe in debate. And I believe in change. I believe that when we acknowledge the past, we can find a way forward. I believe that’s what Professor Bernard is trying to do here. And I want to be a part of it.”

“Even though you didn’t make the cut for her precious pet project?” says James, looking genuinely curious. “Does Lily get your back up? The access scheme supergirl? The perfect smile. The perfect figure. The perfect ringlet hair—coily not curly. The fact she’s mixed is even better. She’s the epitome of the hot Black—but not too dark—girl. Ready to shine and stick on the posters—show it was a success. It’s all bullshit, don’t you see that?”

“Are you deliberately using an example of the hypersexualization of Black girls and colorism? I can’t tell. Because that’s not cool.”

“I utterly agree, it’s not cool. But isn’t that what Beecham is doing? I mean, they picked a girl for the access scheme who spent five years in private school and switched, over you. Clearly you’re both intelligent, so what other reason is there? They went on the hunt for the perfect aesthetic to make the access scheme look sexy and Lily inevitably wins a place to study at Beecham.”

“Or maybe you’re just shit-stirring, trying to pit the two Black girls against each other,” I say, standing up.

“Ah, Evie, I knew you couldn’t keep away.” My reaction to James has caught Seb’s attention. “You’re just in time to hear George’s dare.”

“It’s Eva.”

George sighs. “What’s the dare?”

Seb puts his hand on his chin and riles everyone up to do a drumroll. Then he holds his hand up for silence.

“I dare you to jump off the roof of the college cloisters onto the Glanville statue … blindfolded.”

“No,” says George, walking over to us. “Stop being a prick.”

“Stop being a pussy,” says Seb, and the other Reapers laugh.

George takes my hand and turns his back to leave, just as Tessa returns from the bathroom.

“That’s right, run away,” coos Seb. “It’s in your DNA.”

George glares at Seb. He lets go of my hand and his fists are clenched so tight his knuckles are ghostly white.

“Fine.”

“George, you can’t be serious,” I say, my heart beating fast. “It’s suicide.”

Alexander shrugs. “What’s the big deal? Beecham students make that jump all the time.”

“Blindfolded?”

“Well, maybe not, but who cares? I mean, it’s just a dare,” says Maximilian, laughing.

“It’s stupid peer pressure, that’s what it is,” I say.

“Can’t argue with that,” James says with a sigh. “Peer pressure is my middle name. Along with R2-D2. Yep. Star Wars stan right here.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean any harm.” Seb smirks. “If it’s too much for you, Georgie, maybe your girlfriend would—”

“I’ll do it,” says George through gritted teeth.

“George, you don’t have to—”

“Just go, Eva,” he snaps.

“But—”

“I said GO!”

“Fine! You idiot!” I cry. “Do your stupid dare. Go ahead and die.”

“Err … what’s going on here?” asks Danielle, appearing at the entrance of the bar, looking concerned.

For once Seb stays silent.

“Look, I want this interview week to feel as relaxed as possible, and I’m not your babysitter, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you don’t come to the bar. I know, I know. Most of you are already eighteen and can legally drink, but some of you are still underage.” Danielle’s eyes linger on me and Tessa. “So, please, feel free to use the JCR as much as you like, but stay away from the bar and wine cellar, OK?”

You don’t need to tell me twice.

I push past Danielle. I want to get as far away from George as possible. We’ve been at Beecham five minutes and already I feel like I barely know him. First keeping that he’s an ex-Reaper from me, and now getting sucked into moronic dares. He’s not the guy I fell for. Maybe he never existed at all.

CHAPTER 8
DECEMBER 6

It’s my worst nightmare. Waking up in the middle of the night on the day of my Oxford interview—the biggest day of my life.

I’d fallen asleep listening to music on my phone and now it’s dead. I tap my smartwatch: 4:30 a.m. Great. All I needed was a good night’s sleep. So much for the calming mantras I did. I roll over and feel a spring from the mattress dig into my side. I close my eyes tightly, as if that will magically propel me into a stage-five REM cycle. But nothing can calm the thoughts in my head.

Will they give me a poetry extract or prose?

Will they mix it up and give me both?

What if I analyze it wrong?

What if I quote the wrong writer?

What if I have an existential crisis at 4:30 a.m. and can’t remember my own name by breakfast?

“Flipping pointless!” I groan to myself, kicking off the duvet and turning on the bedside lamp. There is absolutely no chance I’m going to get back to sleep now.

I may as well look over my notes.

I fill the mini tea-for-one-sized kettle up with water from the sink in the en suite and wait for it to boil, warming my hands on the steam. I make a hot chocolate from one of the sachets I brought from home. Hot chocolate is my revision lifeline. It’s what gets me through the late-night essay writing.

I sit down at the small desk on the other side of the room and flick through my meticulous color-coordinated handwritten notes. I’ve outlined model answers to every former English candidate interview question I could find online, though not fully fleshed-out answers. Otherwise, you lose the air of spontaneity you need in a linguistic debate.

My eyes are glazing over. Not from tiredness but from a lack of concentration. It’s different trying to prep in an Oxford student room than in my bedroom at home. Here, I can smell the varnish of the solid wood table and university life feels real. It makes me want to get in even more, and the pressure is scrambling my brain.

Maybe I should go for a run instead? It’s something I started doing when George transferred to my school. We became friends and academic rivals from the moment we met, and we didn’t find ourselves trying to outdo each other just in class but at home too. Even the half-hour journey home from school became a race. I’d get the bus, he’d run. The bus took forever through the traffic sometimes, and he’d be all smug whenever he beat me.

George loves running and I’d decided to give it a go—especially after he’d said I’d never match his stamina because I’m a girl. George had been joking, but still, I wasn’t having that. We started meeting at 7 a.m. before school to go running, and we’d debate everything from the works of Greek philosophers and poetry to the pros and cons of university fees.

Now I’m addicted to running. It calms me, focuses me, and gives me a chance to clear my head from the books.

Dad wasn’t too happy about it at first, convinced George just wanted to get under my skirt. George managed to get him on board, though, especially after he went to Sports Direct and bought us two matching hi-vis jackets with fluorescent strips on the arms and back. Even so, Dad is still icy toward George, and I don’t get why. George thinks it’s just overprotective-dad stuff, but my gut says there’s more to it. Dad’s protective, but he’s also reasonable. Well, most of the time.

I shudder at the thought of George. I hate how we left things in the college bar. We’ve never blown up at each other like that before.

Gah! Now I definitely need to go for a run to blow off steam. I am a badass English undergrad candidate and I refuse to go into my interviews worrying about a fight with a boy. Don’t let anything come between you and your dreams, that’s what Mum would say.

I twiddle my ring around my index finger.

I know you’re here with me, Mum.

I’m doing it for both of us, and nothing is going to stop me.

I know what Dad would say, though—don’t go out alone, especially in the early hours. But technically I’m not going out. I’m staying within the college walls and Beecham is home. At least for the next few days. Besides, a short, crisp run around the college will get my head back in the game.

I put on my running gear, trainers, and hi-vis jacket and head for the door. It’s annoying that I can’t take my phone and listen to music. But I guess I don’t really need it—I’m only going to do a quick run. Maybe the silence will be good for me anyway.

“Shit.” I wedge my foot in the door just in time. I almost forgot my key card to get back into the building. That would have been a disaster, having to go to the porters’ lodge to be helped back into my stairwell. I close the door quietly so I don’t disturb anyone else and head downstairs.

I step out onto the back quad and instantly shiver. The college is almost pitch black with hardly any lights on the college walls to guide me. I can’t even use the light on my phone. I stub my toe on the uneven stone slabs outside my stairwell. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Huge shadows of the gargoyles that line the college are hugging the path and buildings, creating eerie-looking shapes on the walls. I spy some hidden alleyways leading off the cloisters I hadn’t noticed earlier and I’m suddenly very aware of how easy it would be for someone to watch me from the shadows.

I pick up the pace to make it to the front quad, which I know will have decent light from the old-fashioned lampposts that surround the well-cut quadrants of grass. Maybe I’ll just do a few laps and head back to my room.

I reach the quad and my instincts tell me to stop.

Something isn’t right.

It’s too quiet.

There are no birds, no rustling leaves. No wind. It’s like a time trap. It feels like I’ve stepped into a black-and-white film noir.

Then I see it, in the shadows along the roof—there’s a gap. Almost as though there is a missing gargoyle. It’s odd. The pattern has been disturbed.

My stomach tightens and goose bumps cover my arms. I don’t know what it is, but my gut is telling me something is up. My dad has been training me to think like a detective since I was two. Lesson one: always trust your instincts. I should go back to my room.

My mind is screaming fight or flight. But I take a step forward. My eyes fix on Glanville’s statue. There’s something on the other side of it. Is it a person? A deer? Magdalen College has a deer park …

I realize I am still edging closer, as if on autopilot. Like I’m playing that childhood game of Mr. Wolf. Creeping up to the wolf, undetected, because if he catches you, he’ll eat you.

My breath catches in my throat.

It looks like … It can’t be …

A body?!

I should run. Scream. But my legs carry me forward. Even in the dark, the outline looks familiar, the loose curls. I gasp.

“George?!”

I race up to the statue. I skid, slipping in something. I look down and realize it’s a pool of blood.

George’s hand is outstretched but he’s not moving. I bend down and try to find a pulse, but his wrist is ice-cold.

“HEEEELLLLLLLLP!” I scream, but in my heart I already know it’s too late.

He’s gone, his eyes vacant, cold, and aimless.

Footsteps thud up the quad path, echoing the sound of my own frightened heartbeat. A porter, I think.

I try to stand to signal to him. I lift up my foot. My trainer is red. I’ve made bloody footprints around George’s body. I look up and see Steve, the porter, almost upon us. He’s got his phone to his ear; he must have called 999.

My heart is pounding.

BA-DUM, BA-DUM, BA-DUM.

I can’t think straight.

The porter’s putting his hood up. It’s started to rain. His mouth is moving. He’s yelling at me. Waving frantically, directing me, ordering me to do something.

But I can’t move.

I can’t think.

All I can hear is the sound of my own voice, muttering.

This is my worst nightmare.

That had been my first thought when I woke up at 4:30 a.m.

How wrong I had been.

BA-DUM, BA-DUM, BA-DUM.

I’m bent over.

I’m retching.

I think I’ve been sick.

Insomnia was not my worst nightmare at all.

This. This is my worst nightmare.

This is not the Oxford of the admissions brochure.

What do you do when your hands are covered in the blood of someone you adore?

Adored. Past tense.

He’s dead.

Time seems to have no meaning. I can’t tell if I’ve been here seconds or minutes. My thoughts are moving faster than I can process them.

My chest feels like it’s been struck by lightning.

My heart feels like it’s beating outside my body.

BA-DUM.

He’s wearing the same outfit he was in when I saw him at dinner.

BA-DUM.

The next three years at Beecham play out in front of me like a movie.

George and me. Together. Together, together.

That future: taken.

Stolen.

BA-DUM.

This isn’t how things were supposed to be.

BA-DUM.

My best friend, dead.

BA-DUM.

Blue lights. The police.

“Over here!” I call.

“Stay back, miss,” says the porter.

He tries to pull me away.

BA-DUM, BA-DUM.

My chest is tight.

Did the lights go dark?

BA-DUM, BA-DUM, BA-DUM, BA-DUM, BA-DUM.

I can’t focus.

Someone’s grabbed me.

Who?

Where am I?

CHAPTER 9
DECEMBER 6

6:37 a.m. I watch the second hand on the cheap white clock, hanging on the police station wall, move from number to number with a faint tick as it goes around and around.

But time is standing still for me.

I’ve been in rooms like this a million times before, waiting for my dad after school. I’ve rocked back and forth on hard plastic chairs just like this one, time and time again.

But this morning is different.

I’m not on my phone.

I haven’t got my head in a book.

Or music blaring through my headphones.

I’m not in my school uniform or my favorite jeans.

This time I’m wearing a standard-issue gray tracksuit. I’ve seen this same outfit worn a thousand times before but by other people. These are the unidentifiable, inoffensive, generic “spare clothes” offered to people who come into the station with nothing to change into.

I don’t know where my clothes are. Probably packaged away in an evidence bag. I hadn’t realized until I was helped into the back of the police car that my jogging bottoms were soaked in George’s blood. It must have happened when I’d knelt down in a pointless, desperate attempt to find his pulse. I’d never seen a pool of blood like that before. I’d never seen a dead body before.

The first thing I’d done when I got to the station was wash my hands. I’d just stared as the water turned red with George’s blood. I scrubbed and scrubbed at my ring.

There’s a solemn atmosphere here, more solemn than you’d expect for the early morning of a city police station. No rowdy drunks or domestics. They’ve either moved them elsewhere or it’s been a quiet night. Except for the unexplained death of my best friend.

The chatter behind the entry desk is hushed whispers. Everything needs to be triple-checked and processed when a death is involved.

“Still unaccounted for…” says one of the officers.

What’s unaccounted for? I wonder. I only catch snippets of the conversation. I can’t focus. My mind keeps wandering.

I have an itchy thermal blanket draped over my shoulders and I’m holding a paper cup of what had been a hot chocolate, but it’s now cold and congealed. They’d wanted me to drink it to get some sugar into me, so I didn’t go into shock.

Being a detective’s daughter means I’ve been behind the scenes often enough, but I’ve never seen anything like this. Now I know there are some things that simply cannot be unseen. Horrors that will never leave you. The moment I saw George, I knew that image would be etched into my mind for the rest of my life.

I just keep hearing my own voice in my head, saying those God-awful words. The last thing I ever said to George.

Fine! You idiot! Do your stupid dare. Go ahead and die.

I didn’t think he’d really do it.

I didn’t mean it!

I feel like I’m going to vomit again. But there’s nothing left in my stomach.

I am completely empty.

Hollow.

Alone.

“Miss Dawkins? Eva? Eva?”

I look up from my paper cup of cold hot chocolate. It’s the same officer who helped me into the police car earlier. Constable Perry. “Your father is on the line.”

I almost spill the drink all over her as I reach to grab the phone.

“Dad!” I say, never so desperate to speak to him in my life.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Everything hurts. My stomach, my head. My heart.

“Dad, it’s all my fault,” I sob. “George is dead and it’s all my fault.”

“Eva, it looks like George fell,” Dad says softly. “It wasn’t your fault. I’ve already spoken to Detective Crawford. I’m on my way to—”

“Crawford…” I say, cutting Dad off. “Why does that sound familiar? Do we know her? Is she the detective on the investigation? Oh, I think she’s here,” I say, as another woman approaches me.

“Listen to me, Eva; don’t talk to them until I get there,” he says.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“I’m on a crime scene in Camden…” he says almost reluctantly, and my heart sinks even further.

“For your case?”

“Yeah.”

“Another murder?”

“Yes, but I’m coming to take you home.”

“No, don’t,” I say. “It’s OK. I’m OK. Come when you’re done. I’ll go back to college.”

“Surely you’d rather be at home?”

“No. This is where George and I are supposed to be. I mean me,” I say, my throat closing as I realize I’m talking about him like he’s still here. “If I go home now,” I say, sniveling, “it will be like admitting he’s gone, and I can’t deal with that yet.”

“Well, I’m still coming. I should be with you,” he says.

“Dad, you’re the inspector. They need you. You can’t come,” I say, biting back the tears. “I get it.”

“But Eva—”

“It’s OK, Dad,” I say. “I need to tell them about the dare.”

“What dare?”

“Hello, Eva,” says the second officer with a smile that seems strangely familiar.

“I need to go,” I say to Dad.

“Wait! Eva, what dare? Don’t say anything until I’m—”

I hang up.

“Do you want to follow us?” asks the woman.

I bite my lip. Dad said I shouldn’t, but they need to know how it happened. Why it happened.

“It’s my fault,” I blurt out. “I knew what he was going to do, and I didn’t stop him.”

Constable Perry rests her hand on my shoulder. “You’ve had quite the morning, haven’t you? I’m sure you just want to get out of here. Don’t worry, we won’t keep you long. We’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

“Am I under arrest?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“No,” says the other officer, who is clearly more senior. “But we’d like to ask you some questions as a significant witness.”

I follow them out of the waiting area and around a corner. They lead me into an interview room. I take a seat at a small table, the two officers sitting opposite me. A little red light on the front of a video camera flashes.

I’m on the record.

“This is Constable Perry, who you’ve already met, and my name is—”

“Detective Crawford,” I say, the penny dropping.

She pauses.

“You’re James’s mum.”

“I am.”

“I’m Inspector Dawkins’s daughter.”

“I know,” she says. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions.”

The image of George’s bloodstained body flashes before my eyes again.

Fine! You idiot! Do your stupid dare. Go ahead and die.

I put my hands on my head.

“How did this happen?” I ask myself out loud. “This can’t be real.”

“We’re so sorry for your loss, Eva. We understand you and George were very close. If you’d rather do this a bit later today, we can—”

“Yes, please,” I say, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. “Are you keeping my clothes? For evidence?”

“No,” says Detective Crawford. “That’s only required in the case of a suspicious death. In cases of unexplained death—”

“It’s not unexplained. I can explain,” I say, before letting out a sob.

“Sorry, that is an unclear term. It’s called ‘unexplained’ until we have the autopsy to confirm the exact cause of death. We know that George fell and hit the Glanville statue.”

“He didn’t fall; he jumped,” I say, looking up at Detective Crawford. “From the roof of the cloisters. It was a dare. Seb. Seb Reaper. Eldridge. Seb is interviewing at Beecham this week like us. Me. Seb dared George to jump onto the Glanville statue blindfolded.”

Detective Crawford nods, not looking the least bit surprised by what I’ve said. Like she already knew. “We found the blindfold by George’s body.”

“You did? I didn’t see it,” I say. “And how did you know about the dare?”

“You were in quite a state of shock when we arrived, Eva; it’s not surprising you didn’t notice the details,” she says, avoiding answering my question.

“Did you see George jump?” asks Constable Perry.

“No. Is there any CCTV?” I ask.

“No, only by the porters’ lodge and the library,” she says softly. “I know this must be hard to talk about, but anything you can tell us would really help. Did you see what happened?”

“No,” I say.

I wonder if it would be better if I had. If I’d been there sooner, maybe I could have called out. Stopped him.

“I found him when I was out running.”

How much sooner would I have needed to go for the run? Five minutes? Twenty minutes? An hour?

“So George was already dead when you arrived?”

“Yes,” I stutter, the bluntness of Constable Perry’s question startling me.

“There’s no need to look nervous, Eva,” says Detective Crawford. “We’re just trying to get a clear timeline of what happened.”

“Are you going to interview Seb as a significant witness too?” I ask. “He’s the one who can tell you exactly what happened. He’s the one who dared George. He did this.”

Detective Crawford looks at me with a pity-riddled smile. “It’s natural to want someone to blame.”

“I know that,” I snap, tears turning to anger. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell…” Here come the tears again. “I know George was responsible for his own actions. But I … I should have done something. I could have stopped this. And Seb shouldn’t have pressured him. I think he was sending him notes as well.”

“Notes?”

“Yeah. Mind games, I think. They went to Reapington together. Did you know that?”

“We will be speaking to other people who saw George last night,” says Detective Crawford. “In the meantime, is there anything more you can tell us? What else did you see?”

I shrug. “The same as you, probably,” I say. My mind flashes back to the moment the police arrived on the scene.

But it’s all a bit hazy.

I think I’d marched up to Constable Perry, tried to talk to her, but she’d told her colleague to deal with me as she’d approached George’s body. Only she wasn’t looking at George, she was looking up—at the Glanville statue. I’d been so focused on George I hadn’t looked at it properly. But the quad path was dimly lit by the ground lights, just enough to see what I’d initially missed.

The statue had been defaced.

Not the ordinary student pranks with tinsel or a nightcap.

Someone had painted murderer on it in big wobbly red letters, and George’s dead body was directly beneath it.

Then I’d blacked out.

“Thank you, Eva,” says Detective Crawford, turning off the video camera. “We may need to ask you some more questions in the future, but that will do for now.”

“What happens next?” I ask.

“Well, I understand you told your dad to stay on his crime scene and you wanted to go back to college. But are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

I’m not sure.

I want to be home, in my own bed, surrounded by all my things. Where the only noise that bothers me is the sound of the neighbors thumping down the stairs at six o’clock in the morning to go to work. Where the sirens are always in the distance, but never to do with me.

But I can’t go back.

I don’t want to leave interview week. Nothing could have stopped me from finishing interview week except the end of the world.

And I don’t want to admit it’s the end of the world. Not just yet.

“I’m sure,” I say quietly, still trying to convince myself.

“It might be very hard,” says Constable Perry, “revisiting where it happened.”

She’s right.

But I don’t want to leave.

“I’m not ready to leave. I want to see interview week through,” I say. “I need to.”

The women share a concerned look and I grit my teeth. They’re judging me. But they don’t understand.

“My mum’s dying wish was that I follow my dream to study here,” I say, succumbing to the unnecessary need to justify myself. “Interviewing at Beecham was all George and I wanted. He’d kill me if I messed up this chance.”

Kill me.

I almost choke on my own choice of words.

“OK, it’s settled, then,” says Detective Crawford.

“So what happens now?” I sniff.

“Constable Perry will drive you back to Beecham,” says Detective Crawford.

Practical.

But that wasn’t my question.

I meant, what the hell happens now?

CHAPTER 10
DECEMBER 6

My heart aches so much it hurts to breathe. I thought coming back to Beecham was what I wanted, but walking past that statue nearly killed me.

It killed George.

That fucking statue.

That stupid fucking dare.

My legs feel like they are turning to stone as I force myself to half walk, half crawl up the stairwell to my room.

My room.

It’s not really my room. It’s a Beecham student room. It might have been George’s room one day.

Now it won’t be.

And it probably won’t ever be mine either.

How could I ever live here now?

Why am I even still here?

Just at the point of collapse, I see Lily sitting on the top step of the stairs outside my room, hugging her knees. Her eyes are big and puffy.

“Oh, Eva,” she says, and throws her arms around me. “I’m so, so, sorry.”

My body stiffens at the touch of a stranger, but then I flop and grab hold of her. I need to hold on to something. To anyone.

“Here, let me help you in.”

I realize my hands are shaking.

Lily takes the key out of my hand. “Let me help you with that. You look like you’re still in shock.” She unlocks the door and lets herself in.

Why is she being so nice to me?

Oh yeah. Because my best friend just died.

Another wave of pain hits me in the face.

George is dead.

He’s really dead.

For a split second I’d forgotten, and now I remember. It hurts all over again and it’s not going to stop. Ever.

“Maybe you should have a shower,” she says. We’re inside now but I don’t remember walking in. “Don’t worry, I’ll wait,” she continues before I can say anything.

Lily is going through my suitcase, handing me some clean clothes. I take them, still not speaking, and go into the little en suite. I close the door and lock it.

Safe.

In my small square box.

Like a vertical coffin.

Tears run down my cheeks as I turn the faucet and the hot water rushes over my body.

I scrub harder and harder, desperate to wipe away the day, to erase this nightmare. I turn the water ice-cold.

WAKE UP!

But I am awake.

And George is dead.

When I finally come out of the bathroom, Lily is still here, sitting on the end of my bed.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Ten a.m.,” she says. “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head. “You didn’t have to wait,” I say, dumping the clothes the policewoman had given me into the laundry basket.

“I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

“I’m not,” I snap.

“I know, I just mean … OK as in…”

“Alive?”

“Do you want a drink? I could make you a—”

“Honestly, Lily, I just want—need—to be alone right now.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

The door knocks.

I mean, there’s a knock at the door.

Everything is backward.

It’s the shock of today’s events. It’s natural instinct. That’s what Dad would say. He sees people go into shock all the time.

I just never thought something so terrible would happen to me. To George. But this is real. George is dead.

“I’ll see who it is,” says Lily, and I realize I haven’t moved to answer the door.

“Eva? Eva? Are you in there? It’s Danielle. I just wanted to see if you were … I wanted to see how … Can I come in? Please?”

Lily opens the door. “Hi.”

“Oh, Lily, I’m glad to see you here with Eva,” says Danielle, her eyes filling with tears. She looks like she’s just had a shower herself. Her hair is flat where it hasn’t fully dried and frizzy where she hasn’t combed it through. “What an awful, awful thing.”

Danielle catches my eye and instantly starts to cry. “I’m sorry. I can only imagine how it must be for you. I’m trying to hold it together but…” She clears her throat. “Are you OK? Not OK, but … OK?”

I nod. I’m too tired to keep explaining.

“I came to tell you that Professor Bernard has called a meeting this afternoon at three thirty.”

Lily’s eyes widen. “Has she canceled interview week?”

Worry lines ripple across Danielle’s forehead. “Not entirely, though I think we should. I’ll let Professor Bernard explain. She’s organized a—Best to let her tell you.”

Another feeling of loss creeps in.

But it isn’t about George. It’s about losing interview week.

I instantly feel sick.

I shouldn’t care about getting into Oxford when George just lost his life.

What kind of self-absorbed monster does that make me?

“You don’t have to come, Eva,” says Danielle.

“I’ll go,” I say, and force my chin up.

Danielle nods. “I’ll leave you girls to it. Call me if you need…” She lets her sentence trail off as she closes the door.

“You really don’t have to,” says Lily. “I can come over after and tell you everything that’s said. Professor Bernard trusts me.”

“I said I’m going,” I snap. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she says softly.

“It’s not that I care about getting into Oxford.” I sniff, tears rolling down my cheeks. “It’s that interview week is the only thing I have left of George.”

“So, let’s talk about interviews, then,” says Lily. “Let me help you.”

I go to protest but Lily is already in full swing.

“Dr. Peters was telling me about how interviews can be structured and, well, it was obvious what structure he prefers. Given how much sway he has in the department, it was so obvious what format the interviews will take.”

Is her idea of help to make shit up?

“There’s no way a professor would tell you that,” I say.

She shrugs. “Dr. Peters is helping me.”

“What do you mean ‘helping’ you?” I ask.

“Well, as you know, Dr. Peters is my mentor.”

“You don’t have to say it like that, you know.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” says Lily sheepishly. “It’s just, I dunno, my dumb way of making sure everyone thinks I belong here.”

“I get it,” I say. “Still fucking annoying, though,” I add and she laughs. I think I would have too, in different circumstances.

“Dr. Peters is just looking out for me because he got to know me so well through the access scheme,” she says.

“The access scheme is about leveling the playing field, making it fair for everyone. Transparent. No advantages,” I say, and I can feel myself getting angry. But it’s not the conversation. It’s George. It’s all these feelings about George.

“Yeah, that’s the whole reason he told me,” Lily says, jabbering on. “So that minority students aren’t disadvantaged. Dr. Peters said Dr. Stedall will ask the English candidates to read and discuss Wordsworth’s poem ‘The Rainbow.’”

Lily’s eyes widen and her face flushes, like she’s just given away a trade secret. “Promise you won’t tell the others.”

A knot forms in my stomach. I’ve never cheated on anything in my life, and I feel a bit tainted somehow, knowing this information that the other interviewees don’t. But then again, maybe they do know. Maybe I am the only one without a mentor leaking information about the interviews before they happen. How would I know?

“What does it matter now anyway?” I sniff. “Interview week is probably canceled and the interview strategy I spent months honing with George was for nothing. George is dead,” I say, tears running down my face.

“You can’t think like that,” says Lily, putting her arm around me. “Come on, we’re supposed to be distracting you, remember? So, tell me, what’s your big interview strategy?”

“George used to come over to mine and we’d plan together. He’d look up the classics professors and I’d look up the English literature fellows here. I did a deep dive. I’ve read everything they’ve written, including their master’s dissertations and doctoral theses. I’ve even found out what their favorite, most obscure works are.”

“Seriously?” asks Lily, looking shocked.

“Yeah, like Professor Bernard did her thesis on orphans in Dickensian literature. I know it’s not the area she’s known for now, but clearly she was interested enough to make it the focus of her master’s, so I’ve analyzed how orphans are portrayed by authors featured in her current research.”

“That’s actually a pretty cool strategy,” Lily says, looking genuinely impressed. “You’re like a literary detective!”

I wince. “Not a good enough detective to figure out George was going to do something stupid. I really didn’t think he’d go through with that dare and now…”

“Eva, listen to me.” Lily puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me square on. “What I’m about to say is going to sound SUPER harsh,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “The thing is, Eva, George is dead.” She says it so matter-of-factly it feels like she’s punched me in the face. “He’s gone. But you’re still here, and from what Danielle said, I don’t think interview week is going to be canceled. I can’t imagine how hard this is for you, and the pain you feel, but you owe it to yourself to see this interview week through. I don’t need to spell it out for you. Girls who look like us don’t get here without a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. George wouldn’t want his death to stop you—”

“How do you know what George would want?” I say, shrugging out of her hold. “You barely knew him and now he’s dead and you’re acting like you can speak for him!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Just go,” I say, opening the door. “Please.”

Lily leaves without another word. I slam the door behind her and drop to my knees.

“WHY?!” I scream.

The tears come heavy. I cry and cry and cry until I literally don’t have any tears and I’m just dry-sobbing next to the side of my bed.

I can’t get up.

I pull the duvet down and over me.

I let the darkness consume me.

I want to die.

I don’t know if I slept for a while. Everything feels like a nightmare. I get to my feet.

One step at a time, I tell myself.

My legs are like jelly. I use the bed to steady myself. I roll onto it and reach to the side table. My phone is still on charge. I unplug it. There are so many missed calls and messages from Dad. I quickly text him.

Eva

Only just checking phone. Call you later.

2:20 p.m.

Then I see it. There’s a voice note from George. He left it last night. When my phone had died.

He must have sent it right before he jumped.

This is the last thing he sent me.

This is the last message he’ll ever send me.

The last time I’ll hear his voice.

My finger trembles as I hit Play.

“Heeeey, listen, listen, like seriously, please just listen, OK? OK? Like, are you listening? You can’t answer. Right. Because your phone’s off. When is your phone ever off? I mean. OK, don’t hang up. Oh snap, you can’t. But listen. Please just listen. I know I’m drunk, but I’m making sense. I am. I’m seeing clearly. I. Am. SOOOOOO. Sorry. I know I was a jerk. I just didn’t want Seb to know that I cared about you. Because Seb hurts the things I care about. I didn’t just go to school with him, OK? My dad is friends with his dad. And just like my dad is a jerk, he’s a jerk. He’s worse than a jerk. He’s dangerous. I only said I’d do that dare so he didn’t dare you instead. It’s dumb. I know it was dumb. You don’t need me to protect you. But I promise you. I’m not going to jump on the statue. It’s suicide. Just like you said. I went to that dumb party to tell Seb to fuck off and jump off it himself. I just couldn’t leave it the way things were between us. I want to make it right. I will. Tomorrow. I’ll come see you first thing. But please, if you listen to this before I see you, know that you were right yet again. Please forgive me. Because I, like, love you, Eva. I, like, really actually fucking love you. I just don’t deserve you. But I promise you, drunk or not drunk, I fucking SWEAR to you I’m not going to do the dare. I swear to you, on my life.”

I play the message again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“I’m not going to do the dare. I swear to you, on my life.”

He didn’t do the dare.

He didn’t jump.

But if he didn’t jump, how did he die?

CHAPTER 11
DECEMBER 6

The rain beats down on my face as I stand by the police tape cordoning off the Glanville statue.

I didn’t think I could stomach it. Standing here. Reliving the moment my hands were stained with his blood.

But I have to face it.

I have to check.

I was so quick to assume George died doing that stupid dare. But what if he didn’t?

What if he was pushed?

But that doesn’t add up.

His body was too far away.

But what if he didn’t fall at all?

What if he was attacked?

“Eva?” Lily walks up next to me, but I don’t say hi. I just keep looking.

She holds up her lavender-colored umbrella to cover me too, but I push it away. She’s blocking my view.

“Eva, what are you doing out here?”

“Looking for evidence,” I say.

“Evidence of what?” she asks.

I keep looking.

“Eva, it’s pretty cold out here, and wet.”

“Was that gargoyle missing yesterday?” I ask, more to myself than her.

“Huh?”

“Up there,” I say, pointing at the roof of the cloisters. “Was that gargoyle missing? I’m pretty sure it was there.”

“I, um, I don’t know, Eva,” says Lily.

Dad would. He took photos.

“We should go,” says Lily, trying to put the umbrella over me again. “Professor Bernard’s meeting is starting soon. If you still want to go.”

I let her lead me away.

There’s nothing else to see here but death.

My mind is spinning.

Why did I just assume George’s death was an accident?

Why didn’t I have more faith in him?

Eva

Hey Dad pls can you send me the photos you took of Beecham when you have a sec?

3:20 p.m.

The Reapers are lurking at the bottom of the stairwell leading to Professor Bernard’s office when Lily and I arrive.

Seb’s got them in fits of laughter. “Then the detective was asking me about the dare, so I told her I didn’t think Georgie had it in him. And if he did do it, he clearly fucked it up!”

“Have you got no fucking respect at all?” I say, clenching my fists. At least Alexander has the decency to look embarrassed.

“What’s going on here?” asks James, coming up behind us.

Before Seb can retort, Professor Bernard appears from the doorway. We all file up the stairs. I follow her into her office, still seething from Seb’s behavior. We all find a place to sit or stand. The rest of the English and classics faculty are already here: Dr. Peters and Dr. Stedall. Danielle is here too. I allow myself a moment to take it all in. Professor Bernard calls it an office, but it’s actually a mini apartment. I think she might live here. There are two heavy oak doors off the main sitting area. One must lead to her bedroom and the other to a private bathroom. The walls of the main room are lined in varnished wood panels. The back wall has freestanding bookcases floor to ceiling and has been arranged like a library, every book categorized and marked with color-coded labels. A quick scan reveals works from the ancient Greeks to modern-day philosophers. The room smells of old books. It’s comforting. There are two plush wide-framed sofas on either side of the room, facing the grand fireplace that looks like it is more for decoration than use. Huge sash windows flood the room with light and the windowsills act as shelves, full of trinkets and awards. Surrounding them are certificates of Professor Bernard’s copious degrees and educational accolades. A large mahogany desk with green leather inlay is over on the far side of the suite. It’s the exact kind of desk you would expect a professor to have, with a lantern-style lamp to one side. Professor Bernard sits behind it while we all wait for the emergency meeting to begin.

“We’ll give Tessa another couple of minutes,” says Professor Bernard. “It would be best to talk to you all at once. We’re also waiting for—Ah, hello, Detective Crawford.”

Detective Crawford strides in, closely followed by Constable Perry. My heart races. I need to tell her about George’s voice note. She looks in my direction and nods. I open my mouth but there’s a knock on the professor’s door.

“Come in,” Professor Bernard says, with a voice that surprises me every time. It’s commanding for someone so slight.

Tessa walks into the room looking bedraggled. Her eyes are red-raw, and it doesn’t look like she’s run a comb through her hair. She comes to stand by Lily and me, and I can smell the alcohol on what are clearly yesterday’s clothes.

I hear a snigger and look over to see the Reapers nudging each other and staring at Tessa. Seb, who had been all over her at dinner yesterday, is clearly avoiding eye contact. Something’s gone down.

In any other circumstances, I would have been the first to ask Tessa if she was OK, but I need to talk to Detective Crawford, and Professor Bernard looks determined to make her big announcement.

“There are no words to convey the deepest regret and sorrow I, and the entire college, feel at the loss of George Danvers. The police believe George fell while jumping from the roof of the cloisters onto the Sir H. C. Glanville statue. It is an unfortunate Beecham tradition—a foolish prank—that I have sadly never been able to stop, despite raising it numerous times alongside my additional arguments for having the offensive statue removed. If anyone has any information on George’s movements the night he died, please come forward. The college counselor is available day and night, and of course the rest of the staff are here to support you in any way we can. Events like this shake us to the very core and we all react differently, so please do look after yourselves and one another.”

Eyes dart around the room. Seb puffs out his chest as if to show he’s unfazed.

“There will be no interviews today or tomorrow,” says Professor Bernard sternly.

“What?” exclaims Seb. “That’s outrageous. It has nothing to do with us!”

“No one will be working in college today, out of respect,” Professor Bernard continues. “Instead, we will be holding a memorial in George’s honor in the chapel at 3 p.m. tomorrow.”

“But interviews will still go ahead this week?” Lily asks.

“Interviews will start the day after tomorrow,” Professor Bernard says. “Danielle will be providing you all with updated timetables. However, if any of you feel unable to interview at this time…” She pauses and rests her gaze on me. I feel my cheeks flush. “That is completely understandable and special arrangements can be made.”

I let out a short gasp.

I can see Seb rolling his eyes in my direction. He doesn’t need to say anything—I know what he’s thinking. The same thing most privileged kids think about access schemes for the underrepresented, and initiatives to boost Black student admissions. They think because these things are there to help level the playing field, we have an advantage. But that’s not true. We were disadvantaged and the playing field is only on its way to becoming level. If I defer my interview week on special grounds, it will be the same in his eyes. An advantage.

I don’t want special treatment.

I want to get in on my own merit.

Or maybe I don’t want to get in at all anymore.

I don’t know what I want.

I have no idea how I feel about Oxford and Beecham right now. My head is fucked.

Maybe Oxford doesn’t matter to me anymore because nothing matters.

But it won’t feel like this forever.

I know that. Deep down I know that, because this is how it was when Mum died. The pain doesn’t go, but it changes.

When Mum died, Dad told me to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. I went to school even when I thought learning was pointless.

I carried on.

I have to carry on now too.

Or try, at least.

I wasn’t ready to hear what Lily had to say earlier. But she was right. Mum and George would want me to keep going.

If I can’t do it for myself, I have to get through interview week for them.

Further questions break out around the room about the new interview schedule. Dr. Peters pulls Lily to one side and when I look around, Tessa has slipped away, leaving me alone. One of the Reapers comes over to me. I can’t remember his name.

“I just wanted to say … sorry for your loss.”

I nod.

“And ignore Seb; he’s a dick.”

I study his expression to see if he’s joking. That was the last thing I expected a Reaper to say.

“Consider yourself the rebel Reaper, do you?”

“Something like that. And I can always tell another rebel when I see one.”

I feel myself smiling and then I feel sick. It happened again. A second when I forgot George was dead.

“I’m Xander, by the way. Not Alexander as Seb likes to call me.”

“Eva.”

“I know. George told me about you.”

Now he has my attention.

“When?” I ask.

“He messaged me a few times, after starting at Crawlingtons with you. He said you were, well, lots of nice things.”

“So you stayed in contact, then,” I say. Maybe Xander can help me unravel the things George never said.

“I never replied to his messages.”

“Why?” I ask.

“It’s complicated.”

“Here’s the new timetable,” Danielle says, holding out a paper copy for Xander.

She’s tied her hair back into a French plait, but she still looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world. From the little I know of her, she must feel so guilty that an interviewee died on her watch.

Danielle hands me my copy and I look down at my new schedule. Normally, I’d be strategizing right now, figuring out the best revision to cram in between interviews, but the same question keeps bubbling to the surface. No matter how hard I’ve worked to get here, no matter what advantages it would give me in the future, and the role model I would be as a Black mixed-race state-schooled student from a single-parent family, the question is: Do I really want to study where my best friend died?

“Are you thinking about pulling out?”

Xander’s question is so near the money I feel my defenses flare.

“No more than you are.”

“Good.” He nods. “George wouldn’t have wanted it.”

“How do you know?” I ask.

Xander looks down at the floor, kicking his left foot with his right. “I knew enough about him to be sure quitting wasn’t in his nature.”

“You’re right.” I sigh. “It wasn’t. He wasn’t one to be picked on either,” I say, giving Xander a piercing stare. He folds his hands defensively and shifts his body weight from one leg to the other. There’s more to this. I can tell.

“Fill me in,” I say. “What don’t I know?”

“Not here,” says Xander, glancing over at Seb and the other Reapers.

I go to protest, but he cuts me off before I can say anything.

“I’ll tell you all I know, but not in front of them. Maybe we can chat at the memorial tomorrow? They won’t want to stick around there for long.”

“What makes you so sure?” I ask.

“Trust me.”

I feel like I’m being watched. Seb is staring at me intently. There’s no hint of condolence in his gaze. No remorse for how he spoke to George in his final hours. So many thoughts are flying through my head.

George said in his voice note that Seb was dangerous. Was there malice behind the dare?

Was it a setup?

Did Seb want George to get hurt?

Could Seb even be responsible?

Dad

here you go …

[Photos downloading…]

3:48 p.m.

I open the photos from Dad. The gargoyle—it’s there! I knew it! The gargoyle by Glanville’s statue wasn’t missing when we arrived at Beecham. This, plus the voice note …

“I was right.”

“About what?” asks Xander.

“Before you all go,” says Professor Bernard, bringing the general chitchat back to an orderly quiet, “I asked Detective Crawford to join us for this meeting to be transparent about what is happening around college.”

“Thank you, Professor,” says Detective Crawford. “You will have seen we have cordoned off much of the front quad around the statue where George Danvers sadly lost his life. This tragic accident—”

“It wasn’t,” I say, before I can stop myself.

Everyone turns to face me.

I stand up straight. “George’s death wasn’t an accident. He was murdered.”

CHAPTER 12
DECEMBER 7

I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, rubbing my forehead; the morning sun seeps through the curtains, casting a weird shadow on the wall like a chessboard. It’s day two of life with no George. I feel hungover even though I haven’t had a drink, but it’s really just the embarrassment of yesterday. What was I thinking telling Detective Crawford in front of everyone that George was murdered? I didn’t even mean it, exactly; it just sort of slipped out as I was trying to process everything. I just know his death wasn’t an accident, and that’s what I was trying to make Detective Crawford understand, but in the end I just looked like a babbling idiot. I cringe as I replay the conversation in my head.

“George’s death wasn’t an accident. He was murdered.”

There had been a collective gasp and then the room had fallen silent, as everyone, including me, took in what I’d said.

Detective Crawford was the first to speak. “At this stage there is no evidence of foul—”

“I have proof!” I’d said, trying to look like more than just a grieving lovesick girl. “I didn’t check my phone until after I got back from the station. George left me a voice note. Please, listen.”

I’d played them the recording. That’s when Seb had started to snigger.

I’d tried to defend myself and make them listen to how George was clearly stating he wouldn’t jump, but all they seemed to hear was his declaration of love. My face had gotton hot—I just wanted them to see the truth but they couldn’t!

“Eva, this is helpful evidence,” Detective Crawford had said, and for a moment I’d relaxed, thinking she believed me. “It confirms, as we suspected, that George had been drinking before he fell. We’ve spoken to several students regarding the dare and—”

“You’re wrong! George was smart, careful. There’s no way he jumped. Or fell. And more than that, George would never break his word to me.” I’d started to cry and, well, that might as well have been case closed in Detective Crawford’s eyes. I’d completely undermined myself.

By the time I brought up Dad’s photos of the missing gargoyle, Professor Bernard was having to shush the Reapers, who were acting like they were at a comedy club.

I know I don’t have any hard evidence—it’s more of a hunch. But the police should have taken George’s words in the voice note more seriously. Drunk or not, he said he had no intention of jumping. I’m certain George didn’t do that dare. So, he can’t have jumped or fallen from the roof of the cloisters. And if he didn’t fall, then foul play can’t be ruled out. He could have been pushed, in a fight maybe. It could have been manslaughter. Or it could have been murder.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Eva? It’s Lily. Can I come in?”

I let her in and she sits at the seat by my desk, twiddling her hair and avoiding eye contact.

“So yesterday’s meeting was intense to say the least,” she says, biting her lip. “I’m sorry about what happened after … y’know, the whole police-not-believing-you-about-the-voice-note thing. And, like, the Reapers laughing and … yeah.”

“Forget it. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“That’s good!” says Lily, perking up. “I mean, not that the police didn’t believe you, but good that you don’t care what people think because—” Lily sighs. “You need to see this,” she says, holding out her phone. “Just don’t shoot the messenger, OK?”

I take the phone and perch on the edge of my desk next to her. Messages are popping up all over the screen.

It’s that OxS app Danielle told me about.

“Gossip’s not really my thing,” I say, handing back her phone.

“I know,” says Lily gravely. “But it’s about you.” She passes her phone back to me. “Swipe right to see the latest video,” she says.

I swipe and instantly regret it.

Slayer 14283: This is getting me my first BAFTA. Check it out …

Dec. 7, 6:01 a.m.|500+ views, 368 likes

Bile rises in my throat. It’s a video of me. Walking past George’s dead body, blood dripping down my hand as I follow a police officer to their car.

“Who the hell took this?”

Lily shrugs. “Slayer 14283. I dunno. It’s anonymous, remember? But a Beecham student must have heard you screaming and snuck down to the quad.”

“And stayed out of sight of the police,” I say.

I lob Lily back her phone and quickly turn on notifications on my own. I need to know everything.

I scroll through the messages that have been posted within the past forty-eight hours.

Slayer 11048: It’s the 9th week of Michaelmas term and interview week is upon us! Dreams will be made, but more will be crushed. Will a Town become a Gown?

Dec. 5, 9:28 a.m.|150+ views, 121 likes

There are at least fifty messages about all the interviewees turning up at different colleges. Students giving advice and sharing their interview week experiences. But I don’t care about any of that. I filter my feed to only show posts relating to Beecham.

Slayer 27655: The lambs have arrived for the slaughter! Better teach them the Glanville tradition!

Dec. 5, 2:20 p.m.|300+ views, 202 likes

Reply: Slayer 28245: Time to separate the sheep from the wolves

Dec. 5, 2:22 p.m.|200+ views, 58 likes

Slayer 27655: Hey Beecham peeps—anyone else think the Reapers are being overly dramatic?

Dec. 5, 9:22 p.m.|250+ views, 66 likes

Reply: Slayer 17644: Just another jealous wannabe, are you? Hiding behind an anonymous message.

LOSER

Or … traitor?

Dec. 5, 9:28 p.m.|150+ views, 54 likes

Another Ephialtes reference. There’s something I can’t shake. I pin the message so I can come back to it later. Then I swipe through the feed until I reach a flurry of posts time-stamped around 5 a.m. I gulp and my throat feels dry. This is when the news about George broke on OxS.

Slayer 17667: WTF is going on at Beecham?

Dec. 6, 5:20 a.m.|650+ views, 22 likes

Reply: Slayer 20145: Someone died. No joke.

Dec. 6, 5:31 a.m.|600+ views, 7 likes

Reply: Slayer 17644: WTF??? Who?

Dec. 6, 5:32 a.m.|500+ views, 4 likes

Slayer Admin: It is with great sadness we confirm from multiple sources that George Danvers, a classics interviewee at Beecham College, has died. We have no more details. Please keep your comments respectful. Thank you.

Dec. 6, 5:50 a.m.|700+ views, 128 likes

Slayer 28245: So many posts I can’t keep up! But any actual facts?! Does anyone know who the girl in the photo is?

Dec. 6, 6:22 a.m.|450+ views, 269 likes

I gasp as my finger freezes over a photo uploaded from the early hours of yesterday morning.

The outline is half-masked by Glanville’s statue and it’s taken from behind. But the braids tied up in a high bun and hi-vis jacket leave no room for misidentification.

It’s me.

My head is pounding. It feels like the walls of the room are closing in on me. There are more photos. The same user has posted another blurry photograph of me. This one was taken a little later. You can’t see my face, but you can see George’s blood smeared over my jogging bottoms as I duck to get into the police car. Slayer 27655 added a comment below the photo: Case closed??

The blood in my veins freezes as I scroll past all the comments under the photo.

They’re accusing ME?!

I throw my phone down on the bed in disgust.

I shouldn’t read this shit.

It’s all nonsense.

But what if it’s not?

What if someone saw something?

Even if they don’t realize it could be evidence.

I pick my phone back up and unlock it.

I might not want to look, but I need to.

I skim-read, cutting through all the noise.

It’s mainly messages of disbelief that George died, asking if it’s all a big prank.

How I wish it were.

How I wish it were just the Reapers trying to throw us all off our game for the interviews.

Slayer 27655: Time to play … GUESS WHO!

Definitely female. Definitely not a current student. Must be an English lit or classics interviewee.

Dec. 6, 10:19 a.m.|500+ views, 220 likes

Slayer 28245: Killing off the competition????

Dec. 6, 10:19 a.m.|450+ views, 33 likes

Slayer 17644: Taking Oxford blood to a whole new level!

Dec. 6, 10:19 a.m.|450+ views, 89 likes

Slayer 11048: Apparently only three female interviewees for English lit. Shouldn’t be hard to figure it out …

Dec. 6, 10:20 a.m.|450+ views, 189 likes

Slayer Admin: The police have released a statement confirming that George Danvers’s death is “not suspicious.” They are calling for any witnesses to come forward. As before, please keep your comments respectful.

Dec. 6, 12:01 p.m.|1,200+ views, 652 likes

Slayer 17644: Girl in photo confirmed: Eva Dawkins! English literature interviewee. Same state school as George! Apparently she just had a meltdown in Prof Bernie’s office claiming George was murdered.

Dec. 6, 4:21 p.m.|600+ views, 347 likes

Reply: Slayer 28245: Well she should know!

Dec. 6, 4:22 p.m.|600+ views, 7 likes

“It’s no big deal,” says Lily.

“NO BIG DEAL!” I throw my phone down again.

“You need to ignore it,” says Lily.

“If I need to ignore it, then why did you show me?” I glower.

“Because I thought you should know what was going on behind your back,” says Lily. “Because I’ve got your back. If I shouldn’t have shown you, I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“No, thanks, I appreciate it,” I say, softening. “I just can’t believe how small-minded some of these people are. Just look how quickly they’ve created a farcical narrative around me!”

“It’s just the minority. Most of the students are sending messages of condolence.”

But the comments of one or two can still break you, I think to myself.

“How am I going to do this, Lily?”

“Start with breakfast,” she says. “Come on, I know you didn’t eat yesterday. You’ve got to eat.”

I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”

Lily’s reluctant to leave, but once I persuade her I can be left on my own, I force myself to get some fresh air. After a while, I realize my legs have stopped outside one of the old building offices.

I stare at the sign: COUNSELOR

I don’t know if I’m ready to talk yet.

I watch as my hand rises. It forms a loose fist and knocks. It’s me, but it’s not me. Like I’m only half here.

The door opens. A woman who appears to be in her late fifties, wearing a floral yellow blouse and black trousers, smiles at me. She reminds me of my nana. She has the same smell of cocoa butter but this woman’s hair is much longer. Her locks are tied up into a large bun.

“Hello,” she says.

My mouth doesn’t seem to be working.

I watch the woman’s cheeks sag as her beaming smile gives way to a concerned frown. “Are you OK, love? My name’s Malorie. It looks like you’ve come to the right place. Would you like to come in?”

I don’t say anything, just step inside. It has that “counselor” vibe. There’s a selection of artwork on the walls. Abstract. Warm colors. There’s a snake plant on the windowsill. I take a seat, and notice a box of tissues on the small glass coffee table between her armchair and mine.

It feels familiar because I’ve sat in rooms like these and poured my heart out about Mum for the last five years. I’ve shared my fears about not living up to her expectations, my even bigger fear that I will live up to her expectations but I’ll feel empty because she’s not there to share them with me, and my biggest fear—that nothing matters without her. And here I am again.

But not about Mum.

About George.

The boy I love. Loved.

The boy who helped me reach my dream of getting to Beecham and now isn’t here to share it with me.

Just like Mum.

Everyone leaves.

Malorie waits for me to start talking. And once I start, I can’t stop. I tell her about George and our fight in the college bar. About the dare and Seb. How I couldn’t sleep. How I found George. The voice note. How I’m the only witness and there’s nothing more to go on.

“How does that make you feel, Eva?”

“Alone,” I reply.

She stays silent. Waiting for me. It’s not for her to tell me how to feel or to try to change it.

“Why did you come to see me today?”

“Because I can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I know George is dead but the police say he jumped. A dare. An accident. But that doesn’t feel real. It’s not right. He wouldn’t. He didn’t. I played them the voice note. But the police don’t believe me.”

“What makes you think it wasn’t an accident?”

“I know he was drunk, but he said he wouldn’t jump and I believe him.”

“Do you think that wanting it not to be an accident—that thinking it wasn’t—might be your mind’s way of trying to find someone to blame?”

I bite my lip.

“Guess that’s why I’m here,” I say. “I don’t know. I get the psychology. I’ve done cognitive behavioral therapy. I went through all of this when I lost my mum, but this feels different. There’s something in my gut that says this isn’t like that. This really was murder.”

“Our gut is so important. But so is accepting the things we can’t change. You said the police found George’s death to be unsuspicious.”

“They did,” I say.

“How do you feel about the police? Do you trust them?”

“I might be in the minority of Black girls who do, but yes, I trust them. Or at least some of them.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asks.

“My dad’s an inspector. He’s shown me that the police can do good. The force isn’t only full of racism and sexism. He believes the system can change, that we have to trust in the law.”

“And do you?”

“I trust my dad.”

A silence falls between us.

“Acceptance is hard. It takes time. Focus on the things you can control, Eva.”

“I’ll try,” I say, getting to my feet. Suddenly the room feels claustrophobic. I just want to be alone.

“You can come and see me anytime,” she says, also standing.

“Thank you. I just want to be alone. Process, y’know?”

She nods. “Take care. And remember, be kind to yourself.”

I think over Malorie’s words as I walk back to my room.

Trust my gut.

That’s what I’m taking away from what we talked about.

I respect Detective Crawford, a woman who worked her way up the ranks in the police.

But that doesn’t make her infallible.

Detective Crawford thinks it was an accident, but I don’t.

My gut is telling me that George didn’t do that dare.

I glance down at the OxS app on my phone.

Somewhere buried in these rumors could be the truth about what happened to George.

And I’m going to find it.

CHAPTER 13
DECEMBER 7

Slayer 14283: Did a jealous Eva accidentally kill her crush? Apparently they were more than just friends, or maybe he rejected her?

Dec. 7, 2:22 p.m.|600+ views, 74 likes

My body feels like it’s being ripped in half as I agonize about going to the memorial this afternoon. I’ve never felt so torn about something in my life.

I want to see George’s parents.

But not like this.

I want to show everyone sending those awful OxS messages that I’m not guilty.

But I don’t want them to see me cry.

The funeral won’t be for a few weeks, but I want to pay my respects to George.

Except I don’t want to. I don’t want him to be dead.

I don’t want there to be a memorial at all.

How the hell did this happen?

I close my eyes and try to think what George would say to me. I laugh to myself. He’d probably tell me to skip the memorial. You’re focusing on me?! When you should be focusing on prepping for the interviews? I can almost hear his voice, joking but not joking. He really would want me to just move on and forget about him. He’s always selfless. Was always selfless. Maybe that was partly because of how his parents ignored him—I don’t know.

But I’ll never forget George.

And I don’t have a choice.

I mean, what kind of almost-but-never-official girlfriend doesn’t go to their best friend’s memorial?

I put on my shoes and coat. It’s time. I look at the door. I will my legs to move, but they don’t.

I’m stuck.

Mentally and physically.

“Shit,” I say, as silent tears start streaming down my face. I unlock my phone and call Dad.

“Hey, Eva,” he says.

“I can’t do it, Dad,” I sniff.

“Do what?” he asks.

“Go to the memorial,” I cry. “I can’t say goodbye. I’m not ready. I can’t do it on my own.” Someone knocks on my door, but I ignore it. “Sorry, got distracted.”

“Open the door, honey,” says Dad. His voice echoes.

Is he really here? I fling open the door.

“Dad!” I throw my arms around him.

“You don’t have to go alone,” he says. “And it’s OK if you don’t want to go. But if you do, I’ll be by your side.”

I hold him tight. “But what about your case?”

“You come first,” he says firmly. “I’m always here for you.”

I start to cry. That’s what he said after Mum died too. Even though he was falling apart, he stayed strong for me. “We should go.”

“You sure?”

No.

I nod.

I have to do this. For George. And for me. I need to say goodbye.

A crowd has already gathered outside the chapel as Dad and I cross the quad. Denial is a lot harder now that I can see a huge gold-framed photograph of George on a display stand. They’ve chosen his Year 12 school photograph. He’d be so annoyed. He has a crooked smile and a dimple that he said made him look cute not cool, and a spot on his left cheek that came up the day before the photos were taken. His eyes are smiley, though—that’s what I love about this photo. That’s what I loved about him in general. His eyes gave you a warm hug every time he looked at you.

I need a George hug right now. I grip onto Dad’s arm tighter.

“Hello, Eva,” says one of the professors, walking over to me. “I just wanted to offer my condolences.”

I nod, not able to form words. My throat is so dry I dare not try to gulp.

“I’m Chris,” says Dad. “Eva’s father.”

“Dr. Stedall.”

They shake hands and make small talk, but I can’t deal with the normalcy.

I walk over to Tessa. She pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, her eyes red-raw, bloodshot. “George was nice. He was one of the good ones.”

“He was,” I reply.

“I wish I’d told him that, the night he…” Tessa sniffs.

“Did you see him that night?”

Tessa shakes her head. “I just meant … I wish I’d been … I wish I hadn’t been … I just wish I could go back. Y’know? Maybe things could have been different.”

“You mean, George not—” I pause, my mind racing. “Tessa, do you know what happened?”

“No! I was in my room,” Tessa says, her eyes full of tears. Her acne is visible today where she hasn’t put on any makeup. The big black bags under her eyes suggest she hasn’t slept at all.

“I’m sorry. This is all too much.” Tessa turns and rushes across the quad.

I get it. Today is too much for me too.

Dad is still talking to Dr. Stedall, so I head inside the chapel alone. I need a minute.

I let my eyes take in the sight. For an average-sized college, the chapel is huge, rivaling cathedrals across England for its beauty. The stained-glass windows stretch from ankle height all the way up to the rafters. The ceiling, much like the Sistine Chapel, has a mural from the sixteenth century. The frescoes show scenes of angels, mothers and babes, and the gates of heaven opening.

Then I see them. George’s parents. Both are dressed all in black. They haven’t noticed me yet. They’re by a spiral staircase that leads up to the organist’s booth. What should I say to them? Should I wait until after the service? How will they react?

I’ve never met his dad before and I’ve only met his mum once, at parents’ evening. George never wanted me to go to his house. He said his parents were weird but now I wish I knew them better. If the police won’t listen to me, they might listen to George’s parents and properly investigate.

I can’t take my eyes off George’s dad. The resemblance is undeniable. It’s like I’m looking at a middle-aged George and somehow that makes this whole thing even more unbearable—the life George will never get to live. His mum is crying.

“Not here!” George’s dad is talking to someone but not George’s mum. There’s a third person, standing behind the stairs. I move behind a tall stand of prayer candles to keep myself out of view but near enough that I can still hear them.

“We have to talk about it!”

A feverish chill washes over me. These are not the voices of grieving parents. This isn’t denial or anger. There is more to this. It sounds like a heated debate.

I can’t quite make it out. I move closer, tiptoeing so my footsteps aren’t heard on the marble tiles, and keeping to the shadow cast by the organist’s booth on the mezzanine above me. I think the other person must be a man. They’re a good six inches taller than George’s dad. Whoever it is, they’re talking quietly, perhaps trying to calm him. I edge closer. They’re wearing a long velvet gown so they must be a tutor. Then I see their cane, with the head of an eagle on a gold-plated handle. It’s Dr. Peters.

“George’s death was a terrible tragedy, but it was an accident…” says Dr. Peters, “not—”

I knock a hymnbook off the ledge I’m standing beside, and Dr. Peters turns to investigate the noise.

Busted.

He looks straight at me, horror on his face. A cold shiver runs over me. He’s not looking at me like he’s caught me but rather like I’ve caught him. His eyes are filled with guilt and fear. Like he’s worried I overheard something I shouldn’t have.

George’s parents have followed his gaze. I have seconds to compose myself. There’s only one option. I act as though I dropped my memorial booklet on the floor and get to my feet, brush myself off, and determinedly walk over to hug George’s mum.

“Oh, Eva,” she says, bursting into tears. Her long black velvet dress sticks to my clothes, the static itchy on my arms.

“It doesn’t feel real,” I say.

“I know. Did you see him? Did he look like he was in pain?”

But George’s dad is already pulling her away.

“I heard what you were talking about,” I say to them. “I don’t think it was an accident.”

“What? Do you have proof?” George’s mum grips my hand.

“I—”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” says Dad to George’s parents, coming up behind me and putting his hands on my shoulders.

But George’s mum ignores him. “Eva, do you have proof?” she asks again.

“I’ve told the police everything, but they don’t believe me,” I say to her.

“That is because they have found it to be a tragic accident,” interrupts Dr. Peters firmly. “I’m so deeply sorry. This must be so hard for you all. But, Eva, let’s give George’s parents some space.”

I start to protest.

“Yes, I think that would be best,” says Dad. He turns to George’s parents. “I’m sorry to be meeting under these circumstances.”

“What didn’t the police believe?” George’s mum asks me again.

I get my phone out. “He left me a voice note. I just need to switch this back on.”

George’s dad steps between me and George’s mum. “I think it’s best we take our seats.”

“I want to hear it,” says George’s mum.

“It won’t bring him back!” snaps George’s dad. “Forgive me. It’s been…”

“I’ll show you to your seats,” says Dr. Peters.

I want to follow them, but Dad tightens his grip on my shoulders. “Let them go, Eva. Now is not the time.”

George’s mum looks back at me. And the look in her eyes says it all. She doesn’t believe George’s death was an accident.

Dad ushers me toward the pew reserved for the interviewees on the opposite side of the chapel. My fingers clutch my mum’s ring and I push it back and forth on my finger over and over again.

Before I know it, the chapel is crowded and the service begins.

It’s short—an opening hymn, a prayer, a word from Professor Bernard, then one of George’s favorite poems followed by some of George’s favorite music.

I think I sang along to the hymn, but really it was all a blur. I only snap into focus when Professor Bernard walks up to give her talk. She’s wearing a black suit with the yellow-and-green striped Beecham tie. She grips the wooden lectern; she looks nervous.

“I wasn’t fortunate enough to get the chance to know George all that well,” she begins. “But it is clear from all the flowers arriving at college today and the messages online how loved and admired he was. And as far as first impressions go, he certainly made a lasting impression on me. His personal statement stood out as the best I’ve ever received, written entirely in ancient Greek.”

I smile. I remember when George told me he was going to do that.

“Go big or go home,” he’d said.

“But his statement, however moving at the time,” Professor Bernard continues, “feels more pertinent now than ever. So, if I may, I would like to read you a translation of his closing lines. ‘Ancient Greek fascinates me because it remains so influential in our way of life today.’”

I remember sitting at the end of my bed as we wrote our application letters together, making sure we got every word perfect.

“‘However faithful to the original, with each new translation of Homer’s Iliad comes a deeper understanding and meaning, and these interpretations drive forward our modern philosophical and analytical debates. Life is short, but a person’s legacy can last forever.’” Professor Bernard looks directly at George’s parents. “Indeed, I believe George’s legacy will last forever. George’s flair, enthusiasm, humor, and intellect really shone through, and I have no doubt he would have made an excellent student here at Beecham.”

I wipe away another silent tear running down my cheek.

“We will never forget George Percival Danvers Glanville.”

Wait, what?

Did Professor Bernard just say George’s last name was Glanville?

CHAPTER 14
DECEMBER 7

Slayer 17667: Like father like daughter. Could it be Eva just wants to play detective? Turns out George’s “best friend” is the daughter of Inspector Dawkins. Is she using his tragic accidental death as a way to get into the limelight?

Dec. 7, 4:18 p.m.|600+ views, 256 likes

Reply: Slayer 20145: Perhaps she should have applied for forensic science summer school not Eng. lit!

Dec. 7, 4:20 p.m.|500+ views, 87 likes

Reply: Slayer 17644: Playing detective won’t get her into Beecham, that’s for sure.

Dec. 7, 4:22 p.m.|300+ views, 23 likes

I walk along with everyone else as we make our way out of the chapel and into the adjoining cloisters. I can’t believe it! George is a Glanville?

I used to think George and I were alike.

No, scratch that.

George led me to believe we were alike.

But the truth is I didn’t know him at all, especially not that he was a direct descendant of Sir H. C. Glanville. His father studied at Beecham, and his father before him, and his father before him. Oxford had been in his blood for generations. I think back to the conversations I’d had with George about Glanville when we were discussing applying to Oxford.

“I love everything about Beecham apart from its link to that enslaver,” I’d said.

George had nodded. “It’s … unfortunate. But it shouldn’t stop you from studying at the best college for humanities. Glanville’s done enough damage. His legacy shouldn’t hold you back.”

Why did George hide the truth from me? Why didn’t he tell me then? Did he not trust me? Did he think I’d stop being friends with him? Or did he secretly like the wealth and opportunities that came from being a Glanville descendant and didn’t want to admit it? Perhaps even to himself.

I wish I could go back in time and ask him.

“But we can’t change the past.” That’s what George said to me that day.

“No, we can’t,” I’d agreed, “but it matters that it’s acknowledged, and Beecham has been far too slow to get rid of the statue. How am I supposed to feel accepted as a student of color when they still have that in the quad?”

“I know.” George had sighed. “It’s not right.”

Thinking back to that conversation now, my mind is in overdrive, analyzing George’s body language. How he’d shifted in his chair and avoided making eye contact with me. I thought he’d felt uncomfortable talking to me about enslavement and white privilege, but now I realize it was more than that. He was feeling guilty that he was a Glanville descendant. Ashamed of his ancestry.

Did he see me as a project? A path to redemption? Did he think that if he could help a clueless Black state girl like me get into Beecham, he could somehow atone for his ancestors’ mistakes?

“We all have to make our own destiny,” he’d said and taken my hand. “We can go to Beecham together!”

I’d felt so happy in that moment, but now I’m questioning how much of it was real. Surely he knew it would only be a matter of time before I discovered his family secret. Is this why he wanted to wait until after we got into Beecham to make things official? He wanted me to know his heritage before deciding whether or not to be with him.

That would make sense. The one thing out of all this that makes even a shred of sense.

But he could have told me the truth months ago.

He should have!

Instead, I have to find out at his memorial!

What kind of friendship did we have if I didn’t even know his real name?

I’m so pissed he lied to me—I could kill him!

I feel sick the moment the thought enters my head.

And yet I can’t help thinking: Was George killed because of his deadly heritage?

“Hello! I’m one of the interviewees,” says James, walking up to Dad and me. “Not the best timing at a memorial but I wanted to introduce myself to you, Inspector Dawkins. My mum is Detective Crawford.”

I zone out as James fangirls over my dad.

My dad.

The shit-hot detective.

Dad is not naïve.

Dad didn’t like George.

Which makes me wonder …

“You knew, didn’t you?” I say, cutting James off.

“Eva—”

“Just answer me!” I demand, the words echoing through the cloisters. “Did you know George was a Glanville?!” There’s a horrible burnt taste on my tongue, as if just saying those words out loud has scarred me. I hadn’t realized how sick the whole thing made me feel until this moment.

Nearby memorial guests have stopped their conversations to listen. Mr. and Mrs. Danvers are nowhere to be seen. Or, actually, it must be Mr. and Mrs. Glanville? I shudder, suddenly pleased they’re not still here.

I turn back to Dad. “Tell me the truth,” I say.

“Eva, seriously, drop this. Now.” Dad’s voice turns stern, his shoulders tense. He’s looking at something over my shoulder.

Murmurs are wafting through the stone colonnade. In a matter of seconds, the mood of the cloisters has changed from subdued to curious.

“Mum?!” says James.

I turn and see Detective Crawford and Constable Perry are walking toward us. My ribs pinch my heart as my mind flashes back to sitting in the police station hours after finding George covered in blood.

“Don’t say anything,” says Dad.

“Inspector Dawkins, hello,” says Detective Crawford. “I’m sorry for interrupting at this moment, but we need Eva to come down to the station to answer some more questions.”

“It’s George’s memorial; can’t it wait?” asks Dad through gritted teeth.

“I’m afraid not,” says Detective Crawford.

“Why not?” asks Dad.

“Because the autopsy has confirmed that George did not die from a fall. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head.”

“So I was right? Have you found the gargoyle?”

“Eva,” spits Dad.

But I won’t be silenced. He doesn’t get to tell me what to do anymore. Not after he kept George’s identity from me. It can’t be a coincidence that he was killed by that statue.

“Miss Dawkins, we need you to come down to the station.”

Finally they’re going to take me seriously.

“OK.”

“Eva!”

“Is everything OK?” asks Danielle, joining us, along with the peering eyes of some of the other interviewees.

“The police want me to come in for questioning,” I say.

Danielle’s eyes boggle.

“Is that really necessary, right now?” asks Danielle. “Sorry, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but it is George’s memorial and I can vouch for Eva the night it happened.” Danielle darts a glance at me like she’s doing me a favor, but while it’s a nice gesture, we both know it isn’t true. And besides, it’s not as if I’m a suspect—they need my help!

“You were with Eva during the early hours of the sixth of December?” asks Detective Crawford, all of a sudden looking more interested in what Danielle has to say.

“Well … no,” stutters Danielle, “but I saw her earlier that evening and … and … I might not have known Eva all that long, but I know she didn’t do this.”

“We work on evidence, not feelings,” says Detective Crawford. “But we will be in touch if we have any further questions for you.”

Both Dad and Danielle go to protest, but I cut them off. “It’s fine, I’ll go. I’ve got nothing to hide,” I say. “I want to help.”

“All right, let’s go,” says Dad.

“No,” I say firmly. “I don’t want you there.”

“But Eva, I have to be. I’m your father.”

“Then tell me: Did you know George was a Glanville?”

Dad looks over at Detective Crawford and then back at me. His eyes are trying to convey a whole conversation, but I’m not interested. It’s a simple yes-or-no question.

“Yes.”

I turn to Detective Crawford. “Let’s go.”

I keep my head up high, despite students holding up their phones, capturing my every move.

I’m innocent. And now the police are one step closer to figuring out who killed George—and I’m going to help them. I won’t keep secrets.

Secrets kill.

On autopilot, I’ve ended up back in the interview room I was in yesterday morning. The chair as cold and brittle as before. Detective Crawford does the usual spiel about the option of legal representation, but the words drift over me as I try to process what just happened.

George lied. Dad lied. How could I be so blind? I thought George’s family were distant, but not the posh ancestors of an enslaver. George never once gave me the impression his family was wealthy. Had everything he’d told me been a lie?

“Did you know George was a descendant of H. C. Glanville when you were last here?” asks Detective Crawford, handing me a glass of water.

I shake my head and take a sip.

“Not until the memorial,” I say. “Did you?”

“We did,” she says softly. Another person who kept the truth from me. “We weren’t sure if you were aware at the time and it wasn’t our place to disclose it,” she says, reading my mind. “How does it make you feel?”

Numb.

Dumb.

Betrayed.

Tricked.

Tricked into betraying my own people. My dad.

Fooled by my dad.

Stupid.

Angry.

Alone.

Empty.

“What does it matter how it makes me feel?” I ask.

“We’re just trying to get a sense of what your relationship with George was like before he died,” says Constable Perry.

“But I already told you, I didn’t know then,” I say.

“But Seb knew,” says Detective Crawford. “And you told us about the tension between George and Seb. You mentioned a note?”

“Yes, did you find it?” I ask.

“We did,” she says.

“Did you translate it? What did it say?” I ask.

She cocks her head. “It said to rendezvous at the statue at 3:30 a.m. But we didn’t have to translate it. It was written in English.”

“What? That’s not the note I meant,” I say.

“Did you send him that note, Eva?”

“No! I didn’t even know—why would you think that? It was probably Seb, setting a time for the dare. Did you ask him about it? What exactly did Seb say about the dare when you questioned him? Is he under investigation?”

“I’m not going to disclose those details, Eva,” says Detective Crawford.

“Do you often go for a run at five in the morning?” asks Constable Perry, changing the subject.

“No. Didn’t I tell you that last time? Why are you asking again?”

“We’d just like to reconfirm your previous statement. You said you often listen to music while you run?”

“I do. But I wasn’t then.”

“Why not?” she asks.

“I told you, my phone was dead.”

“Which is why you didn’t call 999.”

“The porter did,” I say. I hear Dad’s voice: “Don’t say anything.”

“Is this like a formal interview?” I ask.

“We just want to get a better picture of the timeline,” says Detective Crawford, “to help pinpoint when exactly George died.”

I don’t know how long I’ve been in this interview room, but she keeps asking me more and more ludicrous questions. Was he seeing another girl? Was he your competition? Does knowing George is a descendant of Glanville change your feelings for him? Were you angry?

“Enough!” I gasp. “What the hell is this? I came here to help you and you’re acting like I did it!”

The alarm bells begin to ring as the penny finally drops. Danielle was right earlier.

“Are you actually implying that I killed George? Because he was a Glanville?”

They say nothing.

“Do you have this idea of Black women just going around slaying enslavers’ heirs like some vigilante cult?” I ask, baffled by their lack of awareness in this investigation.

“Is that what happened, Eva?” asks Detective Crawford.

A swirling rage of disgust builds in my chest. “Should you even be on this case anymore?” I ask.

“Pardon?”

“You’re James’s mum; it’s a conflict, surely?”

“James has an alibi for the murder.”

“And I don’t, so I must be guilty?” I ask, dumbfounded.

I shake my head. It seems very convenient that her son has an alibi at 3:30 a.m. in the morning—he’s hardly the type to have scored himself a date.

I can’t believe I’m here, while George’s murderer is out there.

“The assumptions you’ve formed are ridiculous. First that George fell because he was drunk, despite hearing the voice note, and then, when you finally have so much fucking evidence that you have to admit your mistake, you blame the only person who was right from the start. I told you George didn’t jump. I pointed out the missing gargoyle! I played you the voice note! But you’re so clueless you’re ready to fall for the first stereotypes you can find.” I slump back. “Of course the murderer must be the Black girl. It must be a crime of passion. Have you actually done any real investigating?”

I swallow hard as I finish my speech. I’ve never spoken to an officer like that before. Or anyone. But I’m not apologizing. I need her to understand.

“I think I’d like my dad now,” I say, digging my nails into my palms, trying to hold back the tears.

Detective Crawford and Constable Perry leave together.

A few minutes pass and Dad bursts into the interview room, followed swiftly by Detective Crawford and Constable Perry, who looks like she wants to be anywhere but here. Join the club.

“Come on, Eva, we’re leaving,” says Dad.

“You can’t do this.” Detective Crawford glares at Dad.

“Watch me,” says Dad, giving her such attitude I almost smile.

Detective Crawford straightens her shapeless beige suit jacket and puts on a you-don’t-scare-me look. “I appreciate this is a difficult situation for you, but this is my district. You have no authority here. You are a parent.”

“Yes, I am, and sadly for you, I know my rights.” He walks straight past Detective Crawford and helps me out of my seat.

“I’m not finished,” says Detective Crawford.

“Oh, believe me, you are,” says Dad. “But before we go, for the record,” he adds, “while I am a very proud father, I am also an inspector who outranks you. Some professional courtesy wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Oh, I see,” says Detective Crawford. “That’s how you want to play it.”

“I’m not playing anything. This is my daughter’s life.”

“Yes. And I’m investigating the life of George Danvers. Cut short. Murdered. Which your daughter—”

“Had nothing to do with. And she will not be taking part in any more of your voluntary interviews.”

“Inspector Dawkins, your daughter is our prime suspect.”

“Which simply means you haven’t done your job well enough,” says Dad. “Might I suggest you find who actually did this rather than further traumatize my child? You dared to drag Eva in—while she was at a memorial grieving the loss of her boyfriend—with nothing more than circumstantial evidence.”

Detective Crawford gives a blasé shrug. “I followed procedure.”

“Maybe you need to refresh your training,” says Dad, staring her down. “Eva is a minor, whom you brought into the station and questioned unaccompanied by a guardian or legal representative.”

“She was offered both,” says Detective Crawford, and signals for Constable Perry to leave the room. I guess now this conversation is officially off the record. “Who do you think you are, coming in here and talking to me like this?”

“Believe it or not, I’m doing you a favor,” says Dad.

“Oh, really.” She laughs. “Enlighten me.”

“I’m stopping you from a political nightmare.”

“Oh, of course, you’re all about the optics.”

“I’m about justice,” says Dad firmly.

“Well, screw you. I’m just doing my job. Remember? Where we investigate to solve crimes? Or are you too much of a celebrity now to do the actual job, Inspector Nailed It? Just a puppet for head office to shove in front of the cameras whenever the force needs a bit of positive PR. ‘The Black Detective Saves the Day.’”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone you can rile into an argument, but I’m not here to soothe your ego. Come for my daughter again, and you’ll find out exactly how good a detective I am.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Do you have enough evidence to hold Eva or not?” asks Dad.

“No.” Detective Crawford glowers.

“Then we’re leaving,” says Dad, and he takes my hand.

I follow him out of the interview room in a trancelike state.

In the space of a few hours, I’ve seen a whole new side to Dad.

To Detective Crawford.

To George.

Which makes me wonder: Who else has a side to them I’ve completely missed?

A side capable of murder.

CHAPTER 15
DECEMBER 7

Slayer 18181 [new user]: BREAKING! Police just gatecrashed Danvers’s memorial to announce it was MURDER!

Dec. 7, 5:12 p.m.|1,210+ views, 61 likes

Slayer 18181: UPDATE! Suspect in Custody! Guess who …

Dec. 7, 5:20 p.m.|450+ views, 61 likes

Reply: Slayer 27655: Eva!

Dec. 7, 6:12 p.m.|300+ views, 10 likes

Reply: Slayer 21741: The odds of getting into Beecham for English and classics this year are forever in your favor! Lol.

Dec. 7, 6:13 p.m.|200+ views, 4 likes

Slayer 21741: I’m not at Beecham. How many interviewees are actually left for English and classics?????

Dec. 7, 6:12 p.m.|500+ views, 100 likes

Reply: Slayer 20145: Here’s the list:

Eva—English

James—English

Tessa—English

Hugo—English

Maximilian—Classics

Xander—Classics

Seb—Classics

Archie Junior—English & Classics

Lily—English & Classics

Dec. 7, 6:18 p.m.|300+ views, 100 likes

Reply: Slayer 17667: With George dead, another arrested, soon everyone applying to Beecham will get a place! Or maybe that’s the game someone is playing. Kill off the competition! Slay or be slayed, literally!

Dec. 7, 6:20 p.m.|150+ views, 35 likes

Slayer Admin: Can we PLEASE remember how nervous we all felt as interviewees, and that’s without going through this horrific trauma. If these toxic comments continue you will be removed from the forum.

Dec. 7, 7:15 p.m.|2,550+ views, 961 likes

Dad opens the door to his gray Volvo V60 with black-tinted windows. It looks inconspicuous in the bustling streets of London, the perfect unmarked car for an inspector. But here, in the heart of Oxford, where the narrow roads are hugged by Saxon churches and ragstone college walls, it stands out like a sore thumb.

“Are you all right?” Dad asks, getting into the driver’s seat.

I nod. “Glad you’re here. I’m sorry I didn’t let you come with me to the police station. I was angry. Stupid. I should have listened to you.”

Without another word he leans over the hand brake and holds me close.

“Well, you can listen to me now when I tell you I’m taking you home.”

Dad pulls away from the St. Aldates police station and silently drives along the bustling streets of Oxford city center. It’s lined with Christmas decorations—even the bike racks scattered along the streets have tinsel on them—but the festive feeling has utterly passed me by. I rest my head on the glass as we drive past Oxford Castle, once a prison back in the eighteenth century. They run murder mysteries now for tourists. I’m living in one.

We turn down past Worcester College and whizz past the Ashmolean Museum. Things feel eerie this time of night. The dimly lit streetlamps make all the wonky edges of the old buildings and gargoyles cast jagged shadows over the cobbled paths. We do the loop up around the town center to follow the one-way system, past the Museum of Natural History and the royal-blue metal railings of Trinity College. We’re getting close to Beecham now, and I ready myself for a battle. There is no way I’m going home with Dad.

He pulls up to the heavy gates of the college and the porter signals us through. Dad slowly drives up to the front quad.

“Grab your stuff and let’s get out of here.”

“No,” I say defiantly.

“I’m serious, Eva. This is getting out of hand.”

“You mean it’s out of your control. There’s a difference.”

“Not today there isn’t,” Dad says in a don’t-mess-with-me voice. “You’re coming home with me.”

“No. I. Am. Not.”

“Do you understand what might have happened tonight if I weren’t your father? They think you’re guilty of George’s murder. MURDER, Eva,” Dad bellows.

Murder.

The word vibrates through my body, and I start to shake.

The reality sinking in.

“You’re right,” I say, tears streaming. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I am. It’s just … George is gone and … Dad, how could anyone think I would do this?”

Dad leans over and squeezes my hand. “I didn’t mean to shout,” he says gently. “And don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you. The truth always comes out.”

“Like it did about George being a Glanville?” I sniff. “How did you find out?” I ask.

Dad shrugs. “My daughter brought home a boy for the first time, so I did a background check.”

“You make that sound so normal,” I say, half laughing.

“Well, it is for a cop.”

“To abuse their position of power?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.

Dad frowns. “I shouldn’t have done it. But I did. And then once I knew … I could never look at him without knowing it.”

“Did George know that you knew?”

“We never spoke about it, but I think so,” says Dad. “I think that’s why he tried so hard to impress me. Y’know, like with the hi-vis running jackets.”

A lump forms in my throat. George wanted Dad’s approval.

“But every time he bought you a gift, I just kept thinking about where the money came from. And how my daughter was wearing the profits from enslavement of her own people.” Dad shudders.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I had no idea. But Dad, why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t my place. You needed to form your own opinion of him. Without my baggage weighing in.”

I wince. Shouldn’t it be our baggage? I’m Black too.

But it’s a different kind of baggage, I guess.

Dad remembers the stories his parents and grandparents told him. What happened to them. To their friends and elders too. But now it’s just Dad and me, and he doesn’t like to talk about it.

And now Mum’s gone too.

Sometimes being mixed-race just feels too hard. Like I’m stuck in a limbo of guilt and pain, caught between two worlds. I come from a community that has endured horrific suffering. And I also come from the community that caused that suffering.

I’m tired of constantly second-guessing myself. But what I hate even more is other people trying to second-guess for me. George made a judgment for me. He kept the truth from me because he thought I’d think differently of him. But who is to say we weren’t more alike?

“Dad, I get that you hated the idea of your daughter dating someone who descended from an enslaver, but…” I don’t know quite how to say what I feel. “But what if Mum descended from someone like that too, just not a famous one?”

Dad looks at me pensively. He doesn’t tell me to stop.

“You loved Mum,” I say. “You saw her for who she was, what she stood for. She treated everyone as people, she respected individuality and cultures. She didn’t make judgments based on prejudice or stereotypes—she looked at people’s actions and behavior. Right?”

“Right,” says Dad.

“So, why couldn’t you do that for George?” I ask. “Why couldn’t George trust me to see him for who he really was?”

“I can’t answer that,” says Dad.

“People can be better than the generations before them,” I say, biting my lip. “I believe that. In fact, we have to be. We have to be better. George’s ancestors did awful things, and I can’t bear the fact that people don’t want to acknowledge it and be accountable for it, but in all the time I knew George, he showed me that he stood for what was right.”

Dad nods.

“I just wish I knew why he didn’t take accountability for his family’s actions. Why hide them from me? Was he still using his family connections to get to where he wanted to be? Did his family pay for him to get his interview place here? Did he pay for my place? Is that why we both got selected for interview at the same Oxford college despite the odds? Do I even deserve my place here?”

“Yes,” says Dad firmly. “Eva, you earned your place here.”

“That’s why I have to stay, Dad, don’t you see?” I wipe my eyes dry. “If I go now, everyone will think George was the reason I got to interview week.”

“It doesn’t matter what other people think,” says Dad.

“It’s not just that.” I sigh. “I don’t want George’s death to be the reason I didn’t go to Oxford. Mum gave up her place here for me, and she never blamed me, but I was the reason. I don’t want George to be my reason. If I don’t go to Oxford, I want it to be on my terms.” I hold up my hand. “And I know you hate this, Dad, but I’m your daughter, and you know as well as I do that I have to find out the truth about what happened to George. Please, Dad, say you understand?”

Dad takes a deep breath. “I get it. I do. I just…”

A tear has rolled down Dad’s cheek. I haven’t seen him cry since the day of Mum’s funeral.

He looks me dead in the eye. “I can’t lose you too.”

I squeeze his hand. “You won’t.”

“But Eva, you can’t underestimate how much danger you are potentially in. There’s no known motive for why George was attacked. You cared about George more than anyone else here, and you are the police’s current prime suspect. No one is more motivated to wanting George’s murderer brought to justice than you. Which makes you a target.”

“I know it’s dangerous,” I say solemnly. “And I will be careful. But I just can’t give up now. I can’t run away. I can’t let George’s murderer win.”

“It’s not a game,” Dad says slowly.

“I know that,” I say softly. “But Dad, I have to see this through.”

He nods. “All right. But I’m tracking your phone.” He holds up his hand. “Don’t even think about protesting. This is serious.”

I pass Dad my phone and he sets up the tracker.

I think back to all the fights we’ve had over the past few years—about trust, and invasion of privacy, and responsibility versus independence. But do you know what? In this moment, I am bloody grateful to have a dad who’s going to keep tabs on me.

I might not be able to bring myself to say it out loud, but Dad’s right. This is serious. It’s a matter of life and death. And if I’m going to track down a murderer, having an inspector know my location is no bad thing.

Dad passes my phone back and I twist round to get out of the car. He grips my wrist.

“Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be careful,” I say.

“Hourly updates,” he says.

“I’ll see you soon, Dad,” I say, and give him a hug.

I don’t hang around to watch him drive away. There are two security guards patrolling the quad and an extra porter in the lodge. College is taking this as seriously as Dad. I go straight to my room with my head down. I don’t need any more unwelcome photos making their way onto OxS. The quad is thankfully deserted.

I press my key card onto the pad to unlock the main door to my stairwell and take the wonky stairs two at a time.

I need a plan.

I need to build a list of suspects.

And I need to investigate this safely.

I’m so consumed with planning I don’t notice the weird shadow on my door. Someone is here.

“Shit.”

I swivel round and put up my fists.

“It’s only me,” says a timid voice.

“Oh, Tessa,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” she says, biting her lip. “I heard you got arrested. For George’s m-murder.”

“I was brought in for questioning, not arrested. They have nothing on me. Because I’m innocent.”

“I know you are,” Tessa says.

I’m about to ask how she’s so sure when I do a double take. It’s not until Tessa takes a few steps closer to me in the dimly lit stairwell that I notice what a state she’s in. Her hair is matted and uncombed. She looks like she’s been crying again.

“What’s happened? Has someone else…” My throat closes up; I can’t finish the sentence.

“No. No, it’s nothing like that. Oh, Eva, I should have told you straight away. I just…” Tessa’s voice trails off.

“What is it? What do you know?”

“I think I know who might have been the last person to see George alive.”

CHAPTER 16
DECEMBER 7

Slayer 18181: Eva spotted back at Beecham. Dropped off by her dad.

Dec. 7, 7:27 p.m.|500+ views, 36 likes

Reply: Slayer 17644: Must be nice having a daddy with a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Dec. 7, 7:42 p.m.|400+ views, 120 likes

Reply: Slayer 11048: Stay safe Beecham buddies. There’s a murderer on the loose.

Dec. 7, 7:59 p.m.|300+ views, 10 likes

“Before I tell you anything,” Tessa says, wringing her hands, “I need you to give me your word you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.” Her mauve nail varnish is chipped where she’s clearly been biting her nails.

My dad’s voice comes to mind. Well, if it’s material to the case …

“You have my word,” I say, showing her into my room. Tessa isn’t going to tell me anything unless she knows she can trust me.

“I didn’t want to tell anyone this,” she says, and I can feel her struggle to stop her voice from breaking. “The last thing I want is for this to get out onto OxS. I thought Seb might say something, but so far so good.”

“What’s Seb got to do with this?” I ask, sitting down.

Tessa looks at me with tears in her eyes. “Everything.”

“Here,” I say, putting my hand out. “Come and sit next to me.”

Tessa bursts into tears. “I’m so sorry, I’m not an emotional person. It’s just. This place. The pressure. Everything is so much more intense here. I just wish…”

“You could go home. But you really want Beecham to be home,” I finish for her. I know how she’s feeling.

“Yes,” she says, smiling through the tears. “That’s exactly it.”

I wait for her breathing to calm and then gently ask, “What happened that night?”

Tessa takes a deep breath. “It’s so stupid. I’m so stupid. I should never have gone to that party. But I just wanted to be … popular. And I thought if I could get close to Seb, that maybe … I don’t know.”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to reinvent yourself,” I say.

“I enjoyed it at first,” she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. “The glamour, the extravagance. I felt like a princess. Seb treated me like a princess. He stayed glued to me all night, introducing me to people. Making sure I had everything I needed. Getting me drinks. Lots of drinks, I realize now. Seb put his arm around me, and I felt a slight prick on the back of my arm. What happened next is a bit of a blur. I don’t know how much time passed, but I remember my legs feeling like they were giving way.”

I try to stay calm and not react as Tessa tells me what happened.

“I suddenly came over nauseous,” she continues. “George found me and asked if I was OK. Offered to take me home, but I said no and went to the bathroom. I don’t know how long I was in there. A few girls were talking outside at first. Then it went quiet. I saw the lock twisting from the outside, unlocking my cubicle. It was Seb. He said he was checking if I was OK after my “run-in with George.” I told him I was fine. Asked him to leave. But he didn’t. He … he forced himself on me. I was screaming and then suddenly George was standing next to us. He pushed Seb to the ground and got me out of there.”

“Fucking hell,” I say. “Tessa, you should go to the police. I’ll come with you.”

The police. Would they even believe her? They don’t believe me.

Tessa shakes her head. “George said the same thing to me when he walked me back to my room,” Tessa says, her eyes welling up with fresh tears. “Even after everything that had happened with Seb, I never once felt unsafe with George walking me back to my room. He was a gentleman and I just don’t understand how someone so good could be killed when people like Seb walk around.”

I wipe away a tear, thinking about George, and Mum. “It’s not fair.”

Tessa sniffs. “George told me to lock my door and sleep it off and then in the morning tell someone at the university. He said that the drugs Seb gave me would still be in my system. I remember panicking and insisting I was fine. I was rude to him.” She splutters, starting to cry again. “He’d just saved me, and I treated him like shit. And now he’s dead and I can’t tell him how grateful and how sorry I am.”

I take Tessa’s hand in mine and try to say this as gently but firmly as I can. I try to push my thoughts away from George and the murder investigation and focus on Tessa. “George’s murder doesn’t make what Seb did to you any less awful.”

Tessa exhales loudly. “I just want to pretend that it never happened.”

I nod. “I totally get that. But … I don’t want to pressure you, but Seb should have to face the consequences of what he did. Who knows how many girls he’s done this to? Or might try to do this to in the future? He has to be stopped.”

Tessa’s lip begins to wobble. “I know this is going to sound totally selfish. But I just don’t want to be the one who has to come forward to save everyone else. I feel like I’m barely holding myself together. Does that make me an awful person?”

“No,” I say, and instinctively give Tessa a hug. “I understand why you don’t want to tell the police. It’s not your responsibility to stop Seb. I’ve got your back.” I bite my lip, not wanting to overstep. “Have you thought about telling the college counselor? I spoke to her yesterday; she’s called Malorie. She’s nice, and she doesn’t judge. Or how about speaking to Danielle? She said to speak to her if we needed anything and—”

Tessa shakes her head. “Why are you being so nice? You should hate me.”

“What? Of course I don’t!” I say. “You’re a good person that something bad has happened to.”

Tessa sniffs and pulls away from me. “Well, let’s see if you still think that when I tell you what happened next.”

I take a deep breath to steady myself. My gut tells me this has something to do with how George died.

“I locked my door, just like George said.” Tessa wipes her nose on her tattered black cardigan sleeve. “But I couldn’t sleep. My head was pounding. I felt dizzy and sick every time I lay down and all I could think was, what if I pass out again and Seb comes to my room?” She shudders. “So, I sat in my window bay and opened the window to get some fresh air. I remember thinking…” She begins to sob. “I remember thinking: What would people say if they found me, and I’d fallen out of my window? Would they think I jumped?”

“Was that what you were…”

“Before I could think about it for long,” Tessa says, evading my question, “I heard voices coming from the quad. My window overlooks the Glanville statue,” she explains, giving me a look and waiting to see my reaction.

“You heard George,” I say, my heart racing. Tessa might be able to clear my name.

“Yes, and he was talking to Lily.”

What the fuck! “You’re sure?”

“Positive. I’d recognize the sound of those fake Cartier bangles anywhere.”

“What were they talking about? Could you hear?” I ask. Anything Tessa knows could help me figure out who killed George.

“No. But they were arguing. I moved to the other side of the window bay so I could see them more clearly. Something was banging. But my head. The noise was all too much so I closed the window and tried to lie down, and, well, I think I must have passed out. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, you have nothing to be sorry for,” I say, trying to soothe her.

“I just wish I’d stayed up a few minutes more because then maybe I’d have seen something, and I could have shouted or raised the alarm.”

“You can’t change that now,” I say, unable to think about all the possible what-ifs that might mean George could still be alive. “But Tessa,” I say, holding her arm, “you can still do right by him. Please tell the police what you just told me. You can leave Seb out of it.”

Tessa pulls away. Her bloodshot eyes are full of fear.

“I’m sorry, Eva. I can’t. They’re bound to ask more questions. I’m still only seventeen. I was drinking underage. I’m still a minor. If my parents found out I risked getting into Oxford by underage drinking … No. I can’t tell anyone. And you gave me your word you wouldn’t tell either.”

I sigh. “We’ll just have to convince Lily to come forward, then,” I say. I can’t let this go.

Tessa shook her head. “Fat chance. Lily has ‘out for number one’ tattooed on her forehead. Lily might like the limelight, but the last thing she’ll want is for the prime-suspect focus to shift onto her,” says Tessa.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Oh, come on, Eva. Lily might have been the last person to have seen George alive. And she’s not told the police.”

“I can’t imagine Lily as a murderer,” I say, thinking back to how she’d found me after I’d gotten back from the police station and told me about OxS.

But it does raise the question. She’s chosen not to come forward. So, what’s she trying to hide?

CHAPTER 17
DECEMBER 8

Slayer 28245: Back on track. Interviews finally getting underway at Beecham this morning. Let the mind games begin!

Dec. 8, 7:10 a.m.|150+ views, 9 likes

Slayer 17644: Red can of spray paint found in the bushes in back quad last night. Barely used.

Dec. 8, 9:02 a.m.|650+ views, 145 likes

Reply: Slayer 28245: Maybe just enough to write “MURDERER”?

Dec. 8, 9:18 a.m.|400+ views, 80 likes

Reply: Slayer 20145: Give it to the police!!!

Dec. 8, 9:22 a.m.|300+ views, 40 likes

I didn’t sleep a wink.

Taking a step back in triumph, I gaze at the wall of inquiry I’ve assembled on my bedroom wall overnight. I stick a note on a picture of Glanville’s statue that I ripped out of my “Welcome to Beecham” pack. It reads: “Murderer had to know about dare.” That’s the last of my yellow Post-it Notes gone. They were supposed to be for final interview revision, but instead they’re plastered all over my bedroom wall next to a timeline and a list of suspects.

My first interview is in a few hours and I know I should be preparing for it, but all I can think about is George. Detective Crawford hasn’t got a bloody clue what really went down that night between George, Seb, and Tessa.

There’s only one way to be sure George’s killer is brought to justice—and that’s if I take matters into my own hands. I’m living next to the crime scene, probably alongside the killer, with access to OxS. I cared about George more than anyone, and I’m the one who has been falsely accused. No one is more motivated or in a better position to solve this case than I am. But Dad’s right. Those very facts make me a likely target. There’s no evidence to say this was a one-off killing. I could be next. Particularly if I poke in the wrong places. I need to be smart about this. Strategic, tactical, and, most importantly, persistent.

My two main leads are Sebastian and Lily.

I need to speak to them.

Find out what they know.

Why did George and Lily argue? Was it Seb who sent George the notes? It’s entirely possible that Seb and Lily had nothing to do with George’s murder. Before I can solve this case, I need to get answers to these questions—and more.

Like, who wrote the word murderer over Glanville’s statue?

Was George killed because of his connection to Glanville?

And then there’s the murder weapon. I’m certain it is the missing gargoyle. Call it a hunch, or instinct, but I just know. George died by blunt trauma to the head. It fits, and frankly, I need to start with something or I really will go round in circles. But who would have been able to get the gargoyle? How did they reach it? And where is it now? Find the gargoyle—and maybe I’ll find the murderer?

So many questions I need answered.

But first, I need food.

My stomach rumbles as I make my way to the hall for breakfast. I haven’t really eaten a proper meal since George died.

I haven’t actually been back in the dining hall since that first formal dinner.

The echo of students whispering puts me on edge as I reach the steps leading to the hall. As I go inside, I half expect to see everyone gawping at me, phones out, ready to snap photos for OxS.

But nobody looks at me at all.

They’re too engrossed in something else. Half-eaten breakfast plates have been abandoned. Chairs are flipped on their sides as students have clearly all hurried over and clustered together in the far corner of the hall to look at something.

I slowly move closer to the huddle of students.

“It’s fucking outrageous, that’s what it is,” says one of them.

“No respect.”

“Was it an interviewee?”

“It wouldn’t be one of us.”

The closer I get, the more rage I can sense. I reach the group and try to peer through the crowd to see what they’re looking at. They’re standing in front of the gold-framed portraits.

“Maybe it was a Rex Factorem dare,” whispers a girl in front of me. Amber, I think, the interview helper. “Apparently initiation invites are going out early this year.”

I take another step forward.

One of the students does a double take as they recognize me. They move out of the way, as do a couple of the others, giving me a clear view of the painting.

I gasp and then shut my mouth tight to stop myself from being sick.

Because this is sick.

Someone has stuck Post-it Notes on the frame and drawn speech bubbles. Apparently, Beecham’s ancestral fellows are taking bets on who killed George Danvers.

“Ha! What’s all this?” comes a familiar and unwanted voice from behind me. The Reapers. “I think old Professor Tod might be right.”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” I bellow at Seb.

“Hey, that’s not cool, man,” one of the students says to Seb.

I push past a couple of people to get right up to the portrait and pull down the speech bubbles.

“Have you no shame?” I ask.

Xander catches my eye and mouths, “Sorry.”

“Whatever, murderer.” Maximilian laughs and takes a seat at a nearby table, Seb following suit.

I’m about to go over and give him a piece of my mind when Amber pulls me aside. “Don’t rise to it,” she whispers. “That’s what they want.”

She’s right.

“I was hoping to see you,” she says, walking to the adjoining cafeteria with me. “How are you holding up?”

“Not sure I am.”

“I’m so sor—I bet everyone says that.”

“Not everyone on OxS,” I say.

“OxS can be toxic,” says Amber. “But Oxford isn’t. Beecham isn’t. Don’t let a minority of idiots make you feel like this place isn’t for you, OK? Keep your head up and if you need anything, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” I say.

Not wanting to spend a second longer than necessary near the Reapers, I grab a croissant and leave.

The old me would have blocked out the noise, raced back to my room, and read up on Wordsworth’s “The Rainbow.”

But George’s death has changed me.

Consumed me.

My mind is on overload.

There’s no denying I’m more focused on finding George’s killer than getting into Oxford.

But isn’t that how it should be?

I could defer my interviews like Professor Bernard said.

But this week is the only chance I have to find out who killed George. Lily said to distract myself with the interviews. Maybe I should leave it to the police, but Detective Crawford isn’t my dad. She’s out of her depth. She’s proven that. I will never forgive myself if George’s killer isn’t brought to justice.

But if I stay and complete interview week and fail, then the chance of a deferral has vanished.

My chance to study here gone.

My opportunity to fulfil my mum’s dream gone.

My opportunity to fulfil George’s dream gone too.

Forget going back to my room, I need to explore college. I need to remind myself what it is that made me want to study here in the first place. I trundle through a maze of corridors, past solid oak doors that must be tutor rooms. There’s a sound behind me, like a shoe scuffing on the carpet.

I stop and listen in the silence.

Is that the sound of somebody deep breathing behind me?

My throat dries.

My stomach knots.

My gut-instinct internal alarm system is going off.

Is someone watching me?

I chance a glance over my shoulder, but no one is there.

Suddenly the high-ceilinged corridor feels stifling.

The portraits are watching me.

But it’s more than that.

Behind me, I hear the muffled sound of floorboards creaking beneath the velvety carpet.

Someone is creeping up on me.

I swivel round fast to catch a glimpse of them. I won’t be a target.

But the corridor is completely empty.

Am I imagining this?

I need to get out of here.

Making my way back to the front quad, I step out and gaze up at the sky. It’s filled with dark-gray ominous clouds. I dig my hands into the front pocket of my hoodie. Even with gloves on, my fingers are icy cold. The wind is ferocious and the trees are being battered from left to right. Dirt from the ground swirls up and stings my eyes.

Was that the click of a camera?

Is someone filming me for OxS?

I start walking along the graveled path surrounding the quad.

Now I can definitely hear footsteps—the sound is bouncing off the college walls that encase me like a stone goldfish bowl.

Someone is following me.

I pick up the pace and duck into a gap between the buildings.

A shadow approaches.

I stick out my foot.

“Whoa!”

James stumbles forward and hurtles into an archway. He grips the side of the arch just in time to stop himself from falling flat on his face, while using his other hand to protect the fancy SLR camera that’s hanging from his neck.

“You!” I cry. “Why are you following me?”

James signals for me to wait as he recovers from being winded. He stands up straight, still grimacing. His cheeks are flushed from running and a bead of sweat is snaking down his brow.

He’s stalling for time. Trying to figure out what to say now that I’ve caught him.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t following you. I mean I was but I wasn’t. I was looking out for you.”

“Looking out for me?” I say incredulously, folding my arms.

“There is a murderer on the loose,” says James, “and before you say it, I don’t think it was you. I’m sorry if Mum came on too strong at the memorial. Please don’t judge me for who my mum is. I’m not her.”

“You prefer stalking people and creeping up on them?”

James blushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any harm.”

“I can look after myself, thanks.” I half laugh.

“Do you really think it’s safe to be going around on your own? The murderer could be round any corner, and just like … sneak up on you!”

“You mean like how you just snuck up on me?” I ask. “Was that your confession to murdering my best friend?”

“No! Obviously not!” cries James, looking flustered. “God, Eva, I’m not your enemy. I was trying to be nice!”

I raise an eyebrow. He seems genuine. But I can’t be sure.

I sigh. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you murdered George. I just want to be alone right now.”

“So you can investigate yourself?” he asks, reading my mind. “Like father like daughter, like mother like son. We both have Sherlock Holmes in our blood. How about we work together?”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say. “I work better alone.”

“Two heads are better than one,” he says, not knowing when to quit.

“See you around,” I say, briskly walking away.

“I just want to help,” James calls after me.

I sigh and turn back. “Why? To impress your mum? Or my dad?”

“Oh, come on, Eva.”

“You introduced yourself to him like you wanted an internship, at George’s memorial.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t have done that. But I do want to help. You don’t grow up with parents like ours without developing an overwhelming need to know the truth about everything.”

I stare at him, dead in the eyes. Maybe getting close to the detective’s son would be helpful. Or maybe it would just make Detective Crawford even more suspicious of me. Either way, I don’t trust James, and not just because he has a knack of saying the wrong thing. He just seems too eager to please whomever he’s around. Like how he sucks up to the Reapers but secretly his little townie heart hates them.

“If you want to help me, then back off, and get your mum to do the same.”

James can shove his offer, but he is right about one thing. Two heads are better than one. I won’t be able to get all the answers I need on my own.

Before I can move forward, I need to understand George’s past and what the hell that note he had was about. Could it have been from the Rex Factorem?

Talking directly to Seb is a nonstarter, so I need to infiltrate the Reapers.

And I know the perfect way in.

His name is Xander.

CHAPTER 18
DECEMBER 8

Dad

How’s it going?

10:15 a.m.

How am I supposed to answer that? Good: I’ve eaten something. Bad: I can’t concentrate on interview prep. Shit: Someone with a possible Rex Factorem dare is taking bets on whether I killed George. Numb: My best friend is dead.

Eva

OK apart from the students all talking about me and George

10:15 a.m.

Dad

Don’t let others bring you down. Keep your chin up x

10:16 a.m.

I swipe Dad’s message away and open the OxS app that keeps flashing up notifications. I need to know what’s being said.

Slayer 18181: Junior detective at work. [Downloading image 1 of 5…]

Dec. 8, 10:02 a.m.|150+ views, 21 likes

Reply: Slayer 28245: #DaddysLittlePrincess

Dec. 8, 10:17 a.m.|25+ views, 2 likes

“Crap,” I mutter. New photos have been uploaded on OxS. And they’re all of me!

This is fucking creepy.

They’re photos of me walking around college and standing by Glanville. Shots of me looking pensive, looking sad. Thinking. Figuring out who did this. And then later in the thread someone has turned it into a meme about how I want to be like Dad.

I shove my phone back in my pocket. I need to focus on the task at hand. But where to start? I’m about to fill up my mini kettle to make a coffee when something catches my attention out of the window.

It’s Xander.

He’s stopped by Glanville’s statue. I watch as he puts his hand to his cheek. Is he wiping away a tear? His mouth is moving; he’s saying something. But there’s no one else around.

Is he talking to it? To George?

Suddenly I feel like I’m intruding on a very private moment. I almost look away.

But then Xander continues his walk. Where’s he going?

Sixty seconds more confirms it: the oldest building in college, near the porters’ lodge. I thought it was only offices in there. Staff rooms.

Xander slowly turns to check that no one is watching him.

I duck, which is daft because there’s no reason for him to look up here, but it’s interesting that he doesn’t want to be seen.

He goes inside and my mind is made up. I want to know what he’s up to.

I shove my shoes on and race out of the building and across the quad toward the porters’ lodge.

Xander comes out at the exact moment I reach the old building and nearly crashes into me.

He jumps in fright and the envelope he’s holding flies out of his hand along with several pages of what looks like an application form.

“What the hell, Eva?” Xander says, looking pissed off. “Were you following me?” He scrabbles to pick the paperwork up off the dew-wet grass. A wave of guilt washes over me.

“Um, sort of,” I say—no point lying. “I didn’t mean to startle you, though, sorry. I didn’t mean to, er … pry into whatever that is about.”

Xander sighs. “It’s from the bursar, paperwork about a grant they’ve awarded me.” He laughs. “You wear your thoughts on your face.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—I just didn’t know Beecham did that.”

“It’s only small, to support me while I’m at Beecham for interview week. It’s one of the reasons I chose Beecham. It has great bursaries for lower-income families. Guess you didn’t expect me to be in that category, going to Reapington, huh?”

I shrug. “You’re right, I probably assumed too quickly, but I honestly wasn’t trying to find out about—”

“It’s fine. I’m not ashamed of being a scholarship kid at Reapington,” says Xander. “My intelligence isn’t defined by my family’s wealth, and my family’s wealth shouldn’t define how or what or where I study, but that doesn’t mean I had to tell you, and you following me—”

“I wasn’t exactly following you,” I say. “But I’d been hoping to catch you alone, without the other Reapers around. And then I saw you stop by Glanville’s statue … talking?”

Xander lowers his head. “I just can’t walk past it without thinking about George.”

“You and George have history, don’t you?” I ask. “And not just regular ex-classmates. You two were frosty in the college bar, but at breakfast today you said sorry when the Reapers were being dicks. Something happened between you and George and now you look guilty. Fill me in.”

Xander frowns. “You really are the daughter of a detective, aren’t you?”

“Please, just tell me what you know.”

“All right,” he says. “But not here.” Xander looks around sheepishly, clearly checking if the Reapers are watching.

He leads us back to his room.

After what Tessa told me, maybe I should be more cautious, but my gut tells me Xander is a good guy.

He offers me the desk chair in his room and then perches on the end of his bed.

“What have the Reapers got against George?” I ask.

“Break me in gently, why don’t you?” says Xander, running his hand through his hair. From the way his facial muscles twitch, I can tell he’s biting his inner cheek. He’s nervous. “I wasn’t best friends with George like you were, but we were pretty close at Reapington. Well, as close as Seb would allow anyone to be to one of his former inner circle.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. “George told me that his parents were friends with Seb’s parents, but did Seb and George used to be friends?”

“Best friends since preschool from what I understand,” says Xander. “George was Seb’s right-hand man. Seb wanted George’s opinion on everything and for years they were inseparable. They even spent their holidays together—both families would go away to some villa in the Maldives.”

“So what happened?” I ask, my brain ready to explode with questions and having to choose just one at a time.

Xander digs his hands into the pockets of his black trousers. “I don’t know.”

“Please, Xander,” I say.

“Genuinely, I don’t know the details,” Xander says, hunching his shoulders. “It all happened before I started at Reapington. George had already been outcast by Seb and that was why the two of us became friends. Outsiders together. George only told me the highlights.”

“So, tell me those,” I say.

“Seb overstepped. Did something George didn’t agree with, and George called him out on it. He reported Seb to the Reapington headmaster, implicating their whole group of friends—a mini gentlemen’s club at Reapington.”

“What could Seb have done that was so bad?”

I think about what Tessa told me and a shiver runs down my spine.

“I don’t know,” replies Xander. “George didn’t like to talk about it. All I know is that it took all of Seb’s dad’s influence and money to keep Seb at Reapington and prevent whatever it was from getting out.”

I puff out my cheeks. “No wonder Seb stopped talking to George.”

“It was worse than that,” says Xander, shuffling on his seat. “From the day I started there, I had a target on my back. No one joins Reapington that late unless they’re an international royal or a scholarship kid. It didn’t take more than a few seconds to figure out which category I fell into. George was the only one who would talk to me. He didn’t care about that stuff.”

“Sounds like the George I knew.”

“You knew the real him,” Xander says, reading the doubt on my face.

“I didn’t even know his real surname.” I sigh. “I mean, why Danvers?”

“Danvers is his mother’s maiden name,” says Xander. “He had his surname changed by deed poll as soon as he turned sixteen. And he didn’t double-barrel it the way Professor Bernard said it at the memorial. He removed Glanville completely. His dad stopped speaking to him.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and I mean, you can see how controlling the man is—I’m sure George’s dad would have made Professor Bernard use Glanville.” Xander shakes his head. “George would have hated that.”

I feel further from George than ever. I had no idea what his home life was like.

“Tell me more about Seb,” I say. I need to stay focused. I can’t let my emotions get in the way of figuring out what happened to George.

“Seb only stopped picking on me and allowed me to join his crew to piss off George and stop the two of us being friends,” says Xander. “Now they tolerate the fact I’m a scholarship kid, but they prefer to pretend I’m not.” Xander gets to his feet and begins pacing the room. “I should have stood by George, but the others would flush my classwork down the toilet and change my schedule so I didn’t know when lessons were. Seb bullied him out of Reapington. When George left, they offered me a choice: join them and never talk to George again or go back to being bullied myself. If I hadn’t agreed to Seb’s terms of ghosting George, there’s no way I would have gotten a place to interview at Beecham. I took the coward’s way out.”

“You put yourself and a place at Oxford first. I get it. George would get it too, I think.”

“I hope so,” Xander says. “George knew better than anyone how ruthless Seb could be if you went against him.” Tears well in Xander’s eyes. “I never got a chance to tell George I was sorry,” he whispers.

I tread carefully on what I know will be a difficult subject. “Can you tell me…” I say softly, “just how badly was Seb bullying George?”

Xander closes his eyes for a moment, as if trying to bring back a painful memory he’s buried. “George’s parents claimed they were putting George into a good state school to give him a better chance of getting into Oxford, but really that was just a cover. George had ended up in hospital.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, shocked.

“It was Seb. He said it was an ‘accident,’” says Xander in a voice that sounds so mechanical I can almost hear Seb instructing him to say it.

“And was it an accident?” I ask.

Xander shrugs. “No one knows. The official story is that George was at Seb’s house and George slipped and fell down the stairs. But—and this is all I know from rumors—his mum had a meeting with the Reapington headmaster the next day. Apparently, she wanted a case made against Seb, but the headmaster said his hands were tied because the accident hadn’t happened on school grounds.”

“Could be true.”

“Could be, but then Seb’s dad funded a new science wing the very next term.”

“A payoff?”

“Apparently it was in appreciation of Reapington being a school of exemplary standards.”

The more I hear about Seb and his family, the more convinced I am that they know how to play the system.

“If Seb came for George once, maybe he did this,” I say. “Maybe the dare was just a way to lure George to the statue that night?”

Xander shook his head. “But why would Seb risk that when there are already rumors that he pushed George down the stairs? Besides, he couldn’t have done it. He was at the Rex Factorem party.”

“But he could have snuck out?”

Xander runs his hands through his hair. “It’s possible. In theory. Seb’s hatred of George is legendary. But in reality? I don’t think Seb would have the balls to kill someone.”

“I don’t think we ever know what someone is truly capable of,” I say, looking out at the quad with a sigh. “I just wish I knew who sent George those notes. My gut is telling me it was Seb.”

“What notes?”

“There’s the one the police found on his body, asking him to meet. And before, when we were all at formal hall, George had another one. He wouldn’t show it to me at first, but I saw it. It was written in ancient Greek. He claimed it was study notes, but he looked so spooked. I told the police but they don’t believe me.”

Xander sits back down on the bed and looks at me intensely.

“What did the note say, exactly?” he asks.

“No idea. I can’t read ancient Greek.”

Xander’s shoulders droop in disappointment.

“But I do have a photographic memory. If you can translate it?”

“Are you serious?” asks Xander, looking impressed.

I shrug. “I mean, I don’t have a fully-fledged photographic memory but it’s pretty good, yeah. Have you got paper? A pen?”

I close my eyes and recollect the note as much as I can. It isn’t perfect; George snatched it back pretty quickly. I draw it out for Xander.

“Sorry, I don’t know exactly what the symbols are supposed to look like, but does this make any kind of sense?”

Xander takes the paper and the color drains from his face.

“I have it,” he says.

“Really? You can translate it? What does it say?”

“No, Eva,” he says. “I mean I have it. I have George’s notes.”

“What? How? And did you say notes, plural?”

CHAPTER 19
DECEMBER 8

Slayer 17644: Breaking! Rex Factorem is active. Check your messages. If you know, you know.

Dec. 8, 10:59 a.m.|450+ views, 61 likes

This was NOT the plan.

But then nothing about this week has gone to plan so far. Why did I expect it to start now? Dr. Stedall is waiting for me outside his office with a concerned frown.

My first-round interview outfit is black suit trousers and a purple-and-white striped shirt with butterflies on the sleeves. It matches my butterfly folder of notes, which contains essay clippings on my favorite poems, plays, and novels. I have brown skin-tone socks for my two-and-a-half-inch-heel black closed-toe shoes. And ALL of it is laid out in my room ready to be worn.

Meanwhile, I am standing outside Dr. Eugene Stedall’s office about to go into my first Oxford interview wearing baggy gray jogging bottoms, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow, having run directly from Xander’s room to here with my brain full of ancient Greek notes and conspiracy theories.

“Usually I’d start with a thirty-minute preparation time to read ‘My Heart Leaps Up’ but…” Dr. Stedall trails off as he looks at his pocket watch.

“It’s OK, I’m familiar with ‘My Heart Leaps Up,’” I say.

I can tell by the way he’s peering down at me over the top of his silver-rimmed glasses that he’s unimpressed by my disheveled appearance. “I believe Professor Bernard did offer for you to defer your interview week, Eva,” he says. “None of us would think any less of you; we would completely understand.”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say. “You’re right I am distracted, and devastated. But for me it’s now or never. George is gone, but he’s also still here with me. If I left now, I don’t know if I’d ever come back. I want to do this for me. And for him.”

“But—”

“My heart leaps up when I behold

A rainbow in the sky.”

“Ah, you do know it,” Dr. Stedall says. “Or maybe just the opening lines?” he asks with a wry smile.

This is where my almost-photographic memory comes into its own.

“So was it when my life began;

So is it now I am a man;

So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die!

The Child is father of the Man;

And I could wish my days to be

Bound each to each by natural piety.”

I let my emotions flow out as I say each word, and Dr. Stedall smiles, clearly impressed.

“Very well,” he says, “let’s continue this in my office.”

I step inside. It’s not as big as Professor Bernard’s suite but it has the same reassuring smell of old books. Dr. Stedall gestures for me to sit on the large leather sofa opposite him. It’s lower than it looks, but I style it out as I semi-fall onto the seat. The leather is cold and firm, but the giant curved arms feel welcoming, like a big hug. I need to switch off Eva the Detective just long enough to ace this interview.

Who cares what I’m wearing?

I’m here for my brains. For my love of literature.

And how many people can say they got the chance to talk to an internationally renowned scholar about rainbows? I doubt there are many other places in the world where an interview consists of debating Wordsworth’s best work while sitting in a wood-paneled office library overlooking fifteenth-century architecture.

“So, Eva, what do you think Wordsworth was saying in this poem?” he asks.

“The way Wordsworth felt about rainbows is how I feel about literature,” I say. “He wanted the childhood joy and giddiness of seeing a heavenly rainbow to last his whole life. To me, reading literature, debating literature, analyzing literature gives me that energy; it is the life source that I want to last forever. And it’s why I want to study here at Beecham.”

Dr. Stedall leans back in his chair, and his smile turns into a grin.

“In that case,” he says, putting his hands together, “let’s debate.”

Now I’m grinning too.

Wow, what a rush!

This is what I want to do for the next three years.

This is the dream.

I’ve had a real taste now.

And I want it even more than I realized. I have no idea where the time went, but I shake Dr. Stedall’s hand with a firm grip and he gives me a look that I’m sure means I impressed him. I nailed that interview—I just know it.

Dr. Stedall closes the door, and I stand in the corridor trying to gather myself. A little laugh slips out at the irony. All those months I’ve spent stressing about interview week, cramming and still feeling underprepared, and then the interview itself goes like a dream.

In the end I hadn’t had time to fret about the looming interview. I’d had to peg it across college just to make it, which ended up being a blessing in disguise. Rather than sounding like an overprepared robot, when push came to shove, I went in with no expectations and talked from the heart. This is probably the closest to real student life I’ve experienced—rocking up to a tutorial after a big night out, without the prep and just … discussing literature.

I’m starting to understand why students put themselves through the stress of applying to Oxford—for this feeling. The thrill of debating with the best minds in the world, surrounded by people who love the subject as much as you do. This is what I hoped interview week would feel like.

I didn’t need a mentor or an access scheme after all.

I don’t think many people would say this about an interview, but that was … fun.

I can’t wait to tell George all about—

Reality hits me like I’ve been slammed to the ground by a two-ton truck.

George is dead.

He’ll never know how my interview went.

He’ll never debate the greats with Oxford professors.

“Hey, how’d it go?” asks Lily, gliding round the corner from Professor Bernard’s office, probably having just had her first interview.

“It was good. Great. It went really well. I think,” I say, wishing away the giant lump in my throat and gaping hole in my heart. “How was yours?”

“Killed it. Oh, I mean … Sorry.” She averts her eyes to the floor.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry,” I say.

I really want to get back to Xander and those notes, but this is my moment. I need to ask her about the fight Tessa saw her have with George the night he died. See if she comes clean.

“I’m going to head out and get a celebratory coffee in town. Want to join?” asks Lily. “Oh, wait, actually,” she says, looking me up and down. “Do you want to change first?”

“Nah,” I say. “Let’s just go.” I start walking off, but Lily stands still, as if she’s glued to the spot.

“Did you, er, interview in … that?”

I shrug. “I mean, it’s memorable at least?”

Lily laughs. “With everything that’s happened, I’m sure they’ll understand. I’m in awe of how you’re holding it all together. I’m finding it hard, and I barely knew him.”

“You saw him that night, though, didn’t you? By the statue?”

“What?”

“You were with him,” I say, “just hours before he died. Arguing? What were you arguing about?”

“Fucking hell, Eva. What is this?” she asks. “A police interview?”

“Should it be?” I ask. “You seem pretty defensive.”

“Yeah, because I’m being fucking interrogated, when all I asked was if you wanted to get a coffee because I felt sorry for you, but forget it.” Lily storms off.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I say, chasing after her.

“I don’t answer to you,” she says.

“Did you argue with George here?” I say, stopping by Glanville’s statue. “Hours before he died in this very spot?”

Lily keeps walking.

“I take that as a yes,” I say, catching her up again.

“It’s none of your fucking business,” she says, almost at the porters’ lodge.

“My best friend died, so yeah it is my—”

“A bit of free advice, Eva,” she says, cutting me off. “Start acting more like an interviewee and leave the detective stuff to the actual detectives.”

She opens the arched door that’s built into the college gate.

“Lily, I—Shit!”

I squint, shielding my eyes from the blinding camera flashes.

A group outside Beecham crowds around us, putting their phones right in our faces.

“Lily, was it you?” they ask.

“Did you kill George?”

“MURDERER!”

What the hell?

An older guy in his twenties wearing a suit beats his way to the front. He holds out a Dictaphone. “Lily, will you give us a comment?”

I’ve seen and heard enough.

I take Lily’s hand, pull her back inside college, and shut the door. They didn’t have a swipe card to get through the gate, which means they weren’t Beecham students.

We’re safe.

The porters come out of the office to deal with them, and I quickly lead Lily back toward my room. Whatever that was about, I need to know.

We walk briskly across the quad without saying a word. Probably for the best. Better to wait until we’re sure we’re not being listened to. I have that horrible feeling I’m being followed again. I look over my shoulder, but nobody’s there that I can see.

We reach my room and I lock the door.

Lily still hasn’t said a word. Her eyes are glazed over like she’s in a daydream.

“So now will you tell me what the fuck went down that night?” I ask.

My mind is a swirl of questions.

Tessa was the one who helped me link Lily to George. But what does that crowd know? And how?

Why do they think she had something to do with George’s death?

Does she?

Have I just locked myself in a room with a murderer?

“Lily!”

She doesn’t answer and my brain goes into overdrive.

“They were mainly students from other colleges, not reporters. Something must have dropped on OxS,” I say.

But then, why don’t I have any notifications?

Of course. I switched my phone off for the interview.

I quickly turn it on and swear under my breath. It’s so slow to load. My phone won’t connect to the college Wi-Fi. Eventually the OxS app opens.

I swipe through.

Slayer 18181: New evidence! You saw it here first! [Downloading image…]

Dec. 8, 11:38 a.m.|4,000+ views, 1,000 likes

“It’s a new photo,” I say, trying to refresh the app. “It won’t load.”

I show Lily my phone but she’s not remotely engaging, just swaying ever so slightly.

I hit refresh again.

“The comments say it’s from the night George died. They’ve identified who graffitied the cloisters and wrote ‘murderer’ above the Glanville statue.” I let out a groan of frustration. “Why won’t this photo load? Is it working on your phone? Lily?”

She’s gone stiffer than Glanville.

The image is at 96 percent.

“Here we go…”

Oh.

My.

God.

I stare at the photo and then at Lily. “Is that you?”

CHAPTER 20
DECEMBER 8

Slayer 35353 [new user]: Passing the baton of prime suspect: Lily confirmed as graffitiing “murderer” over George’s body.

Dec. 8, 12:31 p.m.|1,000+ views, 752 likes

Slayer 28245: What if Lily’s DNA has been found on George’s body?? Not sure what part …

Dec. 8, 12:32 p.m.|1,000+ views, 390 likes

Reply: Slayer 27655: Perhaps the Glanville line will live on …

Dec. 8, 12:34 p.m.|900+ views, 55 likes

Reply: Slayer 20145: Have some respect

Dec. 8, 12:36 p.m.|600+ views, 20 likes

Slayer 17667: Caught red-handed walking casually back to bed after killing the competition [Downloading image…]

Dec. 8, 12:38 p.m.|1,000+ views, 523 likes

Slayer 17644: ’Ello ’ello. Police are back at Beecham.

Dec. 8, 12:45 p.m.|2,000+ views, 518 likes

“OxS is blowing up,” I say to Lily, who is still standing in the middle of my room, in a state of shock. “They’re saying you’re the prime suspect now. And the police are already here, apparently.”

“Shit,” says Lily. “Shit, shit, shit.”

She raises her hand to her head and starts shaking.

“Eva, you have to help me, please,” she says. “I’m sorry I went off at you in the quad. I just panicked. I didn’t want you to find out but now everyone’s found out. Fuck! I swear I didn’t kill him. I didn’t!”

I glance out my window; no sign of the police yet.

“No one followed us up here; they’ll probably check your room first,” I say. “But, seriously, Lily, you said you didn’t kill George and I believe you. Maybe I can help you figure this shit out, if you just tell me what happened.”

Lily bites her lip and clutches her necklace.

“I can’t help you unless you tell me what the fuck is going on. What happened that night? Did you really graffiti Glanville’s statue?”

“Yes. OK, I was there. I did it,” she says. “I graffitied the statue.” Lily flops down on the bed, putting her head in her hands. “Beecham should have torn down that disgusting statue ages ago. The so-called inclusive college, sending tutors out to schools to be mentors to underrepresented students like me, and then what do we see the moment we arrive? An oversized glorification of an enslaver.

“I was sixteen when I first came to Beecham, and I had no idea who Glanville was, of course. I just knew he must be important to be featured on the front quad. So, as the overeager student I was, what did I do? I looked him up on my phone straight away. And there it was in black and fucking white. A massive slap in the face. Thanks for the welcoming invite, Beecham. What a fantastic way to introduce an access scheme for students of color. A college proud to honor the man who funded the college through money he obtained from enslaving Black people. So sincere. All I wanted to do was go home. I felt so upset, and who could I turn to? Everyone was just allowing the statue to stay.”

“Yeah, that’s rough,” I say solemnly. “I get it.”

“I went to the library and started reading books about Glanville. They have a whole section. But Dr. Peters told me not to let hypocrisy and Oxford politics stop me from getting into Beecham. He was supportive. He got it. So, after the scheme ended, Dr. Peters carried on mentoring me, and secretly I joined in the protests and campaigns to get the statue removed. I didn’t dream that two years on I’d be interviewing, and the statue would still be here!”

“The debate is in a deadlock.” I sigh.

“It’s infuriating!” cries Lily. “And what room was I given? One on the fourth floor overlooking it! I sat at my desk poring over all the tips Dr. Peters had written out for me and all I could see was red. So I decided to do something about it. I had more access to the college than most of my friends who protest. They gave me the spray paint. And I just … I just did it. And well, to be honest, I’m not even sorry. You get it, right?”

I exhale deeply and flop down on my bed. That was some confession. “I mean, yeah, I get it. Walking in with Dad and seeing the Glanville statue felt shitty for both of us. Dad is the silent type. He finds it too painful to talk about this kind of stuff. Particularly in public, with the job he has. The racism he is exposed to on a daily basis.”

“Is that how you feel too?”

“Me?”

I’m torn, feeling the pressure as I always do, that there isn’t one right answer.

“No, that’s not how I feel,” I admit to Lily. “I think it has to be talked about, no matter how uncomfortable it makes people. Or how many different views there are. It needs to be addressed openly in a forum that allows for debate, to help people who don’t get it to develop empathy and understanding. But graffitiing the college you’re applying to get into? That’s—” Suddenly, something occurs to me. “Wait. Was George … helping you?”

“No. He tried to stop me. He told me not to ruin my future over a dead man who didn’t deserve my energy. He said there was a better way to make change. To make my voice heard.” She sniffs. “He climbed up onto the statue and tried to wrestle the spray paint out of my hands. He’d been drinking and he wasn’t steady. Then he fell. But he was alive!”

“So, the blunt trauma that killed him—”

“Was definitely not sustained in the fall,” Lily says, a flash of defiance in her eyes. “He didn’t even have a concussion. I helped him get up and then he yanked the spray paint out of my hand and threw it in the bushes. We argued,” she says and begins to cry. “I wish we hadn’t. I said what I think about the descendants of people like Glanville who live off the wealth and do nothing to make things right. I didn’t know he was a descendant.”

“So what happened next?” I ask, before we end up going down a rabbit hole of what-ifs.

“We heard someone moving in the shadows—saw a figure. George didn’t seem surprised, despite the fact it was the middle of the night.”

“What reaction did he have?” I ask.

“Concern,” she says, “worry, even. I was bricking it. I didn’t want to get caught. He told me to leave, and I didn’t need to be told twice.”

“But he stayed?” I ask.

“Yeah. It was almost like he was expecting them.”

“Could you make out who it was?” I ask.

Lily shook her head. “No, it was too dark. Just a hooded shadow. I asked George if he was meeting someone and he didn’t reply. He just said he’d take the rap for the graffiti, and I let him, like a coward. Even after he died.”

That’s her justification for not coming forward? That George said he’d take responsibility, so she just pretended she had nothing to do with it? I bite my tongue. There’s no point getting angry with her now. What’s done is done.

Something outside my bedroom window catches my eye. I look out. There’s a police car parked just inside the gates leading onto the graveled path.

“They’re here,” I say, watching Detective Crawford step out with her trusty sidekick, Constable Perry. “Heading this way.”

“They’re going to think it was me who killed George,” cries Lily.

“I’ll text my dad and tell him everything,” I say. “He’ll know what to do. Don’t tell them anything until he gets here, OK? They can’t question you without a lawyer or representative if you insist anyway.”

“Why are you helping me? You should hate me.” Lily sniffs. “I let the police take you in for questioning when it was me they should have been talking to.”

“Because I believe that you didn’t do it. You just wanted to send a message about the statue, and I get why,” I say firmly. “I think that hooded person you saw was the killer. Lily, if you hadn’t left when George told you to, you might be dead too.”

Lily’s eyes widen.

There’s a bang on the door. “Eva? This is Detective Crawford. We’re looking for Lily. Can you open the door, please?”

Lily starts shaking and I help her to her feet. “You’ve got this,” I whisper.

“And you’re sure your dad will come?” she asks.

“Yes. Is there anyone else—”

“Dr. Peters. He knows about the spray paint already.”

What?!

“Ask him to meet me at the station, please,” she begs.

I nod and open the door.

“Detective,” I say with a breezy smile. “So horrible to see you again.”

“Hello, Eva,” she says and walks straight past me. “Lily, we’d like you to come to the station with us.”

“Are you arresting her?” I ask.

“We have a few questions,” says Detective Crawford.

“If you’re not arresting her, then Lily doesn’t have to go anywhere with you,” I say.

Detective Crawford acts as though I’m not in the room. “Lily, I could arrest you for vandalizing private property but that would go on your permanent record, impacting not just your chances of studying at Oxford but your future career. I’d really rather not do that. Instead, would you voluntarily come down to the station with me?”

Lily looks at me helplessly, but I’m out of ideas. She nods at Detective Crawford.

I walk with them across the quad. Students are lurking everywhere, snapping photos of us on their phones and taking videos, but I don’t care.

“She has the right to wait for a representative to be present before you question her,” I say to Detective Crawford, in the hope it reminds Lily of the advice I gave her.

Detective Crawford sighs. “Eva, interfering in an investigation is a crime, as you well know. Don’t give me any more reason to bring you into the station as well.”

I hold my hands up in a sarcastic surrender, but there’s nothing funny about this situation. Lily is totally out of her depth. If they twist her words, they could accuse her of George’s murder and stop looking for the real killer. I can’t allow that to happen, for Lily’s sake or George’s.

“My dad’s on his way,” I bluff to Detective Crawford and give Lily a final look as she gets into the police car.

“How lovely, he’s coming to visit you off duty. Do give him my regards.” Detective Crawford smiles.

Eva

Emergency. Lily arrested. She graffitied Glanville but defo didn’t kill George. Please can you go to the station and help her?

1:05 p.m.

I quickly send my text to Dad before heading to Dr. Peters’s office. I gave Lily my word I would fill him in. And more to the point, I want to know why he withheld evidence about Lily’s involvement to the police. There’s being a mentor and then there’s attempting to pervert the course of justice. I keep thinking back to that guilty look on his face when I caught him arguing with George’s parents at the memorial. Was it over Lily?

Dad

At crime scene. Has she got a lawyer?

1:08 p.m.

“Hey, Eva, what’s up?”

“Not now, James,” I say, dodging past him as I briskly walk through the maze of corridors.

Finally, I find Dr. Peters’s office.

I knock once and then go straight in. Dr. Peters swivels round in his office chair looking completely gobsmacked.

“Sorry to interrupt, but it’s an emergency,” I say.

“You cannot simply barge into my office, Eva.” He glares.

“It’s about Lily.”

That’s got his attention.

“She’s been taken in for questioning,” I continue. “For graffitiing Glanville’s statue the night George died. Which she tells me you already knew?”

He stands up abruptly and reaches for his cane, holding it in both hands, his finger tracing the delicate design. “Well, good. I’m glad the truth is out. I would have done it myself if I’d been in a position to.”

“And you couldn’t because…?”

“I must go and inform Professor Bernard and the rest of the department,” Dr. Peters says, refusing to meet my eye and pushing past me to leave.

Something is so off about that guy.

Why would he cover for Lily and risk his own job? He’s clearly overstepping the role of mentor—but why? The access scheme is Professor Bernard’s college baby, not his. And isn’t he in competition with Professor Bernard for principal?

And then there was his argument with George’s dad at the memorial. What was that about?

Could it all be connected somehow?

CHAPTER 21
DECEMBER 8

Slayer 18181: Lily may have been plotting a murder at Beecham for some time. She’s been for multiple visits to her mentor Dr. Peters!

Dec. 8, 1:49 p.m.|700+ views, 200 likes

Reply: Slayer 21741: Grooming Alert!! Anyone else thinking the same?

Dec. 8, 1:51 p.m.|300+ views, 0 likes

Reply: Slayer 27655: Bye bye next principal hopes. Dec. 8, 1:55 p.m.|100+ views, 5 likes

“What the fuck happened to you?” asks Xander. “Seriously,” he says, as I step into his room. “I texted, called, I was actually wondering if something had, like, happened happened.”

“Did you read about Lily on OxS? I was with her when it went down,” I say.

“Oh shit, are you OK? Was it her? Did she…?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think it was her, but the graffiti stuff is true. And get this, Dr. Peters knew about it.”

“Dr. Peters?” says Xander, looking as confused as I did when I found out.

“That’s not even the weirdest bit,” I say, perching on the edge of the desk. “She asked me to tell him what had happened, and when I did, he acted so shifty.”

“Really?”

“Something is seriously up there, but we’ve got bigger things to worry out. Have you figured out a connection with the notes since I left?” I ask.

“OK, so I’ve split the notes into three groups,” he says, laying them out on the bed. “They all have famous quotes or references. These ones are about guilt, punishment, and justice. And these ones are about a girl called Janey. The cue cards have my translations on them.”

“Xander, this is amazing. Did you do all this in a few hours?”

“No,” he says. “I was trying to tell you earlier before you ran off for your interview. I originally assumed these notes were my initiation challenge from the Rex Factorem. They were all delivered in this blank envelope under my door the night I arrived. I figured all the Reapers got an envelope but none of them had said anything because the dares are supposed to be a secret. I had NO idea it was George. If I’d known, I would have given them straight to the police.”

“Here,” I say, pointing at one on the far left. “This is the note I saw George with after dinner. He folded it like this to squeeze it into his pocket.”

“That one is Euripides,” says Xander. “The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.”

“Sins of the fathers … Could that have to do with the Glanville bloodline? George paying for the sins of his forefathers?”

Xander shrugs. “I mean, it fits. He was murdered at the statue.”

I look over the notes about Janey.

What happened to Janey?

Someone must pay.

Innocent Janey.

Janey is not forgotten.

Janey lives on.

“Do you have any idea who this Janey is?” I ask.

Xander shakes his head. “I thought maybe my challenge was to find out what happened to her. I even went to the library to see if I could find a record of any Janeys that attended Beecham, but there are none. Googling Janey with no other info is pointless. There’s just not enough to go on.”

I turn my attention to the last group of notes. These sound the most violent. A shiver runs over me—these notes were written by the murderer for sure.

Blood on your hands.

Dirty blood.

Blood of a sinner.

Each note has markings on one edge. “What do the symbols mean?” I ask.

Xander shakes his head. “No idea.”

I scan them again. They feel familiar. I sense a pattern. I get like this when I’m recalling an image from memory—I know I’ve seen it before.

“It’s a puzzle,” I say, and begin reorganizing the notes.

As I start switching the order and layout of the notes, the marked edges align like dominoes.

“They’re letters. Ancient Greek,” says Xander. “PRATCHETT.”

“Janey Pratchett,” I say. “I think we’ve found our girl.”

I do a quick Google search. “Janey Pratchett was a nurse who took her own life in the River Cherwell.”

“Fucking hell,” says Xander. “So these notes…”

“Are suggesting foul play and somehow linking it to George. This should be enough to make the police investigate.”

“But how do you know they’ll even believe you?” asks Xander. “They already think you did it. What if they just think you planted these? Made it all up? Eva, our fingerprints are all over them!”

My stomach churns. He’s right. And honestly, right now, I don’t trust Detective Crawford on this case.

“We need to speak to someone who might know more about Janey Pratchett,” I say determinedly. “It must have been a big story at the time.”

“How about James?” suggests Xander. “He’s a townie.”

“I dunno. I don’t trust him and he might tell his mum—then we’d definitely look guilty.”

“Danielle, then,” he says. “You trust her, right? She defended you to Detective Crawford at the memorial.”

“Yeah, but she’ll want to take the notes to the police. She’s a by-the-book person.”

“Then we’ll tell her we don’t have them. That you memorized them and I translated the name Janey Pratchett for you. Come on, it’s not a million miles from the truth.”

“That might just work,” I say, getting to my feet.

“Let’s hope Danielle knows something that can help us.”

“Eva, Xander, what a lovely surprise.”

“Can we come in?” I ask.

Danielle gestures for us to step into her office. She has an amazing bay window that looks out onto the cloisters. I walk over to it. From here it’s so obvious that there is a missing gargoyle.

“Did you notice it was missing?” I ask her, pointing out the window.

“What’s missing?” she asks, joining me.

“The gargoyle that should be there.”

“Which one?” she asks, squinting.

“There,” I say, adjusting my position so she has a clearer view.

“No,” she says. “Well spotted, Eva. I don’t think I’d ever have noticed that. It’s terrible, isn’t it? Beecham is such a beautiful place, with such rich architecture, but you don’t have to be here long before you start taking it all for granted. So, what was it you both wanted to talk to me about?”

“We wanted to ask you about Janey Pratchett,” I say, getting straight to the point.

Danielle’s face goes even paler than usual.

“You know the name?” I ask.

“Everyone knows her name, they just pretend not to,” says Danielle, walking over to close her office door. She obviously doesn’t want to be overheard. “It’s the most openly known secret in Oxford that the Rex Factorem Society was in some way involved in Janey Pratchett’s death, but nobody is brave enough to take on those powerful men. Not even the police. Whatever happened to Janey was covered up. Why are you asking about her?”

“We think George’s death is linked to her.”

Danielle stifles a laugh. “Eva, Janey died over thirty years ago.”

“The sins of the fathers,” I mutter.

“What was that?”

I glance over at Xander, who nods in agreement. We need to tell Danielle just enough about the notes to get her to help us.

“Before George died, someone—we think the murderer—was sending him notes. They reference Janey.”

“How do you know this?” she asks.

“Because George showed them to me before he died,” I say smoothly, covering my little white lie.

“Have you told the police?” she asks.

“They didn’t believe me. In fact, mentioning one of the notes is why they think I’m a suspect. George had a note on him when he died, but not the one I described.”

“Can I see these notes?” asks Danielle.

“We destroyed them,” says Xander.

“What? All of them? Why?” asks Danielle, looking shocked.

“Our fingerprints are all over them,” he says. “If we take them to the police, they won’t bother investigating. They’ll either think we’ve made it up, or we’re the ones behind it.”

“Do you have any idea what an awkward position you’re putting me in?” she says, her voice getting progressively higher pitched with each syllable.

“Look, it’s not as bad as it sounds—”

“Not as bad as it sounds!” Danielle cuts Xander off. “You’ve just told me that you and Eva—the prime suspect in George’s murder—found evidence that you destroyed because your fingerprints were on it and you didn’t want to incriminate yourselves.” Danielle puts her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a long pleated green skirt that brings out the color of her eyes. Her very angry eyes.

“We’re sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to put you in this position, but we need your help.”

“Maybe this is my fault,” mutters Danielle, more to herself than us. “I took you under my wing, Eva. I saw how unsettling it might be as an interviewee of color at a college with an access scheme that you weren’t accepted into. But there are lines I can’t cross. I am still an employee of Beecham and the two of you are tampering with evidence in a police investigation!”

“Look, all I want is justice for George,” I say. “The police are clueless—they think it was me, or Lily! And it wasn’t her either—Lily says she saw someone in the shadows that night, and I believe her. But she can write ancient Greek, and if the police find out, they might just pin them on her. I can’t rest until George’s murderer pays for what they did. I just need to find out who is writing these notes.”

Danielle presses her lips together and gives me a sympathetic look. “I guess it could look like you’re trying to cover your tracks.”

“Except I’m not,” I say defiantly. “You do believe me, right?”

“Yes, I believe you.” Danielle rubs her forehead. Her blond hair is pulled back into a tight bun, which makes her look older. “What did the notes look like?” she asks.

“Thick white paper, rough to the touch. Gold lettering,” I say.

Danielle sighs. “I should have seen this coming.”

“Seen what coming?” I ask.

She looks up, her eyes filled with a sadness that reeks of regret. A wrinkle of worry ripples across her forehead. “I’ve seen letters like that before.”

“What?”

“Where?”

Xander and I splutter out questions.

Danielle puts her hand over her mouth and looks like she’s about to cry.

“They’re calling cards,” Danielle says, refusing to meet my gaze. “Sent by the Rex Factorem. The invitee is sent a cryptic riddle and an initiation challenge they must complete in order to be considered for the society. I know a few first-years who have been targeted by this elitist bullshit, but never an interviewee.”

“But these must be fake calling cards,” I say. “Either sent unofficially by someone in the Rex Factorem—or by someone impersonating the society—to lure George to his death.”

“Possibly,” Danielle says, holding up her hand. “I just wish I’d realized George was in trouble. It’s my job to keep the interviewees safe, and I failed.”

“You didn’t. You’re not responsible for George’s death,” I say.

“But I will be if your meddling gets the two of you killed!” she says, tears in her eyes. “Listen to me, Eva, and you too, Xander. Be. Careful. The Rex Factorem has never been incriminated for a reason. If you go after them, I can’t protect you and neither can the police.”

CHAPTER 22
DECEMBER 8

Slayer 20145: Word is that Beecham faculty have requested another vote to remove the Glanville statue.

Dec. 8, 6:02 p.m.|300+ views, 150 likes

Reply: Slayer 17644: Prof Bernie making her move for principal

Dec. 8, 6:05 p.m.|200+ views, 90 likes

Reply: Slayer 14283: Team Peters all the way!

Dec. 8, 6:06 p.m.|200+ views, 130 likes

By the time Xander and I get to my room, all I feel like doing is curling up in the fetal position and going to sleep. I went from the horror of the speech bubbles on the portraits at breakfast to the discovery of George’s letters; the high of my interview to the low of Lily being taken in for questioning; and then the revelation that all of this has something to do with Janey Pratchett.

This is beyond intense.

I slump down on the bed.

“Fucking hell!” says Xander. He’s staring at my murder board. “You did all this?”

“We should update it,” I say. No time to rest.

I go over to my desk to unwrap a new pack of sticky notes.

“You know, you’ve, er … got my name up there too, right?”

I walk over, pull the pin out, and shrug. “I had to be sure.”

After George died, I trusted no one. But I can’t go on like this. I need a friend. A second pair of eyes. Maybe Xander will see something I’ve missed.

“I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the Danvers line,” says Xander, pointing at a pink Post-it. “His dad was the one who studied here. The link must be to the Glanville bloodline.”

“You’re right,” I say, taking the Post-it down.

“What about your prime suspect?” he says, pointing at the Post-it that says “Seb.” “Isn’t it more likely to be a rogue Rex Factorem member, after what Danielle said?”

“Possibly, but I’m not ruling Seb out,” I say, as I add a “Janey Pratchett” Post-it Note. “Do you know about the fight between George and Seb at the party?”

“No. What happened?”

“I thought you said you were there?”

“I was but I was networking,” he says.

“God, I hate that word,” I say.

“Yeah, I hate doing it too, but get used to it,” says Xander. “For people like us, networking’s our currency. We don’t have a wealthy family behind us, and brains alone get you nowhere. I might not like all the Reapers or what the Rex Factorem stands for, but I sure as hell plan on exploiting them. The Reapers’ parents don’t just have money, they work in some of the most influential positions in the world. Seb’s dad is—”

“Daniel Eldridge, yes, obviously. The self-made billionaire, if you count starting with a family worth two million as nothing.”

Xander laughs and it sets me off too. All this talk of murder is making me forget what normal life feels like.

“Sometimes I think they live in a completely different world.” I sigh. “With a whole other set of rules.”

“Yep,” agrees Xander. “But why should they get to have all the opportunities?” He nudges me. “Last year I got my summer job at Parliament, thanks to Archie Junior’s dad. I got to give my opinion on university fees to the prime minister in an off-the-books meeting.”

“OK, that is pretty cool,” I concede. “But didn’t it make you feel…” I wriggle, not quite knowing how to put that repulsion for sleazy social climbers into words.

“A bit,” he admits. “And, look, you know I don’t like these stuck-up, self-important, entitled idiots either, but you either play the game or the game plays you. It’s who you know not what you know.”

“Well, that’s depressing,” I say.

“Depressing, but true,” says Xander. “Anyway, you were going to tell me what happened between Seb and George. None of the Reapers have said anything, so clearly Seb has silenced them.”

I bite my lip. I don’t want to break Tessa’s confidence.

“Come on, Eva.” Xander moans. “You can’t say that and go quiet. We’re never going to solve this if we keep secrets.”

“This isn’t really my secret to tell,” I say earnestly. “And I’m not going into the full details, but Seb pin-pricked a girl and drugged her and George caught him doing it.”

“Holy shit!” says Xander. “I know Seb is a piece of work, but that’s … Has it been reported?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But I’m wondering if this is similar to what George tried to report to the Reapington headmaster.”

Xander nods. “It could be. Sorry. I’m just trying to get my head around this. The Reapers talk a lot of talk, but this is…”

“Disgusting,” I say. “And if Seb can do that, who’s to say he couldn’t stretch to murder?”

“Well, hang on—”

“I’m serious, Xander, think about it. What if George reported Seb to the Reapington headmaster? Then it happens again at Beecham, where Seb’s daddy can’t save him, and George’s Glanville connection actually makes George the more powerful guy. What’s to say Seb didn’t panic and do something stupid?”

Xander goes quiet, processing. “But that wouldn’t explain the notes. George was getting sent those before the party. I think Danielle was right about them being from the Rex Factorem,” he says.

“Yes, but it could be a red herring.”

“Maybe, but the Janey thing and the sins of the fathers…”

“You’re right. It has to all be connected somehow.” I scribble down more questions.

Why was George receiving notes about Janey?

Is the Rex Factorem responsible for her death?

If they are, how could it have anything to do with George’s death? They’re over three decades apart.

Xander pins up his cue cards with the note translations. He puts the Euripides quote about the sins of the fathers next to the Glanville statue.

“It’s got to be connected,” he says.

Could George’s death be some kind of revenge?

“What if it refers to George’s actual dad?” I murmur. “He would have been studying here around the time of Janey’s death.”

“You think he had something to do with it?” Xander’s eyes bulge.

“The timeline fits and I think that the heir to the Glanville fortune would likely have been a member of the Rex Factorem.”

“So the question is, are these notes being sent officially by the Rex Factorem or are they fake?” asks Xander. “There’ve been some rumors among the Reapers that someone has been sending fake initiation letters from the Rex Factorem too. Seb was gloating that he got an official one, though.”

“So, how do we find out?”

“Apparently, the Rex Factorem is having a meeting soon. I’ll see if I can find out about it.”

“I need to be there,” I say, folding my arms.

“We need to be careful,” warns Xander. “Danielle is right. You have no idea how powerful some of these guys are. Or at least their families.”

“I’m going to find out who killed George, even if it means going head-to-head with this old boys’ cult.”

“This isn’t a game, Eva! I’m being serious, these people are dangerous.”

“So am I!” I say defiantly. “Now, are you going to help me or not?”

Xander shakes his head lightly. “Fine. I just hope you know what you’re getting us into.”

So do I, I think to myself.

I sit bolt upright. It must be the middle of the night. It’s still pitch black through the window with only the moon casting its light on Beecham’s walls. A notification on my phone woke me.

Xander: Couldn’t sleep so kept digging. Listen to this!

2:33 a.m.

It’s a link to a true crime podcast that shares forgotten crimes and buried conspiracy theories.

A teaser episode was posted eight years ago. I click the link and the full caption appears:

LOCAL GIRL JANEY PRATCHETT FOUND DEAD IN RIVER CHERWELL.

I put my headphones on and snuggle down in bed. I press Play. Maybe now I’ll get some answers.

It’s a sad truth that there are many deaths labeled as suicide or accidental deaths that were, in fact, murder. So, why have we chosen to highlight the case of Janey Pratchett, a young woman who died more than two decades ago in the center of Oxford? Because this is a clear-cut case of Town versus Gown. The body of Janey Pratchett was discovered in the River Cherwell, mere meters away from the gates of St. Thomas’s College, Oxford. Janey didn’t study at the University of Oxford, but she was bright, pursuing a career in nursing at the time of her death. She also had a new baby. The father was not named on the birth certificate, but the family claimed he was a member of the Rex Factorem Society. For those who are not familiar, this is the Oxonian society of the elite of the elite. If any students at Oxford began the feud between academics and locals, you can rest assured it was the Rex Factorem.

The Rex Factorem would have been mortified to think a “Town” like Janey was in a romantic entanglement with one of their members. They were destined to marry into wealth, power, and privilege. The Pratchett family argued their case to the Oxfordshire police, but whether the police were paid off or simply chose to believe the Gowns, the death of Janey was never investigated as suspicious.

Now, perhaps Janey was a jilted lover and she did make the sad decision to take her own life.

But would your opinion change if I was to tell you that she died the same night as the Rex Factorem annual society dinner?

And would it pique your interest if I was to tell you that the Rex Factorem annual society dinner took place at none other than St. Thomas’s College?

That brings us to the end of our Too True spotlight on Janey Pratchett. Tune in next week for the full episode. Until next time, keep it real, keep it true!

The podcast ends and I quickly scroll through the comments underneath. Several people have posted on the fierce Town-versus-Gown tensions. They all believe Janey was murdered. A few people asked about the baby. There are no further episodes from Too True.

I hit the Contact Us button.

Dear Too True team,

I listened to your podcast on Janey Pratchett and I think you’re right, it was a cover-up. Did you ever make the full episode? I can’t go into details right now but please could you send me any further information you found when investigating Janey’s death? I think she could be the key to solving the murder of someone close to me.

I really hope I hear from you soon. Thank you in advance!

Eva

Who knows if they’ll respond, but I’ve got to try.

I stare up at my board, wishing for a sign. How on Earth does Dad do this?

I don’t have one prime suspect. All I seem to be doing is adding more lines of inquiry. So many leads, and so few answers.

My head is a muddle of questions.

But right now, I need to sleep.

My interview with Professor Bernard is in less than seven hours.

I need to switch my brain back to interviewee mode.

Solving George’s murder is a big reason I’ve stayed here, but so is my promise to Mum. I came to Beecham on a mission and nothing is going to stop me.

CHAPTER 23
DECEMBER 9

Slayer 21741: Can anyone believe that Beecham is still going ahead with interviews? Think they should have stuck to virtual interviews like the majority of the other colleges.

Dec. 9, 9:13 a.m.|700+ views, 160 likes

Reply: Slayer 17667: George would still be alive.

Dec. 9, 9:14 a.m.|650+ views, 350 likes

Reply: Slayer 18181: Maybe the tutors wanted to lower their workload?

Dec. 9, 9:14 a.m.|550+ views, 100 likes

Reply: Slayer 21741: They only did it because of that Access Scheme bullshit. Is this really making Oxford more accessible?

Dec. 9, 9:14 a.m.|400+ views, 170 likes

My interview with Professor Bernard is at 9:30 a.m. and I’m determined to wear my actual interview outfit for this one. Professor Bernard is the main reason I wanted to study at Beecham, and this is my chance to prove to her why she should offer me a place here.

I’ve spent months preparing for this.

My first interview went well, but Professor Bernard has the final say, I’m sure of it.

She’s the one I need to impress.

I quickly send Lily a text to see if she’s OK after everything that went down yesterday and then switch off my phone. I don’t bother reading the latest OxS notifications. Even the thread about Beecham’s choice to revert back to in-person interviews boils my blood. People are trying to discredit Professor Bernard’s access scheme and they’re hiding behind the argument that going back to in-person interviews is a backward step for equality.

All this talk about virtual interview weeks making getting into Oxford more accessible is a load of rubbish. It’s just a bunch of private-schooled posh people being clueless about what it’s like to study in the average state-school classroom. I’ve read the forums of students who had to take virtual interviews last year. Some of them couldn’t even find an empty classroom in their state schools to conduct the interview and had people literally walking through the background of the most important conversation of their academic life. Bet that wouldn’t happen at Reapington. They’d probably give them a room with a coffee machine in it and walls lined with posters about staying calm and pausing before answering questions.

And that’s before you even take into account what it’s like to be Black and from a state school. How could you know if Oxford is a place you want to spend the next three years of your life if you haven’t seen it? You need the chance to experience what a bubble Oxford is to decide if it’s a place you’ll feel comfortable. Before I came here, I had an idea of what it would be like from reading stuff online, but it’s not the same as being here.

Yes, it’s exciting walking around college imagining tutorials and debating with brilliant minds. But there’s no denying it feels like an entire world away from my inner-city London life. For all the hundreds of brilliant minds, the diversity of lived experiences is narrow compared to the real world. Where is the variety of traditions, cuisines, cultures? Everything feels so olde-worlde English here. I mean, my mum loved all that stuff, and yet it still makes me feel uncomfortable at times. And that’s on top of the fact that many of the students have grown up completely ignorant about the impacts of casual racism and aren’t even aware that Oxford might feel alienating to others. Or maybe some of them are aware and just don’t care.

Professor Bernard opens her office suite door with a smile. “Hello, Eva, come on in,” she says, and gestures for me to sit on the sofa.

“You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders,” she says.

“I’m fine,” I reply.

“Are you really?” she asks, with genuine concern. “As I said, if you would feel more comfortable postponing your interviews, we will understand, and it won’t impact your chance of gaining a place. I appreciate you and George were very close and this must be a terribly conflicting situation for you.”

“It is,” I say. “But I want to do this. George would have wanted me to.”

“I agree,” she says, and I wonder what makes her so sure she knew what George would want.

“I’m sorry if I seem flustered,” I say, trying to get my game face back on. “I read some posts about interview week before I came in and it riled me, but I promise I’m very focused and want to do my best.”

“Oh?” says Professor Bernard. “What were the posts about? I’m curious.”

“The access scheme and whether it really does level the playing field,” I say. No point pretending.

“I see. And what side of the debate do you fall on?”

“Neither,” I say. “I believe in equity over equality. While the intention of the access scheme is to create equity of opportunity, in reality it just creates more inequality.”

Professor Bernard tilts her head in a silent code for me to elaborate.

“I think the access scheme is well intentioned and helps people on it, like Lily. But the scheme isn’t for every person from those communities. It isn’t dealing with the underlying systemic racism. In fact, it creates another barrier to entry for people who are underrepresented and not part of the scheme, like me, thereby creating a new form of privilege. Which, in turn, creates an even more fierce rivalry between people of the same underrepresented community.”

“So, do you feel like you have a heightened sense of competition with Lily as a result of the access scheme?” asks Professor Bernard.

“Well, yeah,” I admit. Why deny it?

“Is there anything that could have been done differently, do you think?”

“Not in the current way the program runs, no. I applied and didn’t get it. Lily applied and did get it, and now she has an advantage over me. A scheme that was designed to deliver equity has, in fact, hindered me further. By its very nature it is part of the problem of exclusivity,” I say. I didn’t realize quite how pissed off I was about this until I started talking about it. “The problem is,” I say, getting into my stride, “the access scheme just increases the number of groups of people. The private-schooled, the state-schooled, the Towns, the Gowns, Black students on the access scheme, Black students not on the scheme. It doesn’t actually tackle the underlying problem, the innate human need to segregate people into boxes.”

“There are definitely deep-rooted issues in how society considers diversity,” agrees Professor Bernard. “The access scheme was certainly not designed to create a new form of privilege,” she adds, her voice tinged with disappointment. “I’m sorry it has made you feel this way. I will reflect further on that, and I’d welcome more discussion.”

Professor Bernard’s cheeks have flushed, and I can see I’ve rattled her by being critical of her program.

Maybe I should have said nothing.

The access scheme is her baby, the project she’s gone out on a limb for.

But I can’t change who I am.

Or how I feel.

“For an institution with this much private wealth and expert brainpower, it baffles me that we still haven’t achieved equity for students,” I say, undeterred.

Professor Bernard nods. “I agree entirely. And believe me, this access scheme is still in its infancy. It’s important that the debate not end here and that the program continue and evolve.”

“Is that why you kept this interview week going after what happened to George? So that it didn’t seem like Beecham was wrong to create the access scheme and shift back to in-person interviews?”

Professor Bernard looks a little taken aback by my directness, but that’s me—I am nothing if not direct.

“Partly,” she says. “And also to respect George’s parents’ wishes.”

“They asked for interview week to continue?” I ask.

“His mother, actually. For you.”

“Me?”

“We spoke about it when we were arranging the memorial. She said George had gotten into a big fight with them over you. He was worried about how you’d react when you found out about his connection to Glanville. That you’d think he’d used nepotism to get into Beecham. He wanted proof that his dad hadn’t bribed the college to offer him a place.”

My head is spinning.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that,” she says. “At any rate, George told his parents not to interfere with his application to Beecham. He didn’t want to risk you not being allocated an interview if he was, given it’s rare for two applicants from one state school to get into the same college.”

“So, I got my interview here completely on merit?” I ask, the words spluttering out.

“Yes, absolutely,” Professor Bernard says, looking shocked.

I let out a little half gasp, half cry. I can’t help it. “I’d been worrying that George had…”

Professor Bernard smiles at me gently. “No, it was the complete opposite.”

I suddenly feel overcome by emotion. I’d been trying to push the doubts away since finding out George was a Glanville, but now I see how much mental energy it has been zapping from me.

“Which leads us nicely on to why we’re here. Shall we get talking about literature?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling. “Please.”

“As you’ve no doubt gathered,” says Professor Bernard, “I like to keep my interviews very informal and see where the time takes us. So, if you could talk to me about anything in literature that fascinates you, what would you choose?”

Yes!

This is my moment.

“Well,” I say, sitting up straight on the sofa and crossing my legs. “I’ve always been fascinated by how children from different backgrounds and life experiences are portrayed in literature. In particular, I’m intrigued by how orphans are fictionalized in both Dickensian and Romantic literature.”

Professor Bernard’s smile fades from her face with every word I say.

“Eva, is there any other topic you’d like to discuss?” she asks.

“Er…”

“I’m afraid I had the very same discussion yesterday,” she says, “and it would feel strange to repeat. My interview style is very much to make every interview as unique as the candidate.”

Lily?

Is she talking about Lily?

She must be.

What a snake!

“Actually, Professor, I’d really like to stick to this topic. I’ve spent months wanting to talk to you about it. In fact, that’s the only reason Lily knew about—”

“I never said the candidate was Lily,” says Professor Bernard, shifting awkwardly in her chair.

“I know you didn’t. But it obviously was her because she’s the only one I told. Talking about orphans in Dickensian literature and drawing on your early research was my idea,” I say, and even I can hear how desperate I sound. “I can’t believe she stole my interview strategy! I told her right after George died. She said she was distracting me from grief but really … I can’t … I spent so long researching—”

My pulse is racing.

I can’t catch my breath.

I see black dots in the air.

“Just breathe, Eva.”

“I’m fine,” I say, steadying myself. “I just want to carry on.”

“I was worried this might happen,” says Professor Bernard quietly, and for a brief moment, I think she’s believed me. But then with a heavy sigh she walks over to her door. “Eva, it’s completely understandable that your emotions are heightened after George’s death. I think it might be best to pause the interview there for now.”

“This isn’t about George! It’s about Lily, she—”

“Eva, I hear you,” she says. “I’ve taken everything you said very seriously and I will follow up with Lily on this matter too, but Eva … if I may … I am simply worried that this interview process is putting undue stress on you. Not just because of George, but also … you’ve explained—quite eloquently—how you feel the access scheme has inadvertently created an unhealthy rivalry between you and Lily.”

I can’t believe this!

“Thank you for sharing all this with me today,” says Professor Bernard. “I think it is in everyone’s interest that we park this conversation for now.”

My legs drag my feet toward the door. She holds the door open for me, and I walk past her without a word. What more can I say? She thinks I’m emotional because of George, and I am, but it doesn’t mean Lily didn’t stitch me up, and I’m pissed at her too. But Lily interviewed first, so if anything, I seem like the copycat!

Fuck, I’m fuming.

Maybe a virtual interview would have been better.

Then I would never have met Lily.

Either way.

Virtual or not.

I’m screwed.

CHAPTER 24
DECEMBER 9

Slayer 17644: Love that photo @Slayer18181. Eva seeking solace from Dr. Peters after Lily’s arrest. Was he mentoring both Black mixed-race girls?

Dec. 9, 9:32 a.m.|250+ views, 74 likes

Reply: Slayer 11048: Token diverse interview slots!

Dec. 9, 9:50 a.m.|100+ views, 20 likes

Reply: Slayer 14283: Wow, the pressure to meet the EDI quota is ON!

Dec. 9, 10:05 a.m.|80+ views, 15 likes

I.

Have.

Literally.

Had.

ENOUGH!

I ring Dad but he doesn’t pick up.

Eva

Call me

10:10 a.m.

My phone pings with the latest OxS update and this—this—is the last straw. HOW did Slayer 18181 get this photo of me leaving Dr. Peters’s office yesterday after Lily was taken in for questioning?

The only person in the corridor was James.

Did James upload this?

Is James Slayer 18181?

But that doesn’t make sense.

Only current students with a university email address can get a full slayer account that allows you to post messages on the OxS forum.

How has he managed it?

Someone must have given him access to their account. Either that or he’s feeding one of the students his intel.

Actually, that’s more likely. That little creep would do anything to get into someone’s good books. All he cares about is looking cool.

Before I have time to decide whether I should confront James or not, Dad calls me back.

“So, how did the interview go?” he asks. “That good or that bad?”

“Lily killed it,” I grumble, as I walk through the college grounds.

“What?” asks Dad. “Start from the beginning.”

I sit down on a bench in the back quad and tell him everything. About Lily’s tip from Dr. Peters and how she used my interview strategy that I shared when she was “comforting” me after George died.

“And Professor Bernard just decided I was too emotional to continue!” I say, exasperated. “She didn’t even believe that Lily took my idea!”

“Hmm, it doesn’t sound like she gave any opinion,” says Dad.

“I know what she was thinking,” I say. “It’s exactly what I was worried about. Lily’s getting favored because she was on the access scheme.”

“Well, hold on,” says Dad. “I don’t think Professor Bernard is doing that.”

“Ugh! Why are you taking her side?” I yell.

“Eva, I’m not, I’m just—”

“Don’t you get how stressful this is? Why can’t you just have my back?” I ask, trying not to cry. Even Dad doesn’t believe me!

“I’m always on your side, Eva,” he says, “you know that. And the only reason I agreed to you staying at Beecham is because I know how important this is to you, and how hard you’ve worked. I know how much effort you put into preparing for these interviews. I know you did your research on Professor Bernard because Professor Bernard was a big part of why you even wanted to go to Beecham College in the first place. You told me how she fights for everyone’s voices to be heard equally, right? Right?”

“Yeah,” I say, sniffing.

“So, trust your gut, Eva. Professor Bernard asked for time to get all the facts. Just like I have to in my investigations. You believed in her. Hold on to that. And give her a chance to believe in you too, just like I do.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say.

“All right. I’ve got to go. Are you going to be OK?”

“Yeah.”

“OK, speak later. Oh, and Eva, one last thing. Leave this to Professor Bernard, all right? Don’t go confronting Lily over this.”

I can hear someone calling Dad in the background.

“Eva?”

“I’m good,” I say, avoiding his question. “Bye, Dad.”

I hang up and slip my phone in my pocket.

“Sounds like there’s been some S-L-AAAAYING going on.”

“Shit, James!” I jump up as James appears from behind the bench. “How long have you been standing there?”

James shrugs. “Long enough,” he says.

That’s so fucking creepy, but then why should I expect anything else from a guy who posts hearsay on OxS?

I should call him out on it. Here. While we’re alone.

“So Lily made your knockout strategy look mediocre? What a bitch,” says James.

“Don’t even think about telling anyone,” I say. “I know you’ve been—”

“Lily wasn’t formally charged by the police, by the way,” says James, throwing me off. “Mum told me.” He puffs out his chest like he thinks he’s cool and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, though, Eva. They all still think she did it. No one is looking at you anymore. And that’s without anyone knowing she played you. So, what are you going to do now? You going to have it out with her?”

He’s enjoying this. Like he thinks we’re bonding and he’s my new best friend.

I feel like giving him a piece of my mind about his OxS antics.

But it’ll have to wait.

I need to see Lily. Now.

“Hey, where you going?” he asks as I walk away.

“It’s none of your business,” I snap back.

I think of myself as a fairly levelheaded girl.

Yes, I speak my mind.

But I don’t flip out.

I’m reasonable.

Well, maybe not today.

Because Lily needs to be put in her place. I should never have let my guard down and trusted her. She had me completely fooled. And if I was wrong about her, maybe she is capable of murder.

I reach our stairwell and storm up the three flights of stairs to her room. My sensible black interview shoes clatter on the wooden steps. The staircase gets narrower and more spirally as I go up, with only thin slit windows that an arrow could fit through. The echoey boom of my footsteps thunders up the stairwell.

I reach her door and clench my hand into a fist.

I bang on the door.

“Open up, Lily, it’s me!” I shout.

I bang on the door again.

And again.

She must be out. Or avoiding me. No doubt she’ll try to tell me it was my fault somehow. God, I don’t know why I ever trusted that fake, Cartier-wearing, smug princess.

I think about waiting in my room until I hear her come back, but I’m too on edge to stay still.

I go back downstairs and head toward the library.

I can’t cope with this bullshit right now.

I need an escape.

I love libraries. I’ve grown up in them. Mum used to take me to our local library every Saturday morning and I’d sit and read for hours. Then, when I got older, I’d helped out the librarians. After Mum died, I’d started spending even more time in there. Dad called it my second home, and right now, I wish I were home.

I hurry through the main quad and reach the stone archway that’s hugged by a thick fir hedge, which leads through to what looks like a secret garden. In fact, it is just a much smaller quad I haven’t noticed before. Behind it is a modern building that has been made to look like it is of the same era and design as the rest of the college’s stone buildings. But the security camera and door sensors give it away. It’s Beecham’s new state-of-the-art library—I recognize it from the online college prospectus.

There’s a gold plaque by the entrance: KINDLY DONATED BY THE GLANVILLE FAMILY.

My stomach knots. The website didn’t say that. George didn’t say that. George gifted Beecham an entire library. Mum got me books from the library because we couldn’t afford to buy books at the rate I read them. I can’t even imagine the sort of money that allows you to commission a library. Money made by enslaving my people.

The more I think about it, the more my head hurts.

I walk up to the door and swipe my Beecham key card. The door automatically opens.

It’s not a library, it’s a Tardis.

A spiral stairwell leads down into a double-height basement. The walls are lined with books. I set myself up at one of the tables and the lamps flick on automatically. It’s unnerving sitting in such a vast library all by myself. In term time I bet this place is heaving with students at every desk, but no one except the students who volunteered to help with interviews are here, and even some of them left after what happened to George. The library feels like a haunted manor.

A perfect place for a murder.

I can’t concentrate. I gather my things and walk to the center of the library, which is a vast atrium centered around a spiral staircase that goes all the way to the fourth floor. At the heart of the basement is a large interactive kiosk that allows you to search for a book and find its location.

What should I search for?

I tap in “Janey Pratchett.”

No entries.

I search for “local news.”

College History.

Top floor.

Guess I’m going up.

The College History section is by a big bay window that looks out over the symmetrical college front quad. I have a perfect view from here. It’s breathtaking. Or at least it would be if there weren’t police tape fencing off the central walkway, which houses the statue of an enslaver and marks the spot of my best friend’s murder.

This library would be a spy’s dream. The perfect place to observe the comings and goings of the college. I’m even higher than the cloisters, and from this vantage point, the missing gargoyle is so obvious it’s a wonder it wasn’t classified as the murder weapon from the moment George’s death was determined suspicious.

The roof of the cloisters is flatter than it looks from ground level. I can see how the students use it as a platform to walk along and perform pranks on Glanville’s statue.

The murderer might have done that walk to dislodge the gargoyle.

Why haven’t the police swept it for evidence?

Then I remember the rain.

If the murderer had left a clue, it would have been washed away by now.

I sigh out of sheer frustration at the way Detective Crawford has mismanaged this investigation. Dad would never be so narrow-minded.

What if there’s never any justice for George?

My phone beeps with a new text.

Xander

Check OxS NOW!

11:33 a.m.

Slayer 18181: It appears Lily Earnshaw has committed intellectual theft in an attempt to get into Oxford. She’ll stop at nothing …

Dec. 9, 10:45 a.m.|400+ views, 83 likes

Reply: Slayer 17644: Small fry for a murderer.

Dec. 9, 11:01 a.m.|200+ views, 40 likes

I swipe past Slayer 18181, who I am now utterly convinced is that snake James. Who the fuck does he think he is? The latest messages are in a thread about the Rex Factorem. My heart skips a beat. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Slayer 17644: Agenda for extraordinary Rex Factorem meeting still unconfirmed but apparently alumni and students returning for it …

Eva

Can you get us in?

11:35 a.m.

Xander

Maybe. Meet me in my room.

11:36 a.m.

I sprint down the library stairs and race back toward the quad.

“EVA!” James screams, running up to me.

“For fuck’s sake, will you quit stalking—”

“The police are coming for you,” James pants.

“What? Why?”

“Don’t tell Mum I warned you!” James sprints off in the direction of the JCR.

I take out my phone to call Dad but it’s too late. Heavy footsteps are coming toward me. A small crowd of students are lurking on the other side of the quad and the familiar sound of phones snapping pictures for OxS returns.

The police are here.

“Have you finally decided to take me up on my offer to help you find George’s killer?” I ask.

Detective Crawford doesn’t even blink. “Eva, I need you to come down to the station with me.”

“Oh, dear God, please tell me you aren’t going to unofficially not-arrest-me-arrest-me again. What more do you want?”

“This is not a joke, Eva,” says Detective Crawford. “There has been another incident and I require you to come to the station. You can either come willingly or I will arrest you.”

“What incident? What’s happened?” I ask.

A weight pulls down on my stomach.

“Has there been a second murder?”

CHAPTER 25
DECEMBER 9

Slayer 18181: Blue lights at Beecham again today. Another interviewee down. This time the victim is Lily Earnshaw.

Dec. 9, 12:01 p.m.|900+ views, 212 likes

My heart pounds out of my chest as it takes what seems like an eternity for Detective Crawford to answer my question.

“No,” she says. “There has not been another murder.” Her words linger, like she feels she should add yet. “However,” she continues, “the situation has changed and we have reason to suspect your involvement in a serious incident. I need you to come to the station with me.”

“What kind of incident?”

“You can either come of your own accord or, given the circumstances, I will have to formally arrest you.”

“What kind of incident?” I repeat. “You’re not scaremongering me into going with you. I have a right to know what you think I’ve done.”

“Lily Earnshaw was pushed down three flights of stairs.”

Holy shit.

“And she survived?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s great! But … you’re not seriously suggesting I had something to do with it.”

“Let’s continue this at the station,” says Detective Crawford.

You have got to be kidding me!

My phone beeps. It will be Dad. But I can’t answer it now. I wish he were here. This is all so messed up. What choice do I have but to go to the station?

I bite my tongue to stop myself from crying as I let Detective Crawford put me into the back of her police car. I can’t believe I’m on this merry-go-round again.

Surely this is a nightmare.

It can’t be real.

But as the door slams shut and a bunch of students crowd round the car trying to take photos, I know OxS will once again remind me that this is very, very real.

When we arrive at the station, Detective Crawford leaves me in an interview room for what feels like forever.

“Sorry to keep you,” she says when she finally sits down to question me.

“I’m well aware of delay tactics,” I say and roll my eyes.

“I was checking on Lily’s status,” says Detective Crawford. “She was very fortunate to only get a sprain and deep bruising. Though the hospital is keeping her for observation in case of a concussion.”

“This has nothing to do with me.”

“Tell me, Eva,” she says, leaning across the table, “how did your interview with Professor Bernard go?”

Uh-oh.

“I don’t see how that is relevant.”

“Really?” asks Detective Crawford coolly. “Because Professor Bernard said you left in quite a ‘worked-up state’. That you felt Beecham was showing favoritism toward Lily. Is that right? Do you feel envious of Lily? Jealous?”

“No! I don’t care about Lily,” I say.

“Oh,” says Detective Crawford. “I see.”

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that,” I say, realizing how bad that sounded. “I just mean I care about finding George’s killer.”

I curse myself for getting sucked into this conversation. I know what delay tactics are and still I fell for it. All my emotions are heightened. Even my leg is tapping because I’m so agitated. A classic guilt reflex. Textbook guilty conscience.

“Where did you go after your interview with Professor Bernard?”

“To the back quad.”

“And then where?”

My gut feels like it hit the ground.

This cannot be happening.

“I’m being set up,” I say, more to myself than Detective Crawford.

“Like you were for George’s murder?” Detective Crawford leans back in her white plastic chair. “It all sounds a little repetitive when you say it out loud, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not doing this,” I say, and fold my arms.

“Miss Dawkins, it would be much easier if you cooperated—”

“Did you ever stop to think that Lily might have done this herself? To take the heat off the fact she is the prime suspect in George’s murder?”

“Where did you go after you left the quad?” Detective Crawford says again, sternly.

I hold back the tears. “To Lily’s room—but she wasn’t there!” I cry. “And I went straight to the library.”

Detective Crawford nods at Constable Perry and I know what’s coming next.

“Wait, please. I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t do it. Why would I push her down the stairs? It doesn’t make any sense! If I wanted to hurt someone, I’d…”

“What?”

“Just check the CCTV footage of Beecham library. I swiped my key card to get in so there must be a record of that as well,” I say. “Or is checking alibis too difficult for you?”

Detective Crawford gives Constable Perry another nod and she leaves.

“Did you know, Eva, several studies suggest that young people who suffer the trauma of losing a parent can, in some cases, develop a great sense of responsibility to live up to the expectations of their deceased parent? And they’ll do anything to reach their goal. Would you say you can identify with that?”

Yes.

“Apparently,” continues Detective Crawford, filling the silence, “young people who feel this responsibility will stop at nothing to fulfil the expectation.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, putting my hand on my knee in a desperate attempt to stop my leg twitching.

“What was it you said to me the first time you were in this room? Just after your best friend had been murdered and you were covered in his blood?” Detective Crawford pretends to rack her brains, but she clearly remembers whatever it is she wants to say. “It was your mother’s dying wish that you followed your dream to study at Oxford, wasn’t it?”

Yes.

“And what was the next thing you said?” she continues with a wry smile. “Interviewing at Beecham was all George and you dreamed about and, I think—now, this is a direct quote—he’d kill me if I messed up this chance.”

“You’re repeating back to me an off-the-record conversation in the hours after I’d discovered the body of my best friend,” I say, pleading with her to see reason.

I wish Dad were here.

“Are you saying you didn’t mean it? Those words were false?”

She’s twisting words. “I’m saying … it’s not relevant.”

“Oh, but it is,” says Detective Crawford, shuffling in her chair.

She’s enjoying this.

“You see, perhaps, Eva,” she says, “you took those words too literally. Perhaps you felt you had to get into Beecham at any cost. Perhaps you saw Lily as a threat. Perhaps you thought you’d be better off if she was out of the picture. Perhaps—”

“No!” I say and dig my nails into my palm.

Detective Crawford holds her hands up. “Perhaps you just wanted to talk to Lily, but things got out of hand. All the stress of the past few days caused you to have a moment of rage. And you pushed Lily—”

“I didn’t do it!” I slam my hand down on the interview table and then immediately replace it on my lap.

“Ahem,” coughs Constable Perry, reentering the room. “Eva’s alibi checks out.”

Detective Crawford’s mouth semi-parts, her jaw locked, dumbfounded. She stands up and sweeps past Constable Perry. She actually looks annoyed. Like she wanted me to be lying.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Dawkins; you may leave now,” she says. She doesn’t sit back down. She just hovers in the doorway of the interview room. Waiting for me to come out.

“That’s it?” I say, gasping.

“That’s right,” she says sharply, and nods at the door.

My heart rate has slowed. There’s been a power shift. Now it’s Detective Crawford who is on the wrong foot.

“After this harassment, I think the least you could do is explain yourself,” I say, milking this moment for everything it’s worth.

“There was no harass—”

“Just tell me,” I say. “Who are your main suspects in George’s murder right now?”

“We are processing the evidence,” she says matter-of-factly. “You can leave now,” she adds.

I stand up

“So, basically … you’re saying you hauled me into an interview room with no evidence and you’re not even apologizing?”

For once, Detective Crawford has nothing to say.

“Can’t you see I could be an asset to you?” I ask. “I think the note—”

“Thank you for your … well-intentioned but misguided offer, Miss Dawkins,” says Detective Crawford. “You can rest assured my team and I have the investigation under control.”

She’s delusional.

“So, to be clear,” I say, my temper rising, “you started off thinking I killed George. Then you thought it was Lily. But Lily has now been targeted herself. You thought it was me targeting her, but someone has told you how wrong you were, again. So now you have one murdered student, one near miss, and no suspects, and yet you think you have this investigation under control?”

“Your logic is based on a false premise, Miss Dawkins,” says Detective Crawford coolly.

“And what’s that?” I ask.

“You’ve assumed that I no longer consider you a suspect for George’s murder.”

There’s a knock at the door before I can give her a piece of my mind. A young officer pops her head in the room.

“There’s a call for you, Detective,” she says.

“I’ll call them back.” Detective Crawford sighs.

The young officer coughs uncomfortably. “It’s … er … Inspector Dawkins.”

“Tell him I’m working and that I’ll call him back when it’s convenient,” she says through gritted teeth.

“He … er … he said you’d say that,” says the young officer, blushing. “And, well, he said to say…”

“What? Spit it out, Jessica.”

“He said … if you don’t stop this interrogation immediately, you won’t have any work to do, permanently.”

I snort before I can help it.

Jessica disappears. Detective Crawford groans. “Your father is—”

“The most talented detective in the force, fast-tracked to inspector. You could use his help, and mine.”

“Enough! Respectfully, you forget where you are and who you’re talking to. Daddy won’t always be around to save you, so for your own sake and for the sake of getting justice for George: Stay. Out. Of. My. Investigation.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s an official warning,” she says firmly. “You might fancy yourself a detective, like your overbearing father—”

Who does she think she is calling him overbearing?

“—but this is nothing a young, inexperienced girl should be involving herself in.”

For once I am stunned into silence.

“Now, if you don’t mind,” she says, putting on a large fake smile so it appears to everyone in the lobby that all is well, “I have to take a call, which will no doubt be an even more intolerable conversation than this one.”

I text Dad.

She’s not heard the last of this.

Eva

Crawford’s got nothing on me. Give her hell.

2:21 p.m.

CHAPTER 26
DECEMBER 9

Slayer 17644: Working theory: Lily killed George. Eva loved George. Eva tried to kill Lily.

Dec. 9, 1:02 p.m.|1,200+ views, 450 likes

Reply: Slayer 20145: Nah. My theory is: Eva killed George. Lily found out. Eva tried to kill Lily.

Dec. 9, 1:30 p.m.|1,000+ views, 400 likes

The winter breeze feels good on my face as I step out of the police station. It’s warmer than earlier. I look up at the sky. I think it’s getting ready to snow.

Flashes of snow fights in the woodland behind school come flooding back to me. George bombarding me with snowballs until I surrender. Pinning me to a tree and kissing my icy lips. He could melt my heart in an instant.

“You’re a free woman!” says James, putting an arm around my neck like we’re BFFs. Of course he came here, lurking, hoping to get the latest goss.

I shrug out of his hold.

“Is that Xander?” he asks, pointing up the road toward town.

I think it is. He’s jogging toward us, his rucksack bobbing up and down. Xander raises his hand, recognizing us, and picks up the pace.

What’s happened now?

I don’t think I can handle much more today. I force myself to walk down the sloped entrance in front of the police station and start jogging up the road to meet him.

“How did you know where I was?” I ask an out-of-breath Xander.

He holds up his phone.

It’s a group chat with the Reapers.

Seb

I’m in boys! Rex Factorem sent out an urgent note today. Check if you got an invite to the meet today. If you know you know.

12:12 p.m.

I gasp. “Is this for real?”

“Yep,” says Xander. “It’s why I came to find you.”

My heart is racing. I could really do with making a breakthrough in this case. Detective Crawford might have warned me off, but she hasn’t scared me off.

James’s phone is in his hand, and looking up, I’m sure he’s taking a photo of Xander and me. I’ve had enough.

I reach over and knock the phone out of his hand.

“Chill, Eva!” says James.

He stoops down to pick up his phone, but Xander quickly grabs it first.

“Hey!” James cries, but I ignore him as Xander hands me the phone.

I delete the photo James took of me, no doubt to put on OxS.

“That’s intellectual property theft!” he says, half joking, but I’m in no mood for this.

“You’re lucky I didn’t delete your entire camera roll,” I say, throwing the phone back at James with enough force to wrong-foot him.

He shrugs. “It’s all backed up on the cloud.”

“And OxS.” I sigh.

“Huh?” he says and puts his phone back in his pocket.

“What are you talking about?” asks Xander, looking as confused as James.

“I know you’re Slayer 18181, James.”

“Are you serious?” cries Xander.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” James says, running his foot along the edge of the stone slabs on the uneven pavement.

“If you wanted to hide who you are, you shouldn’t have posted pictures where you were the only third party,” I say. “You’re not as smart as you think you are.”

James sighs. “Come on, then, which post gave me away, Inspector Dawkins Junior?”

“This isn’t a game, James. You’re posting about real people and real events.”

“Surely you aren’t against free speech and exposing the truth?” he asks.

“Let’s go,” I say to Xander. I don’t want to listen to any more of this bullshit.

“Oh, lighten up.” James sighs when I don’t give in to the bait. “It’s just some harmless fun.” He laughs.

“There’s nothing harmless about gossip and lies. Do you realize your posts are interfering in the investigation?!”

“Oh, don’t get on your high horse, Eva,” he says. “You hardly play by the book, and as for ‘interfering in the investigation’, you’re one to talk.”

My nostrils flare. “Who the hell gave you a login, anyway?” I ask.

James sniffs the air. “Do I smell a whiff of jealousy?” he says with a grin that is so smug I just want to slap it right off his face.

“A Reaper, I assume?”

“What makes you think that?” James asks.

“Because you haven’t done a single post about a Reaper, despite having gossip about them,” I say.

James is so transparent.

“The moderators don’t like posting about the Reapers—it’s like an unspoken rule.”

“See, that’s my point,” I say, my arms flapping in exasperation at James’s inability to see the havoc he’s causing. “You don’t care about exposing the truth. It’s just a pathetic attempt to feel important.”

“It’s harmless banter,” he says.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” I say. “Putting this stuff on social media won’t make you more popular. Whoever they are, they’re just using you.”

James’s cheeks turn a little rosier.

That comment must have gotten under his skin.

Good.

Maybe he’ll think twice before he—

Snap, snap!

“Are you taking the actual piss?” I say, covering my face.

“I thought we could be friends,” snarls James. “But you’d rather we were enemies. Fine. You’ll see how difficult I can make life for you.”

Snap, snap!

“Get that camera out of my face,” says Xander through gritted teeth. “Who do you think you are? The paparazzi?”

“I think I’m going to be the last interviewee standing,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’ll get a photo of you two as you skulk away from Beecham at the end of the week. Maybe in the back of a police car, eh, Eva?”

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” I say.

“It’s slay or be slayed, and you’re going down, Dawkins. Bernard thinks you’re sabotaging her access scheme. The police think you’re a murderer. Maybe you should go home. While you still can.”

Xander grabs James by the scruff of his neck. “You complete ars—”

“Leave it,” I say, putting my hand on Xander’s shoulder. “He’s not worth it.”

“Whatever.” James shrugs out of Xander’s hold and slopes off.

Once we’re sure James isn’t following us, we stop at a bench overlooking the River Cherwell that runs alongside Christ Church Meadow.

“So, what else do you know about this Rex Factorem meeting?” I ask Xander. “When is it happening?”

Xander looks at his watch. “Um. Right now.”

“What?! What do you mean, it’s happening right now?!” I gasp. “You could have led with that, Xander!”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I was just thrown by finding out about James being on OxS.”

“Forget about him. It’s time to see what the Rex Factorem are up to.”

Xander takes a deep breath in and exhales.

He’s shook.

“You don’t have to come with me,” I say. “Don’t you have an interview soon?”

“Fuck my interview. Getting into Oxford isn’t the be-all and end-all.”

“You sure?” I ask. “It was for me. It was for George, I think.”

“You guys had different pressures. George wanted to be the first Glanville to stand up for change. You are the change. You both wanted to come here. Me? I’m here to please everyone else. To please my parents. To justify Reapington giving me a scholarship. When you’re at Reapington, applying to Oxford or Cambridge is expected, and I wasn’t going to go against Seb either. But I never stopped to think if I’d be happy here. If it’s what I wanted. Coming to Oxford just felt like the right thing to do.”

“Doesn’t it still feel like the right thing?”

“Helping you is the right thing to do—and it’s what George would have wanted. I wish I’d had a chance to tell him I was sorry for being weak and following Seb rather than sticking up for him. If we find who killed George … then maybe I can forgive myself.”

I nod. Xander feels he owes George a debt.

“We go together or not at all, deal?” Xander says.

“Deal. So where is this meeting happening?” I ask.

“That’s just it—I don’t know, exactly,” he says, pulling a note out of his back pocket. “I managed to slip it off Max without him realizing. It’s in code.”

“Code in ancient Greek,” I say, running my fingers over the note. “This feels different to the ones Xander found under his door the night he arrived. The paper. It’s weightier. And the ink … It looks shiny, not a matte gold like the others.”

“I thought the same,” says Xander. “Which means the notes George got probably were fakes.”

“Or deliberately disguised by a Rex Factorem member,” I say. “We can’t be sure. Not until we’ve been to this meeting and find out what they know. What does it say?” I ask.

“I, that was wash’d to death with fulsome wine.” Xander shrugs.

“That’s a line from Shakespeare’s Richard III,” I say. “George Plantagenet, who was murdered in wine.”

“Murder. What if the meeting is about George?” says Xander.

I nod. “George Plantagenet betrayed his brother Edward IV. Could it be a link to Ephialtes?”

“Maybe,” agrees Xander.

“And the wine. It’s thought that George Plantagenet was drowned in a butt of wine. Could the wine be a clue to the location? A wine bar, or perhaps a wine cellar?”

“Good shout but that hardly narrows it down much.” Xander sighs. “There must be thousands of cellars in Oxford!”

We run through a million possibilities, google everything we can think of on our phones.

“This is fucking hopeless,” I groan, and throw the note in the air. It lands face down on the path.

“That symbol, the emblem on the back. Is that the Rex Factorem logo?” I ask.

“I don’t think so,” says Xander. “They use a gold crest.”

It takes up most of the back of the card, almost too big for a logo. And it’s odd—it’s not of anything recognizable. I don’t think I’ve seen it anywhere but it feels familiar …

I rip the card into pieces.

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?!” says Xander.

The design isn’t what’s familiar; it’s the thickness of the lines, the arcs and contours.

“It’s part of the code,” I say. “Another puzzle. Just like on the notes George received.”

I lay out the pieces and rearrange them into ancient Greek letters.

“It says pigs on the beach.” Xander shrugs.

“Beecham,” I say.

“Huh?”

“Don’t you see?” I roll my eyes. “Beach. Ham. And Beecham does have a wine cellar…”

Xander laughs. “Of all the places, given everything that’s gone on over the past few days, why would the society choose to hold the meeting at Beecham College?”

“Maybe hiding in plain sight?”

“Or the sheer arrogance of being untouchable,” says Xander.

“That’s if we’re right about the wine cellar.” I sigh.

“True,” says Xander. “But what else do we have to go on? We can’t just sit here. Then we’ll definitely miss the meeting. We should check out Beecham’s wine cellar. It’s our best and only guess.” He kneels down and opens his rucksack. “We’ll be needing these.”

He pulls out two long ruby-and-black gowns, similar to what the Reapers wore at dinner on my first night here, but grander. There’s a crest with the letters RFD sewn in gold.

It’s a Rex Factorem Daturus gown!

“Where did you get that?” I gasp.

“I stole them.” He shrugs. “See, I told you networking’s useful. I found out where they store them at the party.”

My phone pings with new OxS notifications. I’d been ignoring them up until now.

Slayer 20145: Beecham staff member has confirmed Eva has been cleared of attempted murder of Lily. She has an alibi.

Dec. 9, 3:58 p.m.|650+ views, 180 likes

Reply: Slayer 18181: Or maybe she’s blackmailing another interviewee to act as her alibi.

Dec. 9, 4:37 p.m.|250+ views, 20 likes

“Is that James? Again?!” says Xander. “That fucking weasel.”

“Forget him,” I say. “Besides, we have a meeting to crash.”

“Fine. But James can’t get away with this,” says Xander, shoving the cloaks back in his rucksack.

“Oh, I never said that,” I say, typing out a text to James.

He needs to know when enough is enough.

Eva

If you don’t quit shit-stirring on OxS, I will tell everyone you’re Slayer 18181.

4:41 p.m.

CHAPTER 27
DECEMBER 9

Slayer 18181: Apparently Eva has been sending threatening texts to the other interviewees to stay out of her way.

Dec. 9, 4:42 p.m.|400+ views, 86 likes

Just when I think James can’t sink any lower, he manages it. But I don’t have time to deal with him right now.

Xander and I jog across Christ Church Meadow right up to the castle-like grandeur of St. Thomas’s College and hastily make our way up a cobbled alleyway, which leads back to the High Street. I swerve to avoid a cyclist mounting the pavement like they own the place. A narrow street behind the Covered Market brings us to Turl Street, and Beecham is in sight.

The wine cellar is under the grand hall, that much I know. It’s not a mealtime, so the hall doors might be locked, but we have to try.

We race up the steps, two at a time.

Locked.

“Maybe I’ve sent us on a wild goose chase.” I sigh. “Maybe Beecham’s wine cellar isn’t the right location.”

Xander is about to leave when I notice the small door at the back of the lobby leading into the hall.

“Check this out,” I say.

It’s used by the kitchen staff.

I think back to all the Austen novels.

Upstairs, downstairs.

The era in which these buildings were built would have been a time when a wine cellar was used by the staff. It makes sense the staff stairwell would lead there.

“OK, maybe we should—”

I push the door and ignore the STAFF ONLY gold plaque.

The stairs are super narrow compared to the stairwells in the rest of college. There’s a thick rope to hold on to as you descend, and I walk on tiptoes to stop the heels of my interview shoes clattering on the steps.

Once I reach the lower floor, I gasp. I can see now how vast college must be. This basement isn’t just the footprint of the grand hall, but all the interconnected college buildings. It’s a maze below a maze.

Thankfully the wine cellar is obvious.

“Hey!” hisses Xander, following behind me. “I wasn’t gonna stop you. I was just going to suggest we put these on first.”

He pulls out the cloaks.

“Thanks,” I say sheepishly. I didn’t mean to be so hotheaded.

Xander finds a place to stash his rucksack while I look around. There are two large wine barrels guarding the big wooden door of the cellar. It’s the only way in. But once we open the door, we’ll be sitting ducks.

“They’ll spot us instantly,” I say.

“Just keep your head down and walk behind me. We’re in the cloaks, we’ll blend in.”

I nod, not convinced by the plan. But I don’t see an alternative. It was always going to be risky.

Xander pushes open the door and I brace myself. The wine cellar is empty!

Well, empty of people. There are racks and racks of wine. I think the college may have more bottles of wine than books in the library.

I slowly start to walk through.

“Fuck! I guess we were wrong.” I sigh as I head back toward the door.

But I stop.

“Xander, can you hear that?” I whisper.

He nods.

“It’s distant but it’s voices,” I say, my heart racing.

“Or maybe it’s close, but a thick stone wall is between us…” whispers Xander.

Anywhere but an Oxford college, that would be a wild assumption. Here, in this maze of fifteenth-century stone buildings, it’s entirely plausible there is a secret room somewhere off the underground wine cellar.

We start running our hands along the stone walls, looking for anything out of place.

I signal to Xander. “Here!” I mouth.

The stones are a different shade of limestone yellow.

They’ve been worn. Touched. Pressed.

I push lightly on the stones.

That’s all it takes for them to swing open and reveal a hidden passageway.

A perfect place for a murder.

“Ready?” he mouths.

I shake myself down and get rid of the thought. I’m doing this for George.

The voices are louder now. This must be the right place.

Slowly and quietly, we make our way down the unlit stone passage, using the lowest setting on my phone torch to guide my way.

I step over a dead mouse and try not to retch.

“This can’t be the Rex Factorem’s first-choice location?” I whisper.

“They obviously didn’t want to be interrupted,” whispers Xander.

Sorry, boys.

The passage opens out to a vast medieval vault with grotesques carved into the cylindrical stone wall. I can see the society members now. I fumble to turn off my phone torch. There are steps that lead down to a lower level, and the Rex Factorem are all crowded there. The area is lit by thick candles around the edge. The shadows on the curved stone walls are distorted, making this creepy hideout even more unnerving.

The passage itself runs around the top edge of the vault, acting as a balcony or gallery to observe the arena-type area below. It’s essentially underground cloisters fit for the home of Count Dracula.

Everyone has their backs to us. They’re all wearing their robes with their hoods up, making them look like a cult. Xander puts his hand on my shoulder and then gestures for me to get lower.

We both hunch down so that we don’t cast any unwanted shadows as we slowly creep around the gallery.

“We need to get to the other side so we can see what they’re all looking at,” I whisper.

He nods and follows my lead.

We’re about a quarter of the way around when he taps my shoulder again. He points and straight away I see them.

It’s Seb and Maximilian, but there are two boys huddled next to them. Maybe they are interviewee Reapers applying to other colleges.

On either side of them are older gentlemen. I don’t know why but I imagined the Rex Factorem full of current students, but this is so much bigger than that. This cult is for life. A lot of alumni must have traveled to Oxford especially for this meeting. I look around at the faces I can see. Some even look a little familiar. Politicians, social influencers. There are lots of students too, way more than would be around during holiday time. They’ve come back to uni just for this. Whatever this meeting is about, it must be important.

Someone is addressing the members from a platformed area. “Gentlemen, we must move on to the next point on the agenda,” says a cloaked figure.

They must be in charge. President of the Rex Factorem, maybe?

“We need to see who that is,” I mouth to Xander, signaling for us to keep moving farther around the gallery.

Xander shakes his head. “They’ll see us. We can listen from here.”

The leader continues addressing the crowd. “This year we have some extraordinary calibre in the cohort of interviewees, and the motion is to grant several of them a chance to join the Rex Factorem Society now, in advance of their Michaelmas freshers’ week.”

I can’t tell if their voice sounds familiar because I know them, or simply because it’s posh and Oxonian.

I need to get a better look.

“What if they don’t get through interview week?” says a voice from the crowd.

A silence falls.

Suddenly they all burst out laughing, and it echoes around the gallery. I don’t get what’s funny. Then the penny drops, and I cannot believe this elitist, nepotistic bullshit.

Of course they know the students will get in—their families will make sure of it.

I start moving round.

“Wait,” spits Xander, but it’s too late. I’ve made up my mind. I want to see these arseholes’ faces.

“Sebastian, Lucian, Bailey, and Maximilian, we will not go lightly on your initiations. The trials are designed to test you to the limits, to prove you have the balls to do what is necessary and keep your mouth shut. You must not tell even fellow Rex Factorem faculty what your challenge is. But the rewards for your commitment and loyalty will be great,” the president continues, as I creep forward to get a better look at this moron. “You will have unparalleled access to the world’s most connected entrepreneurs, businessmen, and politicians through this brotherhood. A brotherhood that is for life, not just for college. You will have to complete your challenge by the end of interview week, no questions, no exceptions, no excuses. Should you be successful, we will guarantee your place here at Oxford at any college of your choice, not necessarily the one you interviewed with.”

So they place the newbies like pawns in all the Oxford colleges to make sure they keep up their numbers.

The Rex Factorem is an infestation, a disease plaguing the colleges, the last relic of the old, exclusive, monocultural Oxford. And what are these challenges that are so bad that they must remain secret even among other members? Could George’s death have been a challenge?

The president is walking around the platform, and for a moment his face almost comes into view, but then he turns to answer a question from an unmistakable blond I’ve come to loathe—Seb. The president’s hands fly up wildly like he’s angry about something.

I can’t quite hear what Seb is asking—the acoustics aren’t as clear from up here on the balcony.

Seb looks shaken.

The president is grilling him about something.

Did he fail his challenge?

“It’s George Danvers’s fault!” cries Seb loudly and signals with his hand for the members to get behind him.

“George Danvers was a traitor!” shouts someone from the crowd.

“Silence!” a voice commands. There’s definitely something familiar about it.

I watch as the president turns toward Seb. My heart is beating so fast I clutch my chest. One of the candles casts a long, distorted silhouette and I gasp.

Even elongated and warped, there’s only one person I know with an eagle-handled cane.

“Tell me everything,” demands Dr. Peters.

He leans toward Seb, who clears his throat. He whispers something into Dr. Peters’s ear.

Without warning, Dr. Peters’s cane clatters to the floor, and he looks like he might be about to fall.

Suddenly a firm hand grips my right shoulder.

But it’s not Xander.

I’ve been found.

I try to defend myself, but they’ve pulled my arm behind my back.

I kick my legs, but a second cloaked figure grabs hold of them.

There’s nothing I can do.

I can’t escape.

I’m trapped.

CHAPTER 28
DECEMBER 9

You have reached the voicemail for … Eva.… Please leave a message after the tone.

“Get off me!” I scream.

“Shut up!”

A rough hand covers my mouth as I’m dragged down to the platform, the cult members roaring. I’m kicking with everything I’ve got but it’s no good. Their grip is too tight.

A murderer for hire?

“Burn her at the stake!” mock some of the hooded members.

At least I think they mock. I can well imagine that once upon a time this vault was used by their ancestral thugs to execute innocent women. They don’t seem worried that I can see their faces. Their arrogance makes them think they are untouchable, but I’m clocking their facial features to identify them once I’m out of this hellhole.

It’s so hot and stuffy down here I feel lightheaded.

Some of them are yelling abuse.

“Murderer!”

“State scum!”

They dump me on the floor. There are Rex Factorem members around me in all directions. There’s no sign of Xander. He must have stayed hidden.

Some of the members are prodding at me, like I’m some kind of specimen.

I look at Dr. Peters.

Horror flashes across his face.

He’s recognized me.

He bolts.

He doesn’t want to be seen here. Or he doesn’t want to witness what this mob is going to do to me.

Someone grabs my braids and I scream out in pain. “How did you get in here? Who did you come in with?” he demands.

“No one,” I shout. There’s no way I’m giving up Xander.

“We have a traitor in our midst,” one of the boys cries, and spins around pointing fingers at his fellow members.

“Another Ephialtes,” snarls Seb. “Who told you we were here? What do you want?”

A grumbling, muffled silence sweeps across the vault. Everyone wants to know what I know, but I’m not here to answer their questions. I’m looking for answers of my own.

“The notes,” I say. “The notes George received before he died. Were they from the Rex Factorem? Did you challenge him?”

“The Rex Factorem? Challenge George? Of course not, you stupid bitch.” Seb laughs.

I can feel the rage building inside. I shrug out of the grasp of the thug holding me and restrain myself from kicking him in the balls.

“Why on Earth do you think we’d want a blood traitor like George in the Rex Factorem?” Seb continues, firing up the other members, who start jeering and calling George a traitor again. “He wasn’t fit to be a Glanville.”

“If it wasn’t the Rex Factorem, was it you?” I ask Seb. “Going rogue?”

The members let out a collective ooooh and Seb glares at me.

“Who’s Janey?” I ask, before he can retort.

“Oh, not this again,” Seb says, groaning. “I said it to your dead boyfriend, and I’m saying it to you. I don’t fucking know, and I don’t fucking care.”

“George asked you about Janey before he died?” I ask. Finally, something useful is coming out of Seb’s mouth.

“Yeah. He showed up at the Rex Factorem party and started harassing me about it while I was trying to talk to the lovely Tessa.”

My stomach knots thinking about what Seb did to Tessa. How dare he talk about her! Doesn’t he feel any remorse?

“How much do you know about Euripides?” I ask, forcing myself to stay focused on finding out what the Rex Factorem know about George’s death.

“A lot more than you.” Seb laughs. “But I don’t have time to tutor you, Eva.”

“George had a note with him on the night he died with a quote from Euripides. Sounds like something the Rex Factorem would do.”

“How do you even know that?” asks Seb. “Are you making this up, Dawkins?”

“What were you whispering about with Dr. Peters?” I ask.

A general muttering spreads through the room as they realize I’ve uncovered the identity of their cult president.

“Who do you think you are, hijacking our meeting and demanding answers?” Seb says, color rushing to his face. “I see through you. You think you’re some cool little hotshot detective but you’re a nobody. You sneak into our meetings, desperate to be a part of something, but you’re too common to even breathe the same air as us. This whole thing about George having notes from the Rex Factorem is farcical.”

“I’m telling you the truth,” I say, not rising to Seb’s little speech. “George was receiving notes. I’ve read them.” I look around the room. “It was about the sins of the fathers.”

Seb looks around at his fellow members.

They all stare at me blankly.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Seb sarcastically. “Are we supposed to care?”

But behind all the mocking, I can tell that underneath he really is completely clueless. He honestly doesn’t look like he has any idea what I’m talking about or who Janey is.

I feel deflated, confused.

“You know what, I’m sick of your little games,” spits Seb. “Perhaps a Rex Factorem challenge could make you tell us how you found us here? Get the truth out of Eva Dawkins. By any means necessary.”

My eyes bulge. The Rex Factorem doesn’t hold the answers to George’s murder but they could still be a bunch of sadists.

I need to change the subject and I need to do it fast.

“Look, someone killed George and we have no idea who. Will you help me figure out who Janey is or not?”

“Awww. Is Inspector Black Junior out of her depth?” sneers Seb. “And she’s come to beg for the help of the almighty Rex Factorem?”

“Or maybe you’re not worried, Seb, because you are the murderer,” I say, unable to hold my tongue.

Seb turns to two of the members standing behind him.

“Get her out of here,” he says. He’s not even in Rex Factorem yet, and already he bosses them around.

How much power does his family have?

Each step is heavy under the toxic stench of this misogynistic bullshit, but at least I get to leave.

Seb mutters something about my skin under his breath as I walk past.

Not just elitist but racist too.

My legs tell me to go, get the hell out of here, but I can’t.

“I could bring you down in a heartbeat,” I hiss.

Seb laughs. “I’m terrified.”

I lean in close, so only he can hear, and whisper in his ear, “I know why George left Reapington. And I know what happened at the Rex Factorem party. I’ve got my eye on you.”

Seb grabs the back of my robe and pulls it hard, semi-strangling me. “Careful, Dawkins,” he says. “You could be next.”

The vault erupts with oohs and laughter, several members patting Seb on the back.

A chill runs down my spine. “Fuck you, Seb. You might have a rich daddy, but my dad is the best detective in the country, and he can’t be bought. Remember that,” I say.

“Oh, look at you, using your influence. Maybe you do have some Oxford blood in you after all.”

“You and I have nothing in common,” I snap. “You’re just a spineless son of a billionaire, living in your daddy’s shadow, who bullies and abuses others to hide your own insecurities.” I start to walk away but something tells me to turn around.

Seb slaps me so hard my jaw clicks.

Silence deafens the vault.

Even this bunch of rich pricks weren’t expecting him to hit a woman.

Whispers break out.

“That’s fucked up.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not getting done for this.”

The horde of members starts moving toward the exit. I regain my footing and look Seb square in the eye.

He shrugs. “At least now there’s no witnesses.” He takes a step toward me—then someone jumps in between.

Xander.

With one powerful swing, Xander knocks Seb flying.

Seb crashes into the legs of several onlooking Rex Factorem members. They don’t stop to help him. Guess it’s every man for himself.

Xander doesn’t hang around. He grabs my hand and pushes us through the crowd, back up the staircase to the galleried pathway that led us here.

There are so many different routes, and this time no voices to follow. The rumble is behind us. A few of the Rex Factorem loyal to Seb are chasing us. Hunting us.

“This way,” says Xander.

Still feeling disorientated from when Seb hit me, I let Xander guide me back through the cobwebbed wine cellar, up the winding, narrow stone stairwell to the entrance to the dining room.

We stumble down the steps onto the quad, still holding hands.

“I think we’re good,” says Xander as we make it to the old buildings near my room. “Are you all right?”

I grip hold of him, and he pulls me into a tight hug.

“Let me look at you,” says Xander, pulling away and touching my cheek. It still burns where Seb slapped me. “I’m sorry. I knew Seb was a dick but … he’s a monster.”

I start to shiver; flakes of snow are beginning to fall.

“Let’s go,” I say, leading Xander back to my room.

This whole thing is a mess.

We need to figure this all out. Fast.

CHAPTER 29
DECEMBER 9

Slayer 14283: Eva needs to watch her back. She’s making enemies faster than the speed of a bullet.

Dec. 9, 7:02 p.m.|100+ views, 28 likes

I sit at my desk and start ringing Dad when yet another message from OxS pops up.

I hang up before it connects.

“He should know,” says Xander, who’s sitting on the edge of my bed. “We need to tell him about this.”

“We do,” I say. “We totally do.” I am not letting Seb get away with what he did. “But not right now. I’ll call him in the morning.”

“Isn’t it, like … better to do it while it’s all fresh?” Xander points at my face. “Your cheek is…”

“Yeah, it hurts.” I hold my phone out. “Can you take some photos? That will be evidence.”

“Maybe we should go to the police?” suggests Xander, using my phone to take pictures. “Just about the meeting tonight. We don’t need to tell them everything.”

I shake my head. “Detective Crawford has a habit of not believing me,” I say. “I’ll tell Dad tomorrow. He’ll handle it.”

“Must be nice, having a dad on the inside,” says Xander as he hands my phone back.

Something about what Xander said makes me feel uncomfortable. Like he’s implying I have an advantage over others because my dad is in the police. But it’s not a privilege to have police officers take you seriously.

“Dad follows the rules,” I say to Xander. “He just doesn’t treat anyone differently because of their skin.”

“So, you gonna call him?” Xander runs his hands through his hair and I suddenly realize: He isn’t asking me to call Dad because of me. He’s scared and wants the police here too.

“I promise, I’ll do it first thing in the morning,” I say. “But if I call him now, he’ll drive straight here and demand I come home, and then I won’t ever get to figure all this shit out. Can you just give me one more day? Please?”

Xander nods. “In that case, let’s get on and solve this shit,” he says. He looks up at my suspect mind map on the wall above my bed.

“It looks a lot easier in the movies,” I say.

Dad never complains about how much brainpower and energy this stuff zaps from you. How are you supposed to stay sane when you hit nothing but dead ends? I can’t believe the Rex Factorem are actually as clueless as the police about what’s going on. I take a deep breath and try not to cry.

“Perhaps today hasn’t been a total loss,” says Xander. “After all, we have found out some new information. So, come on, walk me through it. What do we know?”

I run over it, point by point.

- George was receiving notes, and the one the police discovered on his body coaxed him to the Glanville statue, where he was murdered.

- Lily saw an outline of the person George was meeting at the statue (aka the murderer?) but the police said there is no evidence of them on CCTV by the porters’ lodge. This means they might not have left college and could be in Beecham (interviewee, student, academic, or staff).

- The notes talk about revenge, justice, and Janey Pratchett. The podcast links Janey to the Rex Factorem.

- The Euripides quote about the gods visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children could refer to George paying for the sins of Sir H. C. Glanville, or maybe the sins of George’s literal father—a suspected member of the Rex Factorem. Looking at the dates, he could have been studying at Oxford when Janey died.

- The Rex Factorem is WAY bigger than we imagined. It spreads throughout Oxford’s academics as well as old members who are active enough to attend meetings on short notice.

- The notes are meant to look like a Rex Factorem calling card. However, it wasn’t the Rex Factorem officially writing the notes to George—the paper and ink are different.

- It wasn’t Seb either—he couldn’t have acted that well. He clearly knew nothing about them.

- However, Seb has definitely been drugging girls and assaulting them, and he knows we’re onto him. (This could make Xander a target—be careful around the Reapers, especially Maximilian, who was at the Rex Factorem meeting.)

- While we can’t link the notes to him, Seb has a motive for George’s murder, because George knew Seb had drugged Tessa and was going to persuade her to come forward. So, for now, Seb is still a suspect.

- A new potential suspect is Dr. Peters. He is the president of the Rex Factorem. This makes his shady reaction to Lily graffitiing the Glanville statue even more sketchy. We need to figure out whether he’s connected to all this. If he didn’t do it, maybe he knows who is sending the notes, aka the actual murderer.

I flop back onto my bed next to Xander and press my hands over my eyes. We’ve been going round in circles on different theories for nearly five hours!

“How can we have learned so much today, and not be any closer to the truth?” I sigh.

A sudden creak from across the room grabs my attention.

My bedroom door handle is moving.

There was no knock.

“It could be Seb,” whispers Xander, picking up my bedside lamp to use as a weapon and moving behind the door.

I don’t have anything nearby.

I jump to my feet and clench my fists.

The door swings open.

“It’s just me!” squeals Lily, swaying unsteadily on her crutches.

“Sorry,” I say.

“For fuck’s sake, I’ve already been attacked once,” says Lily, looking visibly shaken.

“I’m sorry, honestly,” I say, helping her sit down on the bed. “I wasn’t expecting visitors at this time of night.”

“Clearly,” she says, doing a double take as she realizes Xander’s here.

“It’s not like that,” I say, blushing. “He’s helping me figure out who killed—”

“Oh my God, Eva, what happened to your face? Were you attacked too? We should go to the—”

“I’m fine, Lily,” I say. “Don’t worry about it. Xander’s got it covered. In fact, we should get back to it. Unless you needed something? Did you remember who pushed you down the stairs?”

“I didn’t forget,” says Lily. “I didn’t see them. No, I came to … I came to say I’m sorry. I heard the police questioned you and I knew it wouldn’t be you. Even if you did tell everyone I committed intellectual property theft. You owe me an apology for that.”

“Don’t you mean you owe me one?” I say, taken aback.

“Maybe I should go,” says Xander.

“No, stay,” I say. “Better we have a witness.”

I was pissed at Lily for what she did, but now I’m even more pissed that she’s interrupted Xander and me working through the suspects.

“Firstly, I didn’t post that on OxS,” I say, not adding that I know who did post it. I don’t trust Lily farther than I can throw her.

“Of course you didn’t post it; you’re not a student. Only students can post.”

She’s so patronizing, but I hold my ground and keep my information to myself.

“But I don’t disagree with the post. You did steal my interview strategy.”

“You are such a hypocrite,” she says. “I mean, are you seriously telling me you didn’t study Wordsworth after my tip?”

“Well yeah, you told me to.”

“So how the hell is that any different from me talking about orphans in literature?”

“It’s entirely different!” I gasp, exasperated. “You told me what the general theme of Dr. Stedall’s interview was. In the depths of my grief over George dying, I told you an idea I’ve been personally working on for months and you stole it from me.”

“I thought we were exchanging tips as friends,” she says.

“We are not friends,” I say coldly.

“Maybe you did push me down the stairs,” she says.

“Now you’re being ridiculous.” I roll my eyes.

“Well, someone did. Probably the murderer!” Lily’s eyes are full of fear again. Suddenly, bickering about interviews seems so petty and insignificant.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” I say. “It must have been so scary.”

“Honestly, Eva, you have no idea how awful my day has been.”

I listen as best I can as Lily tells me all about her awful day. And it is awful. She could have died.

But my day’s been awful too. First, I was interrogated by the police and then by the Rex Factorem! The longer I nod along to what Lily is saying, the louder my inner Eva screams.

I scream and scream and scream.

It’s wrong that George is dead.

It’s shit how Detective Crawford isn’t doing enough.

I hate the Rex Factorem and what it stands for.

I hate Seb and what he did to Tessa.

I hate that I still care that Lily fucked up my interview.

I hate that I feel so conflicted about interviewing at Beecham.

The world is fucked.

My head is fucked.

And why can’t I figure out WHO KILLED GEORGE?!

“Eva? Are you OK?” asks Xander.

I put my hand to my face. It’s wet.

I must have been silently crying.

“I’m sorry, I think I just need to be alone. It’s all … It’s all just got to me.”

“We’ll go,” says Xander.

“But—”

“Come on, Lily,” says Xander, reaching for her crutches. He looks back at me. “Call me if you need anything.”

I nod.

I want to say more, but I don’t have the words.

Xander closes the door behind them and I let out a big breath.

I lie down on the bed and close my eyes. The horrible experience from earlier replays like a horror movie. The terror that it was the end. That I wasn’t going to make it out of there. That they were a cult of ruthless elites ready to kill to protect their society secrets. That I was never going to fit in at Oxford. A failure. A fraud. A pawn. A poster child for an inclusive Oxford that doesn’t really exist.

I was kicking, trying to break free. My eyes were darting around, trying to commit to memory the faces of as many Rex Factorem members as I could so I could identify them in a lineup. My dad would make sure there was a lineup.

Dad.

I’d wanted Dad to come and save me.

Dr. Peters flashes into my mind’s eye. He was gawking at me, and I remember he made a quick exit as soon as he realized I’d seen him.

But why did he look so angry at Seb? What did Seb whisper in his ear?

I didn’t deserve what happened to me tonight.

And I sure as hell deserve some answers.

Dr. Peters is scheduled to interview me tomorrow—but maybe I should be the one interviewing him.

I switch the light off.

Dr. Peters—I’m coming for you.

CHAPTER 30
DECEMBER 10

Slayer 18181: Dr. Peters spotted with Tessa out of office hours. That’s all three female interviewees. Need I say more

Dec. 10, 10:29 a.m.|400+ views, 90 likes

“I’m coming to get you. Right now,” says Dad over the phone.

I knew telling Dad what happened last night would be game over for my time at Oxford.

But I’m still glad I told him.

Even now, as he gives me the mother of all lectures.

Because I know it’s just because he cares.

And he’s not wrong. Xander and I did put ourselves in more danger than we realized yesterday.

“Dad, I get it, OK,” I say, when he finally comes up for air. “I’m telling you because I agree.”

“You should have called me last night!” he yells.

“No. Because I knew you’d have come straight here.”

“You’re damn right I would have,” he says. “I’m on my way right now.”

“I know. I knew you’d come and get me. There’s just something I have to do first.”

Dad stops talking, but I can hear the cogs whirring.

“Eva,” he says, trying to keep his voice measured. “Tell me you’re not still planning to do your interview with Dr. Peters this morning.”

“I have to,” I say calmly.

“EVA!”

“Dad, I get why you think this is a bad idea—”

“It’s a terrible idea!”

“See, this is why I waited to tell you. By the time you get here, I’ll already have done it.”

“Eva, you’ve just told me Dr. Peters is the head of an underground cult. I forbid you to go and see him alone.”

I take a deep breath in.

“He’s not going to hurt me,” I say. “He ran away last night when I recognized him.”

“I’m not taking that chance. You’re not taking that chance,” says Dad.

“Yes, I am,” I say determinedly. “I need to. I need him to look me in the eye and take some sort of responsibility for what his gentlemen’s club has become. I need to find out if he knows something about George’s death.”

“Leave that to the police!” he cries.

“Dad, I’m doing this,” I say. “All I’m asking is that you trust me to handle myself. Please. I’ll see you soon, OK?”

I hang up before he can talk me out of it.

I make my way over to Dr. Peters’s office, keeping my head down.

I’m fifteen minutes early when I arrive.

I knock but there’s no answer.

Dad’s words rattle around in my brain. What if I am wrong and Dr. Peters does attack me?

No.

I’m doing this.

I have to.

I let myself into his office before I can change my mind.

Whoa.

This is intense.

The portraits hanging in Dr. Peters’s office are watching me. There is barely an inch of bare wall anywhere. He has framed certificates and photos of himself plastered all over them. A kind of affirmation that one day he’ll be great enough for somebody to paint an oil portrait of him to hang in a gold frame on the wall of Beecham.

I slowly walk across his large art deco rug, taking in the photos, pausing by ones of Dr. Peters as a much younger man. Before he was a tutor at Beecham. Maybe a student at Beecham. Maybe around the time he became president of the Rex Factorem.

Seeing a twentysomething Declan Peters in ski boots surrounded by empty beer glasses is weird. He’s clearly traveled the world. Clearly comes from money.

You wouldn’t guess at first, because he doesn’t have expensive taste in clothes—his suits are mediocre at best—but looking at his collection of fountain pens and paperweights, he knows how to spend money. More money than I imagine a university scholar makes for a living.

I scan the photos, hoping to find something—and bingo.

That’s George’s dad.

A much younger version of George’s dad. So much so, it’s almost like looking at George.

My heart hurts as I realize George will never be that twenty- something.

There’s a third boy with them, with perfect blond hair and a smug smile, who is unquestionably related to Seb. I would bet big money that Seb’s dad put in a call to the Beecham principal before interview week. Nepotism on every corner.

The background of the photo is familiar too.

It’s a pre-refurbished JCR.

This must have been taken at Beecham.

So that’s how they know each other.

Dr. Peters, George’s dad, and Seb’s dad all studied together at Beecham.

I hear the door slam behind me. “Apologies for keeping you waiting, but I see you made yourself comfortable.”

Dr. Peters does a double take when he sees the bruise on my cheek, but he doesn’t ask me anything about it. I’m sure he can guess how it happened and no doubt wants complete deniability.

“You’re friends with George’s dad,” I say, nodding at the photo. “Although you didn’t seem too friendly at the memorial. What were you arguing about?”

“Would you like to take a seat?” Dr. Peters says in a not-so-subtle hint for me to step away from his wall of photographs.

“Were you both in the Rex Factorem? Of course, you must have been, that’s a silly question. How long have you been president of the society?”

“Who’s doing the interview here?” asks Dr. Peters, not looking at all fazed as he sits behind his desk.

“I think we’re beyond that, aren’t we?” I say. “You’ve already decided that you aren’t going to recommend me for Beecham.”

Even when Dr. Peters smiles, I can see the cruelty in his eyes. “I’ve been doing this job for many years,” he says. “I know when someone is a good fit for Beecham, and when they are not.”

“Would George have been?” I ask.

“Yes,” says Dr. Peters solemnly.

“And is Lily?”

Dr. Peters’s eyes narrow, like he wants to aim a sniper rifle right at my forehead.

“Why were you helping her cover up what she did on the night George died? When you’re clearly an old friend of George’s dad?”

“As you said, Miss Dawkins, this interview was futile from the start.” Dr. Peters gets to his feet, his fingers pressed so firmly into his desk that all the blood leaves his fingertips. “You’ve come in here more interested in a career as a police detective than a future literary academic. You are not a good fit for Beecham, and I shan’t waste another moment of my time. Do see yourself out.”

“What really happened to Janey Pratchett?” I ask.

Dr. Peters looks frozen to the spot.

“Tell me, what do you know about her death?” I ask, taking a punt that as Rex Factorem president, he might know something.

“Janey took her own life,” says Dr. Peters sharply. “It was a tragedy, but no one was to blame.”

“Is that what you told her family?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“I didn’t even know the girl, or her family,” Dr. Peters protests.

“Are you sure about that?” I continue, unconvinced by his innocent act.

“That’s quite enough,” says Dr. Peters, slamming his hand on the desk. “If you know what’s good for you, you will stop asking questions about matters that don’t concern you.”

“But it does concern me,” I say, moving closer to Dr. Peters to show I’m not intimidated by his little threat. “George was murdered after he received that note. ‘The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.’ So that means the sins of George’s dad, who was your friend. And the notes to George also mention Janey Pratchett. So you can see why I don’t believe you when you say you have no idea what happened to her, right, Mr. Rex Factorem President?”

“I think it’s time you left,” says Dr. Peters, brushing past me to open his office door.

I stay where I am.

Dr. Peters glowers at me. “And not just my office,” he says. “Your time at Beecham is done.”

My eyes widen, but I stand firm.

“What happened to Janey was terrible,” says Dr. Peters, seemingly compelled to speak. “She was such a promising young girl, from a humble background—not so dissimilar to you—but alas, looking in on a life at Oxford, such a prestigious community, in which she didn’t fit, proved all too much for the girl. I’d hate to see you end up the same way.”

Dr. Peters’s true colors are all too clear. In his eyes, anyone who doesn’t meet the upper-class, white, prominent family standards of the Rex Factorem is beneath him.

“You think Oxford should be full of old white men, leading the less fortunate,” I say. “But Oxford isn’t like that anymore. All you have to do is read research papers from the past decade to see Oxford has matured. It has embraced the fact that diversity of thought drives learning, empowers us all.”

Dr. Peters scoffs, but I know I’ve hit a nerve.

“You’re threatened by that. Threatened by me.”

He grabs my wrist with surprising force. He’s stronger than he looks.

“Careful, Eva,” he whispers in my ear. “You’re out of your depth trying to play with the big boys. Leave now. While you still can,” he says and releases me.

I slump to the door, the flashbacks of last night in the vault all flooding back, threatening to overwhelm me.

“Oh, and one more piece of advice,” he says, with his disingenuous, condescending smile. “Keep your mouth shut about Janey. No academic wants to tutor a conspiracy nut, and I would hate for your chances at other universities to be compromised just because you didn’t meet the standards here at Beecham.”

“You’re full of shit,” I snarl.

He leans in close. “Miss Dawkins, I am one of the most respected academics in my field, with contacts in faculties across the country. Not to mention the president of the most powerful society in the world. Don’t push your luck any further, or I can—and I will—destroy you.”

CHAPTER 31
DECEMBER 10

Dad

Tell me what’s going on. Call me asap

11:05 a.m.

I hold back my emotions until I get to my room. Maybe Dad was right. I shouldn’t have confronted Dr. Peters alone. I let the tears run down my face and kick the edge of my desk.

How is this nightmare the Beecham interview week I longed for?

Everything I’ve done over the past few years was building toward this opportunity. Learning about Oxford. Buying into the dream that Oxford is a place for all to flourish and reach their potential. But is this the real Oxford? Underground elitist cults like the Rex Factorem? Creeps like James posting messages on OxS?

There’s a knock on my door. “Eva? It’s Danielle. Can I come in, please?”

I’m sure she has the skeleton key for the building, but she’s polite enough to ask. I could use a friendly face. I open the door and throw my arms around her.

Danielle stands very still, her arms by her sides. She doesn’t hug me back.

I pull away. “Sorry, I needed a hug. I just had the worst interview ever.”

“He didn’t hit you, did he?” she asks, her eyes bulging.

“No, this is Seb’s handiwork,” I say.

“Eva, what is all this?” she asks, staring at my murder board.

“Everything I know about George’s murder. I’m getting close, I can feel it.”

Danielle avoids meeting my eye and plays with her blond hair. “I’m so sorry, Eva. There is no easy way to say this, but I’m going to have to ask you to pack up all your belongings, please. Immediately.”

“Dr. Peters sent you, didn’t he?”

Danielle shuffles uncomfortably. “I’ve ordered us a taxi to the train station,” she says.

“There’s no way he’ll go through with his threat,” I mutter to myself as I think what to do, playing out all the different scenarios in my head.

“Why do I feel like I’m being used as a pawn at my own college?” Danielle asks.

“Because you are.” I sigh. “Danielle, there is so much you don’t know.”

“So tell me. What the hell is going on, Eva? Because in all my years studying and working at Oxford, I have never heard of an interviewee needing to be escorted off the premises during interview week. If word gets out, it won’t just be Oxford you don’t get into. No university in the country will want to take you. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help you.”

“Well, first, Dr. Peters is president of the Rex Factorem, and second, the notes George received weren’t from the society; they were fake.”

“How do you know?” Danielle gasps.

“Because I went to a Rex Factorem meeting last night—”

“You did what! How?”

“It’s a long story,” I say. “But the point is—”

“Eva, people have tried to infiltrate that society for decades, and you’re expecting me to believe you managed it in a matter of days of being at Oxford?” Danielle half laughs, disbelief etched all over her face. “Who helped you?”

“Xander got us in.”

“Eva, you’re taking too many risks. The Rex Factorem isn’t just elitist, it’s dangerous. Really dangerous.”

“I know,” I say solemnly. “I think the rumors are true. They were responsible for Janey Pratchett’s death and someone is seeking retribution.”

Danielle looks confused. “This has been dead in the water for a long time, Eva. Why would it come back to the surface now?”

“Because George wasn’t at Oxford until now,” I say, piecing it all together as I try to explain it to Danielle. “His father must have been involved somehow. The notes weren’t initiation challenges—they were death threats, claiming George must pay for the sins of his father. Someone who cared about Janey must be behind this. They must think that George’s dad was involved in her death. The dates add up and it’s the only motive that makes sense.”

“Have you told the police all this?” she asks.

“No, but I confronted Dr. Peters about it this morning. Don’t you see? He knows I’m onto him, so he’s trying to get rid of me. But I learned something else when I went to his office today.”

“What?” she asks. I think she’s starting to believe me.

“Dr. Peters was friends with George’s dad. They studied here at Beecham together, and if Dr. Peters is president of the Rex Factorem, you can bet George’s dad is a member too. The notes were about George paying for the sins of the fathers. At first, I thought they were about Glanville the enslaver, but I think they were referring to George’s dad. I think—or at least the murderer thinks—that George’s dad is responsible for Janey’s death.”

“You said all this to Dr. Peters?”

“He denied it, but he knows something. I’m sure of it.”

Danielle is about to speak when her phone rings. She looks out of the window. “The taxi is here. We should go.”

“Cancel it.” I sigh. “My dad is on his way. I’ll be gone soon anyway.”

“It’s for the best,” says Danielle. “And not just because of Dr. Peters. I think you’re too invested in all this. The accusations you’re making—You can’t just go around … I mean, Dr. Peters is respected.”

“I’m sick of the political bullshit in this stuck-up place,” I groan. “Dr. Peters wants me gone because he knows I’m close to the truth. That I’m close to exposing the Rex Factorem’s involvement in Janey’s death. How is it that rich people can get away with literal murder? Beecham preaches that it wants to change, show the world that the stereotypes are myths, that it’s a place for bright students from all walks of life. I’m holding Beecham accountable.”

“Eva, that’s a lovely speech, but—”

“Danielle, please don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve been through. Losing Mum. Losing George. I didn’t get to where I am just to quit now. Dad might be coming to get me, and maybe Dr. Peters is right—I’ll never study at Oxford. But for as long as I’m here, I’m going to spend every minute trying to get justice for George. If you need to tell your boss that you put me in that taxi, I’ll cover for you and say I made the driver go around the block. But to be clear: I am not leaving on Dr. Peters’s terms.”

A message flashes up on my phone.

Tessa

You still in college? Just had incredible chat with Dr. Peters! In my room if you’re around. SO EXCITED x

11:25 a.m.

I have absolutely no fucking idea what that could possibly mean, but I sure as hell need to find out.

“I have to go,” I say, putting my trainers on.

“Where? Home? Is your dad here?”

I give Danielle a look and she stops asking.

“You remind me of myself,” she says softly. “I lost my mum too. I know what it’s like to want to live up to the expectations of a parent taken too soon.”

Her words are so similar to Detective Crawford’s it makes me shiver.

Perhaps they both have a point.

“I want to help you, Eva, I do,” says Danielle, biting her lip. “But I’m worried you’re in over your head and you could be in danger.”

“I can handle myself,” I say. “And besides, what did you tell me when I arrived? It’s slay or be slayed. I’m here to slay.”

CHAPTER 32
DECEMBER 10

Xander

Finished my last interview. How did it go with Dr. Peters?

11:35 a.m.

Eva

Eventful …

11:36 a.m.

Xander

Wanna grab lunch and fill me in? Leaving with Reapers at 1.

11:36 a.m.

Eva

Just with Tessa, meet you in hall at 12

11:37 a.m.

I knock on Tessa’s door. She pulls it wide open and beams at me.

“I’m so glad you’re still here,” she says. Then she gasps as she takes in my bruised face. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

“Can I come in?” I ask, ignoring her question.

“Sure, why not? I should start taking appointments.” She laughs.

What is with her? She’s so giddy.

I step inside.

“Wow.” I gasp. Tessa has put up posters on every wall in her room, as well as draped fairy lights over her desk and hung a rainbow Pride flag above her bed. “Tessa, your room is amazing. Did you do all this?”

“Thanks.” She smiles. “After I took your advice and told Danielle about Seb and that I still wanted to stay and see interview week through, she suggested I try to make the place feel as much like home as possible. And now it is home, so I guess I’ll have to get used to putting everything up and taking it down each term.”

“What do you mean each term?” I ask.

“You know, the students have to vacate their rooms after each eight-week term,” she says, filled with a confidence I haven’t seen since the first day of interview week. “Was it you, by the way?” she asks. “Did you tell Dr. Peters about Seb drugging me? It’s OK if you did. I mean, you promised you wouldn’t but…”

“It wasn’t me,” I say.

Tessa shrugs. “Must have been Danielle, then. She was probably just looking out for me. And I’m so glad she did. Dr. Peters is awesome. He’s putting things right.”

Something about how Tessa is so “Team Peters” all of a sudden feels icky. It’s like how Lily always calls him “my mentor.” He’s charismatic for sure, but he’s the bad guy, and anything he’s done to convince Tessa that he’s “awesome” can’t be good.

“Putting things right how, exactly?” I ask.

Tessa sits down on the end of the bed and runs her hands over the duvet. “He said as long as I promised not to tell a soul—which means I’m swearing you to secrecy, Eva—Dr. Peters offered to guarantee me a place at Beecham to study English.”

“Are you serious?” I gasp with a mixture of disbelief and then the realization that I can totally believe it. “What did you say?”

“I said that I couldn’t study at a college with Seb. Dr. Peters said Seb would definitely get in thanks to his billionaire daddy, but Dr. Peters would make sure Seb went to his second-choice college. St. Thomas’s, I think. Dr. Peters said he could get in a lot of trouble for helping me, so I had to give him my word that I’d deny any knowledge of what he’s doing for me.”

I hardly dare ask but I need to know. “Tessa, did you agree?”

“Well, yeah, of course,” says Tessa. “Getting into Oxford has been all my family and I wanted since I was old enough to walk. After what Seb did, I felt like my dreams were shattered. But Dr. Peters has helped me find a way through. Now I can come to Beecham and be sure Seb won’t. Dr. Peters was horrified to find out what Seb did. He said the fact I still interviewed shows not only do I have the talent but also the tenacity to study here. He said that I shouldn’t feel pressure to disclose what happened and, in fact, said he completely understands why I don’t want to report Seb, as it would follow me around my whole life. And—”

“Tessa—”

“He said that if I decided not to say anything about Seb, he would use his influence as senior classics tutor to make sure I get a place here!”

“So you’re essentially saying Dr. Peters bribed you to stay quiet about Seb in exchange for a place at Beecham?”

Tessa frowns. “Why are you spinning it like that? It wasn’t a bribe. He thinks I deserve a break. Nothing can change what Seb did. Nothing can make it right. But he’s trying to help me make the best of a horrendous situation.”

“You don’t think it sounds even a little bit shady?” I ask.

Tessa’s cheeks flush. “We’re all good enough to study at Oxford if we make it as far as interview week. And after what Seb did, Dr. Peters feels that I shouldn’t have to jump through any more hoops. I thought you’d be happy for me. But instead, Eva, are you judging me?”

“No,” I say firmly. “I’m not judging you.”

“Good, because—Look, I don’t want this to come out wrong, because I totally get why we need access schemes, but just because someone goes to a private school doesn’t make getting into Oxford easy. Not all of them have the same influence as Reapington. I’m the only one from my school who got an interview for Oxford this year. Everyone is looking at me to secure their Oxford hopes. Both my parents went here. They’ve brought me to alumni barbecues since I was in nappies. And they’ve worked so hard, and sacrificed so much, to afford my education.”

“Tessa, honestly, I’m not judging you,” I say. “But I am judging Dr. Peters. This is not how Oxford does things.”

“Oh, don’t be so naïve,” says Tessa. “Loads of people cut deals with tutors to get places at Oxford. Dr. Peters told me as much.”

“Well, he would, because that’s what he wants you to think,” I say. “And I’m sure he has got a few students into Oxford, but he’s not like most tutors at Oxford. Dr. Peters is the exception to the rule.”

“Why the hell are you so against Dr. Peters, when all he’s done is be kind to me? Did your interview go badly—is that it? Are you jealous that he’s helping me?”

“I don’t think he is trying to help you, Tessa. I think he’s helping Seb.”

Tessa folds her arms. “How does any of this help Seb?”

“Well, does Dr. Peters’s offer stand if you go public with what Seb did?”

Tessa shifts uncomfortably and refolds her arms. “Well, no, because then Dr. Peters wouldn’t be able to get this done. But it’s my choice to stay silent. I know I could speak up and stop this from happening to other girls. But I don’t want to be defined as a victim, and I want to get into Oxford. If some good can come out of what Seb did that gives me an upper hand, then I’m taking it. And I don’t feel bad either.”

“I get that’s how you feel now, but what if you change your mind in a few months, or a year? Dr. Peters will have something over you. Do you see? That’s how he operates. Leverage, to always come out on top.”

Tessa shakes her head. “No, he was genuinely trying to help me,” she says, but she doesn’t seem convinced by her own words. “I mean, why would Dr. Peters be willing to cover for a rich kid who sexually assaults women?” she asks.

“Dr. Peters and Seb’s dad went to Beecham together and their connection runs deeper than just nepotism.” Tessa deserves the whole truth. “Dr. Peters is president of the Rex Factorem—they’re giving a few of the Reapers initiation challenges while they’re here. The society has basically guaranteed Seb a place at any Oxford college he chooses.”

The realization flicks a switch in Tessa and a fire forms in her eyes.

Dad

ETA 12:15

11:45 a.m.

The sound of Dad’s text coming through on my phone pulls Tessa from her thoughts. She stands up and begins violently ripping down her posters. She shoves some clothes in a bag.

“Fuck this place, it’s toxic. Corrupt! My parents might have loved Oxford but not me. I’m not staying here another minute.”

“Tessa, I didn’t tell you all this so you felt you had to abandon your dream to study at Oxford,” I say. “Dr. Peters doesn’t represent all of Oxford. He’s the exception. He isn’t Oxford. He’s what Oxford used to be. Don’t let Seb and Dr. Peters ruin this for you. They’re—”

“The exception to the rule. Yeah, you said. But what if he’s not?”

“Well, let’s report them to Professor Bernard and find out. She’s running against Dr. Peters for Beecham principal, so clearly she’s not with the Rex Factorem. We can trust her. If we tell Professor Bernard—”

Tessa holds up her hand. “Listen, I know you think Professor Bernard is the GOAT, but I don’t fucking care. Right now, I never want to see this place again. Seriously, fucking Beecham can take care of itself. There’s more to life than Oxford.”

“It’s not just about Beecham,” I say. “Or Dr. Peters. Seb needs to be held accountable for what he’s done. To you. To other girls in the past. For what he might do in the future. He has to be stopped.”

“Eva, I don’t disagree, but I’m just not willing to be the one who stops him.” Tessa hugs me. “You always do the right thing. That’s why I feel OK letting you handle this.”

“What?!”

“I’m sorry, Eva,” says Tessa, “but I can’t do this. Not right now. I’ll report them if and when I’m ready—once I’m home and I’ve spoken to my parents—but Dr. Peters needs to be stopped now, just like you said, before he fucks with interview week any more than he already has. So, you should tell Professor Bernard or the police what happened.”

“I can’t,” I say softly. “I’ll be right by your side, but Tessa, it’s not my story to tell.”

“You’re the one who discovered the truth about Dr. Peters,” she says. “You’ve got this. You have to. Because right now, what I need to do is go home. You’ll have to call him out.”

“But—”

Tessa practically pushes me out of her room.

“Please, Eva, do this for me.”

She shuts the door in my face. I stand there, speechless, trying to process everything Tessa said. She’s been through trauma, and everyone reacts to trauma differently. Tessa needs to retreat. I get that. But it’s hard to watch someone change so dramatically before your eyes. She seems like a different person to the one I met a few days ago. Tessa had been serene, calm—nervous, but happy. Now she’s jittery, spinning from one thought to the next, making hard-and-fast choices that I worry she’ll look back on and regret. Maybe talking to Professor Bernard on her behalf is the best way for me to help her. I don’t think she’s going to change her mind about coming with me.

I guess it’s all on me, then.

To convince Professor Bernard that I’m not just an emotional grieving wreck. That I discovered Dr. Peters is the president of the Rex Factorem by attending a secret meeting in Beecham’s wine cellar. That a Reaper interviewee I’m known to despise drugged another interviewee causing her to stuff up her interview. And that Dr. Peters is attempting to cover this up by fixing the interview process.

That all sounds entirely plausible … right?

I mean, Professor Bernard is obviously going to believe me when I don’t have a shred of evidence, and Tessa refuses to be present for the disclosure.

Piece of cake.

What could possibly go wrong?

I hear Dad’s voice in my head. What he told me after my disastrous interview with Professor Bernard. “Professor Bernard was a big part of why you even wanted to go to Beecham College.… She fights for everyone’s voices to be heard equally … Trust your gut.… You believed in her.… Give her a chance to believe in you too.”

“Just do me a favor,” I call over my shoulder. “If you see my dad, tell him you haven’t seen me, OK?”

I can’t go home, not just yet.

I may have run out of time to find George’s killer, but I can still make sure Dr. Peters doesn’t get away with all this.

I need to speak to Professor Bernard.

If I can’t solve this, maybe she can.

CHAPTER 33
DECEMBER 10

Xander

You still coming?

12:04 p.m.

Eva

Bit held up! Eat without me and I’ll meet you in quad after

12:04 p.m.

I try to figure out exactly how I’m going to say what I need to as I reach Professor Bernard’s office. I can hear voices coming from inside. Heated voices. She’s arguing with someone.

My heart beats even faster.

Perhaps now isn’t the right time to talk to her about Tessa. Then again, it may be my only time.

“This is utterly unacceptable. My daughter—”

Wait.

Is that …

I burst into Professor Bernard’s office.

“Dad?”

I throw my arms around him.

Relief washes over me. I was fighting so hard against him coming because I didn’t want to leave before figuring all this out, but now that he’s here, everything feels better.

“Let me look at you,” he says, pulling back to study my face.

Professor Bernard does too.

“Oh my goodness, Eva, who did this?” she asks, looking horrified by the bruise on my cheek.

“It was Seb. At the Rex Factorem meeting. I take it Dad’s filled you in,” I say to Professor Bernard.

“You didn’t tell me you were assaulted,” says Dad, looking ready to explode. “You just said they threatened you.”

“I thought it was better to tell you in person.”

Dad takes a deep breath in. “Is there anything else you need to tell me?” he asks.

“Actually, yes,” I say. “A lot.”

Professor Bernard closes the door to her office suite and gestures to the sofas. “Have a seat.”

Dad sits down next to me, and she perches on an armchair across from her mahogany desk.

“Look, it’s not really for me to tell you, but, I need to start from the beginning.”

“We’re listening,” says Dad.

“On the first evening we arrived at Beecham, in the hours before George was murdered, Tessa was invited to a Rex Factorem party by Sebastian Eldridge. At that party, Sebastian drugged Tessa and sexually assaulted her. George intervened.”

Professor Bernard doesn’t even flinch. Neither does Dad. There’s no judgment on their faces. No disbelief. They’re just listening.

“George was able to help her get safely back to her room. He told Tessa to report what happened, but after George’s death, Tessa was too scared to come forward. She was going to leave but decided to see through interview week.”

I don’t mention that Danielle knew what happened to Tessa and didn’t report it. I don’t know if she would have been obligated to or not. Either way, I don’t want to get her in trouble.

“Meanwhile, Xander and I discovered the location of a secret Rex Factorem meeting. We snuck in and discovered that Dr. Peters is the president of the society. Seb and a few other interviewees were there. They caught me, and well … I already told you what happened, Dad. I told Seb I knew what he’d done to Tessa and I wasn’t going to let him get away with it, and that’s when he hit me. Xander got me out.”

Professor Bernard inhales sharply. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

“That’s all the backstory,” I say. “None of that is why I’m here, though.”

Dad sits up straight and shares a concerned look with Professor Bernard.

“I confronted Dr. Peters about everything during my ‘interview’ with him this morning. He didn’t deny any of it. Instead, he threatened me. He said if I didn’t back off, he’d make sure I didn’t get accepted at any university in the country. Then he sent Danielle to ship me home. Wait, there’s more,” I say, as Dad looks ready to have it out with Dr. Peters in person. “Tessa messaged me to say she’d also seen Dr. Peters. This is what I came to tell you, Professor Bernard. Dr. Peters is friends with Seb’s father and they studied here together. Dr. Peters tried to bribe Tessa to stay quiet about what Seb did by guaranteeing her a place to study at Beecham.”

Professor Bernard gasps.

“You do believe me, don’t you?” I ask, my heart pounding.

“Yes,” says Professor Bernard. The veins on her neck are more pronounced than usual and her chest movement is exaggerated with every breath. “I know I should officially say I will do a thorough investigation of all the facts, but yes, I can quite believe everything you’ve said about Dr. Peters. I know firsthand how manipulative he can be.”

She turns to face my dad. “Inspector Dawkins, I have long suspected Dr. Peters was a part of the Rex Factorem, but there was never any evidence they had done anything illegal. I was highly suspicious of how Sebastian was invited to interview week, as he was originally rejected and then became a last-minute addition. Eva, is Tessa willing to come forward?”

“Not right now. This whole thing has shaken her and she just wanted to go home. She asked me to tell you.”

“The police would need a statement from her to move forward on the allegation of sexual assault and also Dr. Peters’s bribery,” says Dad. “But, Eva, you can report Seb’s attack on you.”

“So, what happens now?” I ask, looking from Professor Bernard to Dad.

“Well, first—”

A piercing scream comes from outside.

“What the hell?”

I rush out of the room.

There’s another scream.

I follow the noise.

I run down the corridor and turn left.

The screams are coming from Dr. Peters’s office.

His door is wide open.

Dad and Professor Bernard are catching up to me.

I edge closer, more cautiously now.

Something doesn’t feel right.

I reach his door and freeze.

“Dad! Oh shit, oh shit.”

“Oh my God!” says Professor Bernard, peering over my shoulder. She leans on the corridor wall and retches.

He’s dead.

Dr. Peters is dead.

He’s lying motionless on the floor.

His eagle-handled cane jutting out of his skull.

Someone rammed the bottom right through his eyeball.

His remaining eye is wide open, in a petrified expression of shock.

Like he didn’t see this coming.

I didn’t see this coming.

“It wasn’t me.”

I look up.

Lily’s here.

She must have been the one who screamed.

She’s cowering in the corner of his office, standing in a puddle of wee, her whole body shaking.

I go to lean on the doorway but Dad spits, “Don’t touch anything.”

Of course, don’t touch. It’s a crime scene.

He pulls me to one side and steps into the room.

“It wasn’t me, I swear,” Lily repeats. “He was like this when I got here.”

“Tell me what happened,” says Dad, cool as a cucumber, like there isn’t a dead body meters from his feet.

“I came to … to ask Dr. Peters to…” Lily stammers.

“What?” asks Dad, as tears leave a trail of black mascara down Lily’s cheek.

“I came to ask him … to beg him—”

“Beg him?” I ask, feeling more confused by the second. I thought Dr. Peters was the bad guy. Possibly even involved in George’s death somehow through the Rex Factorem. But now he’s dead too.

Two dead bodies in a week.

“To get him to tell me why…” she cries.

“Why what?” asks Dad, pressing her but gently.

“Why he leaked the photos of me vandalizing Glanville’s statue,” Lily says eventually.

That was Dr. Peters?

Lily wobbles and screams as she almost falls onto Dr. Peters’s body.

Dad grabs her arm and holds her up, firm.

“Take a couple of steps this way,” says Dad, guiding Lily away from the body, toward the door.

I’m frozen to the spot as Dad surveys the crime scene.

“I’ll call 999,” says Professor Bernard, slowly standing up. She looks at Dr. Peters and then closes her eyes like she instantly regrets taking a second look.

“No! You can’t call the police,” cries Lily. “They’ll think it was me! They already think I killed George!”

Dad looks at Lily and I wonder if he is also considering if she is the killer. I mean, could it be her?

Dad takes Lily’s shaking hands in his. “There’s dark blood under Dr. Peters’s fingernails, inconsistent with the fresh blood of the head trauma. It is most likely the blood of the killer. Dr. Peters fought back. You, Lily, have no wounds.”

Seriously? Dad worked out all this just from standing in the room for a couple of minutes while we three just shit our pants?

“Call Detective Crawford direct,” Dad says to Professor Bernard, handing her a business card. “Tell her I’m here. And try to keep any students or staff from coming this way.”

Professor Bernard gladly takes a few steps farther down the corridor to phone the police.

I look around Dr. Peters’s office. I was here earlier this morning. If I’d come later, the killer might have been here. They might have killed me too.

My gaze moves to the photo I saw earlier of Dr. Peters with George’s and Seb’s dads on the wall.

Something’s changed, physically.

“Dad, that picture, it’s wonky.”

The frame isn’t just wonky, it’s lifted.

“I think something is wedged behind the frame,” I say. I go to walk toward it, but Dad raises his hand to stop me.

He tiptoes over—careful not to step in Dr. Peters’s blood—and puts his hand behind the frame as he teases out a note.

“Fucking hell,” I say with a gasp. “It’s just like the one George had.”

“Let me see,” says Lily.

“It’s evidence,” he says firmly.

“In ancient Greek,” says Lily.

“Can you translate?” I ask her.

Reluctantly Dad lets Lily read over his shoulder, careful she doesn’t touch the note.

“It says, For Janey. This is sweet to see your foe, perish and pay to justice all he owes. It’s by Euripides.”

A cold shiver runs over my body.

“Inspector,” says Professor Bernard, coming back over. “It’s Detective Crawford. She’s on her way but she wants you to call her.”

Dad nods. “Can you take the girls to your office? Lock yourselves in and don’t answer the door to anyone but me.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I say to Dad.

“You don’t need to look at this, and Lily needs a blanket. She’s shivering from the shock. Can you look after her for me?”

“All right,” I say reluctantly.

“Everything’s going to be OK,” he says, giving me a squeeze. “I need you to go back to Professor Bernard’s office and stay there.”

OK.

“Eva? Are you listening?”

“Yes, yeah,” I say, my brain getting fuzzier by the second. I think I might be going into shock too. I wish I could stop looking at Dr. Peters but there’s a fucking cane jutting out of his eye and the blood is still oozing.

Professor Bernard puts her hand on my shoulder. It’s shaking. “Come on, Eva,” she says, trying to sound brave, but she’s just as shit-scared as me. “We need to look after Lily.”

“OK, I’ll message you when we’re inside,” I say to Dad.

“Good,” he says, exhaling loudly, the worry seeping out. He’s scared for me. He wants to keep me safe, but he doesn’t want me to stay here and he can’t leave the crime scene. “Eva, I need to call Detective Crawford now. I can’t leave it to someone else, I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, Dad,” I say. “I get it. We’ll be fine. We’ll stick together.”

“Promise me you won’t leave that room, or even open the door?” he says, looking from me to the others.

“We won’t,” says Professor Bernard.

“Promise me,” he says.

“I promise, Dad.”

We head down the corridor. I look over my shoulder. Dad is already on the phone with Detective Crawford, guarding the room so no one else can get in.

The police will be here soon.

Dad is already here.

And yet, I don’t feel safe at all.

The killer was here, in this very corridor, and we have absolutely no fucking idea who they are.

Or if they’re still here.

And if they are, who their next victim is.

CHAPTER 34
DECEMBER 10

Xander

Where are you?

12:34 p.m.

Xander

You ok?

12:44 p.m.

Xander

Minibus leaving soon.

1:00 p.m.

I can see blue lights outside.

“Thank God,” says Professor Bernard, walking over to the window, leaving Lily and me huddled together on the sofa. “It’s all going to be OK.”

“Is it?” I ask.

My question hangs in the room, unanswered.

Dr. Peters is dead.

There is a killer on the loose at Beecham.

I was wrong about Dr. Peters. He was wrong about himself. He wasn’t the powerful man he thought he was.

The murderer has ripped out the very heart of the Rex Factorem.

They killed him in broad daylight, down the corridor from where Professor Bernard and I had been.

This is sweet to see your foe, perish and pay to justice all he owes.

The note was clear—this was revenge.

Revenge for the death of Janey Pratchett.

It has to be.

They killed George because of his dad. The gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.

Dr. Peters’s note was behind a photo of him with George’s and Seb’s dads. They all studied together at Beecham and obviously they were in the Rex Factorem.

What if—

Professor Bernard’s phone rings. “I think it’s the police,” she says, going into her bedroom to answer it.

“Why is this happening?” asks Lily once we’re alone, silent tears rolling down her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” I say softly. “Did you see anyone on your way to Dr. Peters’s office?”

“No,” she says.

“How did you find out he was the one who leaked the footage of you graffitiing the statue?” I ask.

“James told me.” She sniffs. “Dr. Peters found out James had hacked OxS to create a login and told James he had to post the pictures of me or he’d make sure James didn’t get into Beecham.”

“What? That makes no sense.”

“I know, right?” she says. “Dr. Peters is my mentor. Was my mentor.”

“No, that’s not what I mean.” I sigh. “It can’t be him—I know his OxS ID.”

Lily first looks confused, then exhausted, then shrugs. “Maybe he used a secondary account? He clearly knew how to get around the system of posting when he wasn’t officially a student. I don’t know. What does it matter?”

I do a quick search on OxS. Slayer 35353 was a new user, and only ever posted about Lily. I didn’t make much of it at the time but … James’s account Slayer 18181 is also a repeating number pattern—maybe that’s part of the hack? It’s definitely possible James is behind both accounts.

“But why would James tell you this now?” I ask.

“He said because of you. That he knew you were right. I didn’t quite get it, but basically whatever you said about him wasn’t who he wanted to be. He was sick of playing games and trying to please everyone. He just wanted to do the right thing.”

That could be true, I guess.

James did look genuinely hurt when Xander and I told him to piss off at the police station.

I hold my head.

I can’t think about that right now.

“Dr. Peters was the one who supported my application to Beecham,” Lily snivels. “He was the one who convinced me to apply even though I hated the Glanville statue. He actually encouraged me to do something about it. He said I should take a stand. He said, ‘Fortune favors the bold.’ He was actually the one who put the idea of graffitiing the statue in my head. He wanted me to do this.”

I see the penny drop in Lily’s mind.

“Dr. Peters wanted me to do it. He wanted me to graffiti the statue. He always planned to expose me. He was setting me up to fail. This whole thing was a trap! But why? Why would he suddenly turn on me?”

I think I get what’s happening here.

Dr. Peters didn’t take a special interest in Lily out of the kindness of his heart. He made sure Lily got into interview week and manipulated her into committing a crime. He did it to destroy Professor Bernard’s access scheme.

“Maybe someone made him?” suggests Lily. “Maybe that’s why someone killed him? Maybe he was trying to protect me?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so,” I say. “I don’t think Dr. Peters was your friend. He was only ever interested in himself.”

Lily goes to speak when we both get OxS notifications. We share a look. The news must be out.

Slayer 18181: DR. DECLAN PETERS IS DEAD!

Dec. 10, 1:05 p.m.|3,500+ views, 650 likes

Slayer 18181: Serial killer—BEECHAM BUTCHER—on the loose!

Dec. 10, 1:06|4,000+ views, 1,200 likes

Slayer 18181: Beecham College is on lockdown until further notice.

Dec. 10, 1:07 p.m.|2,500+ views, 550 likes

“Beecham is on lockdown?” Lily says, the panic coming on fast. “We could be trapped in college with a murderer! I just want to go home.”

My phone beeps again, but for once it’s not an OxS notification. It’s a new email.

My heart stops.

It’s the podcast. They replied.

Hey there Eva,

Thanks for getting in touch. The Too True Team always loves to hear from a true fan.

We had to pull this episode at the advice of our legal team but thought you might like to see some of our research material for more deets. It’s all in the public domain but took some digging!

All the best,

The Too True Team

There’s a link to download a zip file. It must be full of files because they’re taking a while to open.

[12%…]

[37%…]

[81%…]

My heart is hammering in my chest as a photo pops up on my screen.

I gasp.

There’s a color photo of Janey in a nurse’s dress. Her long auburn curls are blowing in the wind, apart from one lock that her little baby is clenching in her tiny fist.

A chill runs over me, giving me goose bumps all over.

The image is uncanny.

She’s looking straight at the camera, and her expression is so intense it feels like she wants to tell me something. It’s almost as if her pensive green eyes have gazed at me before. But that’s impossible—Janey died years ago. And yet, there’s something eerily familiar about those eyes.… And then it clicks.

Danielle.

My hand is shaking as I stare at the photo.

Could Janey be Danielle’s mum?

I close my eyes as the information sinks in.

Janey is Danielle’s mum.

Every conversation I’ve ever had with Danielle plays back in my mind like a movie.

“You remind me of myself. I lost my mum too. I know what it’s like to want to live up to the expectations of a parent taken too soon.”

I think I might throw up.

The murderer has been in front of me all this time.

Danielle even talked to me about why she did it.

I just couldn’t connect the dots until now.

Danielle is killing in the name of her mother. She must think George’s dad had something to do with Janey’s death.

She warned me to stay out of the investigation so many times. She said I was in danger, but it was because I was getting too close to the truth.

The truth that she killed George.

“So why kill Dr. Peters today?” I ask myself out loud.

Dr. Peters told Danielle to escort me from Beecham, and I told Danielle that he was friends with George’s father.

I feel sick.

Is it my fault Dr. Peters is dead?

She didn’t know he was involved, or that he was president of the Rex Factorem, until I told her … and then she killed him too for good measure.

Just then the screen on my phone lights up. It’s a text from Xander.

Xander

Hey, this might be nothing but Seb never made it to the bus. We waited an extra 20 minutes for Max and Seb. Max said Seb got sent another Rex Factorem dare because he failed his first challenge to seduce Tessa.

1:22 p.m.

My gut is telling me this isn’t good …

Eva

What was the dare?

1:23 p.m.

Xander

Max took a pic. I’ll forward it on.

1:24 p.m.

The image comes through and my heart sinks. It’s a note—and the handwriting matches all the other notes—in ancient Greek.

Eva

Translation?

1:25 p.m.

Xander

Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make.

1:25 p.m.

I falter. The other two notes spoke of revenge. What could this mean?

Xander

It’s from Medea. By Euripides.

1:26 p.m.

Of course it is. The Rex Factorem didn’t send this …

Eva

I think it’s a setup, like George. What’s the dare?

1:26 p.m.

My phone vibrates as Xander calls me. I answer.

“Seb has to go skinny-dipping in the River Cherwell in Christ Church Meadow.” Xander’s voice is trembling. “I didn’t think until you messaged. That’s where Janey was found.”

“Yes.” There can be no doubt. Danielle plans for Seb to meet the same fate as her mother. “I know who killed George. Seb is next.”

Lily gasps, bringing me back into the room.

“Hey! Pull over!” Xander calls, I guess to the minibus driver. “I’m literally around the corner from the Meadow,” he says to me as I hear the minibus door slam.

“You can’t go there alone!” I say.

“We can’t leave Seb alone either,” says Xander. “He’s a fucking arsehole, but we have to help.”

He hangs up.

Fuck, this is a mess.

“Eva, what the hell?” says Lily.

“Are you two OK?” asks Professor Bernard, coming back into the room.

“Fine, but I need to go. Now,” I say, making for the door.

“Oh no, slow down, Eva,” says Professor Bernard, blocking my path. “I was just on the phone with Constable Perry. The police are still sorting out the college lockdown. She was clear. We all need to stay here. A policeman is going to come up for our security.”

What?!

“You don’t understand,” I plead. “The murderer—”

“I know it’s scary, Eva,” she says, “but the three of us are safe here.”

I don’t have time for this. I can tell it’s pointless trying to explain anything to her. There’s no way she’s letting me out of this room. But I’m not giving up that easily. I have to help Xander.

“Fine,” I say. “I need the loo.” I stomp off to the bathroom, hoping I look sufficiently sulky.

As soon as I’m inside, I lock the door and check out the size of the window. It’s just big enough for me to fit through. I run the tap for background noise and lift up the sash window as quietly as I can. There’s no police patrolling this side of college yet, but they’ll be close.

Thank God Professor Bernard’s office is only on the second floor. One story is OK. I’ve been rock climbing in Cornwall on holiday before.

Once.

It will be fine.

It has to be.

Careful not to make too much noise, I hoist myself up on the stone window ledge and slowly slither through, holding on to the wood paneling. I ease my way out and use my toes to grip the ledge.

The gravity—literal gravity—of the situation hits me. Directly beneath me is a tightly packed gravel path that surrounds the quad. There is no nice, soft landing waiting for me if I fall.

I twist myself round and reach my leg out for the drainpipe that runs vertically between the room I’m in and the one next to it.

I can touch it but not well enough to climb to it. I’ll just have to swing over there.

I can hear Lily talking to Professor Bernard in the other room. “She said she knew who the murderer was.”

“Eva?” calls Professor Bernard. “Are you OK in there? That tap’s been running a long time…”

She shakes the door handle.

It’s now or never.

I swing.

I grab the drainpipe.

It rattles under my weight.

I slide down and the pipe falls down with me.

I put my hand into a jut in the stone wall and grip.

I’m halfway. I feel for another gap in the stone wall and work my way down. I breathe a sigh of relief as I get within a couple of meters of the path.

“Eva!”

I look up. Professor Bernard is leaning out of her office bay window, calling me.

I let go and jump.

I hit the path with a thud.

I start running as fast as I can.

There’s no time to waste.

This really is life or death.

CHAPTER 35
DECEMBER 10

Slayer 18181: Dr. Peters confirmed as Rex Factorem president. Police say note found near body consistent with note found on George Danvers.

Dec. 10, 1:48 p.m.|450+ views, 61 likes

I can’t risk the police seeing me. They might mistake me for the killer fleeing the scene of Dr. Peters’s murder, and by the time I explain—assuming they even believe me about Danielle—it will be too late for Xander and Seb. I stick to the edges of the college wall and sprint as fast as I can to the gates of Beecham, using the trees that line the quad as cover. The porters aren’t in their hut—probably assisting the police. There’s bound to be a crowd outside college, but I can’t do anything about that.

I push the door open. Cameras flash in my face and I shove them aside.

“Eva! Eva! Was it you?”

I barge past a reporter, sending them flying. I run to the bike rack. Surely one of them isn’t locked.

There’s a rusty bike with a huge wicker basket at the front. The wheels are thin and probably going flat, but it’s my best chance.

I grab the bike and pedal as hard as I can.

I haven’t been on a bike since I was about thirteen, but it all comes flooding back. I swing round the cobbled path onto Oxford High Street, risking a glance over my shoulder. The reporters haven’t followed me—too preoccupied with snapping a photo of the police removing Dr. Peters’s body from the crime scene.

I cycle across the road. A car beeps at me, but I’m too unsteady to raise my hand to apologize. Besides, there are bigger things at stake.

The alley behind St. Thomas’s College will be the quickest way. Xander had a head start. He’s probably there already. With no backup.

I can’t let him take on Danielle alone.

I’m not going to let something happen to Xander while he’s saving that piece of shit Seb.

The street is narrow and winding. I hope no one is on it, because it’s sloping downward and I’m not sure I can stop at this speed.

I reach the Meadow. It’s eerily gloomy, with dark clouds swarming the sky. I cycle to the path that runs all the way along the River Cherwell. Xander hadn’t said where exactly Seb had to go skinny-dipping.

As I reach the river, I notice the footpath has been cordoned off with police tape. Maybe Xander was able to get in touch with the police and they beat me here? But if there’s police tape, then there is a crime scene.

Am I too late?

Is Seb dead? Xander too?

Or did they catch Danielle in time?

With no one to stop me, I dump the bike and duck under the tape.

There’s no sign of the police.

No sign of Danielle, Seb, Xander …

No sign of anyone.

This isn’t right. If the police had done this, they’d still be on the scene.

It can’t be coincidence that Seb’s fake dare took him here.

The note and the tape have to be Danielle’s doing.

The stones on the gravel path crunch under my feet, so I move onto the bank where it’s a bit quieter. It’s lined with trees, young and old, and I make my way from tree to tree, not wanting to be seen in case Danielle is here. My only advantage is the element of surprise. With all the interviewees on their way home, she’ll be expecting Seb to come alone.

My breath catches.

There’s a body slumped by a tree ahead.

I’m too late.

There’s no sign of Danielle. I run over.

“Xander!”

He’s out cold. There’s a big bump on his head, but he’s breathing. There are two mobile phones next to him. Both smashed. I recognize one as his; the other one must be Seb’s.

I shake him. “Xander, wake up,” I whisper. My eyes dart around in all directions.

Xander groans as he comes to. “Shhhh!” I whisper, putting a finger to my lips.

Xander grabs for my arm, but his grip is weak. “It’s Danielle,” he says. “She’s the one who did this. She has Seb. She—”

“Which way did she go?” I ask.

Xander barely has the strength to raise his arm, he’s so out of it. He slowly points toward the Botanic Garden.

“Stay here,” I whisper. “I’ll come back for you. I’ll find them.”

Xander nods, in too much pain to disagree. “Be careful,” he whispers.

Something moves in the shadows of the trees up ahead.

I get to my feet, careful not to make too much noise. I hunch down and slowly edge forward.

I can see her now. She’s tying Seb’s legs together at the knees. He must have been getting ready for his skinny-dip when she found him, because he’s half-dressed and shivering. His hands and ankles are already tied. If she throws him in the river like that, he’ll be dead in minutes.

There’s no time to attack by surprise. It will be too late.

“Stop!” I scream.

Danielle twists around in shock, keeping a tight hold on Seb. There’s a large three-fingered scratch across her right cheek—it must have been Dr. Peters’s attempt to fight back.

“You should have stayed out of this,” she snarls, dragging him closer to the river. “Sebastian has to pay for the sins of his father.”

“Help me,” wails Seb.

Danielle kicks him in the jaw.

Seb squeals in pain. “Please, I don’t want to die.” He is sobbing now.

“Shut up!” yells Danielle, kicking him in the stomach and winding him into silence.

I take a few steps closer.

“Stay back!” she yells at me.

“I just want to talk,” I say. “About your mum.”

Danielle pauses and stares at me.

“I get why you’re doing this, Danielle,” I say, trying to muster the calm empathy that comes so naturally to my dad. I need a clear head, and to keep Danielle talking. “I know about Janey. I know everything.”

“No, you don’t!” she cries. “And neither do I. Not yet. But I’m going to get answers, finally.”

“Seb knows nothing,” I say.

“Obviously.” She laughs and takes out a phone.

“I was going to use my phone, but seeing as you’re here, Eva. What’s the code?” she asks me.

“How would I—” I gasp. It’s George’s phone. She took it. When she killed him.

“What’s the code?” she asks me again.

I’m in no position to refuse.

“1933.”

19 minutes, 33 seconds. George’s personal best running a 5K. He changed it every time he beat his record.

Danielle taps in the code. She’s scrolling. What is she looking for?

“You and George were besties at Reapington, right, Seb? Until you started drugging and sexually assaulting girls? Huh? Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” whimpers Seb.

“So I guess he has your billionaire daddy’s number on speed dial. Ah. Here we go. Seb’s dad.”

So this is how Danielle plans to get her answers.

She puts the phone on speaker, and I can hear the phone ringing. Danielle’s so consumed by what she’s doing that maybe I have a chance here. I slowly put my hand in my pocket. I swipe a few times to deactivate face recognition and then tap the passcode into my phone without looking.

Who can I call?

I can’t call 999, because I can’t speak to the operator. I could call Dad, but if he already knows I broke out of Professor Bernard’s office, I can’t risk him shouting over the phone and Danielle hearing. I can’t speak to anyone. I just need someone who will stay on the line and won’t be able to resist listening.

Of course.

James. The person I need to ring is James.

“A video call from a ghost. A message from the grave. Let’s hope your dad answers,” Danielle says to Seb. “It would be a dead shame if he didn’t, wouldn’t it?”

Seb is crying. Danielle kicks him again. “You’re going to ask him what happened to Janey.”

I can’t see the phone from here, but someone has answered.

“Who is this?” demands a terrified man who must be Seb’s father. “Where’s my son?”

For a moment I can’t work out how he already knew. But of course. He just received a call from “George.”

He’s probably been waiting for this call. As soon as he heard the news that Dr. Peters died, the connection between the two deaths and Janey would have been obvious.

“Dad!” screams Seb. “Dad!”

Danielle kicks Seb again, and I take my chance to swipe through my contacts and call James.

He answers almost immediately, and I hear his muffled voice. “Eva! I’m glad you called, I wanted…” I quietly turn the volume on my phone right down. I just hope James is smart enough not to hang up.

Danielle holds the phone up to Sebastian’s face. “Ask him.”

“She wants to know about Janey,” snivels Seb. “What happened to Janey?”

“Who are you?” demands Seb’s dad.

Danielle turns the phone to face her, and now I can just about make out the video image of Seb’s dad. He’s putting on a brave front, but even from here I can see the beads of sweat running down his temple.

“Don’t you recognize me?” Danielle coos. “Do I remind you of anyone?”

“Janey,” whispers Seb’s dad, the color instantly draining from his face.

“Her daughter, actually. Her orphaned daughter.”

Seb’s dad’s mouth is open wide.

“Seen a ghost?” Danielle says. “Seb will be one too, soon. Just like Janey. Drowned in the River Cherwell.”

Seb starts crying again.

“Please,” says Seb’s dad. “Have mercy.”

“What did you do to my mother?!” shouts Danielle.

I chance a glance at my phone. James is still on the line. He’d better be doing what he does best and recording this.

Danielle turns the phone back to face Seb and kicks him toward the riverbank.

“No, please, please don’t hurt my son,” says Seb’s dad, his voice breaking. “I’ll tell you everything.”

CHAPTER 36
DECEMBER 10

Slayer 18181: [Uploading a live stream…]

Dec. 10, 2:26 p.m.|0 views, 0 likes

“Start talking,” says Danielle, as Seb starts to sob. He must be freezing. Seeing him look so pathetic makes me feel sorry for him. But there’s nothing I can do to help him right now. If I try to get closer, she might realize my phone is on.

“Janey was training to be a nurse,” says Seb’s dad slowly, as though he’s not sure where to begin. “She volunteered as a medic for the First Blues Rugby Team.”

The First Blues Rugby Team. The most elite team of rugby players from the whole university of Oxford, across all colleges.

“Yes, I know all that,” snaps Danielle. “Everyone knows that.”

“Richard Glanville was one of the only first-years to ever be considered for the team.”

George’s dad.

“Several Rex Factorem members were in the squad,” continues Seb’s dad.

“Including you?” asks Danielle.

“No, not me. I wasn’t the sporty type.”

“But you did know Janey?”

“Yes,” says Seb’s dad solemnly.

“How? How did you meet her?” asks Danielle, gripping the phone with both hands, the desperation to get the answers she’s been craving taking over.

Seb’s dad lets out a sorrowful, deep breath. “Richard was given his Rex Factorem dare.”

Oh no. I can see where this is going. George’s dad was dared to—

“To get Janey to sleep with him.”

That’s sick.

“That’s despicable,” says Danielle, and turns to Seb. She looks ready to take her fury out on him.

“Did it work?” I ask loudly, trying to keep Danielle’s attention off Seb. I might not like the guy, but I’m not going to watch him get hurt.

“No!” exclaims Seb’s dad adamantly. “Janey thought…”

“What?”

“Janey thought Richard was a posh tosser.”

In different circumstances, hearing Seb’s dad say that about George’s dad would have been amusing.

“How do you know?” asks Danielle.

“Because she told me,” says Seb’s dad. “And Declan,” he adds quickly.

Declan as in Dr. Peters. He was in on this too.

“So he did know her,” says Danielle and laughs, almost ironically. “You know Dr. Peters denied ever meeting Janey when I asked him. He told me to ask you, Daniel.” She stares down the phone at Seb’s dad. “Dr. Peters gave you up in a heartbeat. He said that was all he knew. So I figured there was no point keeping him alive. You should have heard how he screamed before I killed him.”

My stomach turns. But there it is. Her confession to murdering Dr. Peters.

James will have heard it too.

Danielle lets out another little laugh. “It’s funny, I spent SO long planning how to kill George Danvers to get revenge for my mother. I thought it would finally be over. I could move on with my life. Have a life. But Eva here … oh, you just wouldn’t let it go. Determined to find out who killed George. In fact, you managed to find out more about who killed Janey than I had in a decade. I found out Dr. Peters was president of the Rex Factorem thanks to Eva here.”

I try to swallow but my throat is too dry.

Dr. Peters’s death is on me.

“Tell us what happened,” I shout, loud enough so Seb’s dad will hear me on the call, trying to mask my own guilt at my part in this.

How could I have been wrong about Danielle?

How could I have missed the signs?

She played me.

“The thing you need to understand,” says Seb’s dad, “is that Richard was alpha. He was the best of the best, at everything. His family line, the Glanville line, the power … Declan and I were just riding on his coattails. When Richard said jump, we jumped.”

I find it hard to believe that Seb’s billionaire father and Dr. Peters, the most recent Rex Factorem president, were once just George’s dad’s lapdogs.

“That might have been then,” I say, “but not now.”

Danielle glares at me for interrupting, but I need to stall this conversation. As soon as she gets the truth about Janey, she’ll have no reason not to kill us all.

“You had George removed from Reapington, didn’t you?” I continue. “You fell out with George’s dad. Over Seb. Over Seb drugging girls.”

“I defended my son!”

“So you don’t deny it? Or was there a power shift?” I ask.

“I’m a self-made man,” says Seb’s dad.

“A self-made man who came from money in the first place,” I scoff, before Danielle can speak. “Who went to Reapington. Studied at Oxford. Was part of the Rex Factorem. Really self-made. When you compare that to my dad. No family connections. Working his way through the ranks. Making detective, then inspector. Raising his daughter as a single parent. That’s a self-made man.”

“Enough!” cries Danielle. “I don’t care about this. Just tell me what happened to Janey.”

“Richard failed his challenge. He’d never faced rejection in his life. It was a disaster. He felt so humiliated—no one could know. He wanted Declan and me to cover it up. Richard told us that he would guarantee that we not only got membership to Rex Factorem at Oxford, but committee seats.”

“Slow down,” I say, trying to get my head around this. “You’re saying that George’s dad bribed you and Dr. Peters to cover up the fact he couldn’t get Janey into bed? That’s how Dr. Peters went on to be president?”

“Yes, I’m ashamed to say it but … we lied and said we watched Richard take Janey’s virginity. No one questioned our word. Janey was tormented by the First team. Laughed at. Called names. A Town falling for a Gown. Richard led the charge, of course. But Janey held her head high. Refused to quit. It enraged Richard.”

“So, what? George’s dad had her killed?” I ask in disbelief that a dare could go so wrong.

“Janey’s death was an accident!” cries Seb’s dad. “An accident that was all Richard’s fault.”

“But Richard didn’t sleep with her, did he?” spits Danielle. “Richard taking Janey’s virginity was a lie, you just told us that. So it wasn’t Richard who got my mother pregnant, was it?”

Seb’s dad stays silent.

Danielle is right. George’s dad isn’t her father.

Nothing Seb’s dad has said explains how Danielle came to be.

Who is her father?

Danielle gives Seb another kick in the ribs and then takes a few steps toward a clump of reeds by the bank. She stoops down and pulls out an old leather-bound journal. She holds it up to the phone screen.

“This was my mother’s journal. Do you recognize it?” Danielle asks.

“No,” says Seb’s dad.

She looks over at me. “Take it,” she says, holding out the journal, her hand as steady as a rock. “Take it!”

I move toward her and slowly take the journal, praying she doesn’t see the light from my phone in my pocket. The book is heavy—full of bookmarks, paper cuttings, and pieces of ribbon. A rose is embossed in gold on the otherwise plain brown leather cover. It’s simple but powerful: A rose is the symbol of love dating all the way back to ancient Greece. If this is Janey’s journal, then it was almost certainly too expensive for her to have bought herself. This was a gift.

“Are you sure you don’t recognize it?” Danielle asks Seb’s dad again.

He stays quiet.

“It’s the only thing I have left of my mother,” says Danielle, filling the silence. “I’ve read it over and over again. It starts three months before she found out she was pregnant with me. It was after Richard Glanville’s despicable Rex Factorem challenge because she talks about love being more important than slander and how she wasn’t going to let Richard ruin her life for her and her baby. It seems she did fall in love with a Gown after all. She used code names for everyone but Richard—she said it was to protect them from him if ever the diary was discovered—she knew he was dangerous. But in the end, they all betrayed her. I couldn’t figure it out. Then Dr. Peters came into the mix and that led me to you,” she says, holding the phone right up to her face. “No more code names. You’re going to tell me everything. Or believe me when I say”—Danielle grabs Seb by the hair and he yelps in pain—“I’m going to kill your son.”

“Stop it, please,” shouts Seb’s dad. “I will tell you. I will. I promise.”

“Lie to me again,” says Danielle, “and I will kill him.”

Seb’s dad begins to cry.

He’s hiding something.

And he’s about to be found out.

Danielle kicks Seb hard in the chest. I hear a snap. A broken rib. He whimpers, curling up in pain.

“Just tell us what happened after Janey refused George’s dad and you covered it up,” I plead.

“We tried to bribe Janey, but…” Seb’s dad’s voice breaks. “Janey couldn’t be bribed. She was a woman of integrity. Of honor. Kindness. Intelligence. Beauty … perfection.”

Oh my God.

Seb’s dad fell in love with Janey.

“Stop crying!” yells Danielle at Seb’s dad. She turns to me. “Find the skull.”

I flick hurriedly through the pages. There’s a red bookmark with a silver skull inside.

I open the page.

“Read it,” says Danielle.

“It just says … Daniel. A lot.”

“Now turn the page.”

“Daniel. Daniel. Danielle.”

Danielle turns back to Seb’s dad on the phone. “I always thought this was Janey deciding what to call me. Nothing to do with the code names. Daniel for a boy or Danielle for a girl. But here I am talking to the great Daniel Eldridge. Tell me the truth—did my mum name me after you? Are you my father?”

Daniel Eldridge.

“Dad?” cries Seb. “Is it true?”

I just hope my phone call with James is still running and he’s getting all this.

“Yes,” he says.

Seb’s dad is Danielle’s dad. Seb is Danielle’s half brother.

“Janey and I fell in love,” says Seb’s dad. “We kept it a secret. But Richard had eyes everywhere. He found out. He threatened to have me removed from the Rex Factorem. To tell my father about Janey. He said he’d ruin Janey’s family.”

The more I hear about George’s dad, the more I hate him.

The more I understand why George hated him.

Why George changed his surname.

It wasn’t just Sir H. C. Glanville, the enslaver, George wanted to disassociate from. It was his own father too. A ruthless, loveless, power-hungry man who used his friends to gain influence and destroyed those who crossed him.

“I gave my word I would end things with Janey,” snivels Seb’s dad. “And I did. I didn’t see her again. But then she showed up at the Rex Factorem annual dinner at St. Thomas’s College almost a year later. Declan saw her before Richard. She told him she’d had a baby. My daughter. You. He said he’d handle it. I had no idea what handle it meant.”

“So, Dr. Peters found out you and Janey had a child together and what … Dr. Peters killed Janey?” I ask.

“No! Honestly, she slipped. It was an accident. We went to meet her by the River Cherwell. I told her that once I graduated, I would come for her. I would marry her. But I couldn’t risk Richard destroying my time at Oxford. I’d never be able to get work or provide for Janey and our child. I just needed her to wait until I graduated in a few months. I said I’d give her enough money to look after her and the baby in the meantime—and she agreed—but Richard found out. He was waiting at the rendezvous point when Declan arrived with the money we’d clubbed together. Declan told her to run, but she slipped. She hit her head.”

“So … you called an ambulance?”

Seb’s dad begins to sob.

“She was gone instantly. Richard pushed her into the river.”

George’s dad is pure evil.

“He said we had to make it look like an accident. A suicide. He said that all three of us would be implicated. Him for the dare, me because of the baby, and Declan for the money. He said he did it for us. And we had to keep our mouths shut. And we did. It was wrong. So wrong. But I was young. And heartbroken and—”

“You pathetic, pathetic man,” Danielle snarls.

“I’ve regretted it every day of my life,” cries Seb’s dad. “I can’t get her face out of my mind. You have her eyes.”

“Shut up!” shouts Danielle. “I’ve heard enough.”

“I’ve always thought about you, Danielle. Always loved you. But if I’d tried to find you, the police would have worked it all out.”

“So you destroyed my mother and abandoned me? Your own daughter?”

Danielle drops to her knees, the weight of the truth pulling her down.

I slowly edge toward Seb, who is sniveling. I start to untie the rope.

“Don’t you dare,” shouts Danielle.

“You have your answers now,” I say firmly. “You can get justice for Janey. You’ve done what you set out to do.”

Danielle gets to her feet. “That’s not good enough.”

She throws George’s phone into the river, ignoring the pleas of Seb’s dad.

She turns to Seb, her eyes full of rage. “Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make. Your father is a murderer,” she hisses. “And now, the gods visit the sins of the fathers upon the children.”

CHAPTER 37
DECEMBER 10

Slayer 18181: [Upload signal lost. Reconnecting…]

Dec. 10, 2:44 p.m.|20,000+ views, 6,800 likes

Danielle stomps back over to a cluster of reeds on the bank. She leans down and this time pulls out the missing gargoyle from Beecham College. It’s covered in blood. George’s blood. She hid it here, ready to kill Seb in the same way.

“You planned it all,” I whisper.

“Congratulations, Eva, you found the murder weapon,” says Danielle.

I pull my gaze away; she makes me sick.

“It’s not as heavy as you might think,” she says, seemingly enjoying this moment. “Fun fact, many of the gargoyles at Beecham had to be replaced. The originals, made of stone, were so heavy that many snapped off over the centuries. They used lighter replicas, much easier to remove, but still heavy enough to kill with a single blow.”

“George didn’t deserve to die!” I yell.

“George was like his father and the enslavers before him,” spits Danielle.

“George was nothing like his father!”

“Aww, poor little Eva, blinded by love. The Glanvilles care for nothing but the Glanvilles. George was a Glanville. His bloodline consumed his psyche.”

“You’re wrong,” I say, starting to shake with rage.

“Am I?” asks Danielle with a wry smile. “George was always going to apply to Beecham. It may as well be called Glanville College. That’s why I knew to apply for the admissions officer role. It was only a matter of time before the next Glanville applied to Beecham. I had months to plan it. It only took one hit and George was dead. My mother avenged.”

I shudder at her words.

“But then there was Lily,” says Danielle, more to herself than me. “She was not part of the plan. I didn’t want another innocent young woman hurt because of the Rex Factorem.”

“But it was you who pushed her down the stairs, wasn’t it?” I say. It’s so obvious now.

“I couldn’t let her interfere with my plans. I was confident she hadn’t recognized me in the shadows of the cloisters, but Lily was always popping up, in the way. Not to mention you.”

“Me?”

“You think you’re so smart, Eva, but I had you and your dad pegged from the day you arrived.”

“You were only nice to me because I was friends with George,” I realize.

“You—and your dad—never suspected me,” Danielle says, laughing. “The great Inspector Dawkins fooled by flattery. But you just kept on digging. I knew eventually you’d piece it all together. So I pushed Lily down the stairs, knowing you’d be the prime suspect. Your little outburst after your interview with Professor Bernard couldn’t have been more perfectly timed!”

“What if she’d actually died?” I gasp.

Danielle shrugs. Her eyes are so cold. Where is her heart? Where is her remorse?

“The Rex Factorem has a lot of blood on their hands. Lily would have been another.”

“But this wasn’t the Rex Factorem,” I say. “This was you.”

“I am getting justice. All’s fair in love and war,” snarls Danielle.

“Vigilante killings are not justice. George was—”

“The son of a man who tried to fool an innocent girl for a dare, tormented her, and then later rolled her body into a river.”

“George was nothing like his father and you know it,” I yell. “It wasn’t the Rex Factorem that killed George, it was you!”

“They are responsible, not me!”

Danielle swings the gargoyle at me, and I have to dive out of the way. Now she has a clear path to Seb.

“You killed an innocent boy,” I say, clambering to my feet. “A bloodline doesn’t define you, it’s your actions that matter. Think about what Tessa told you about George. How he saved her when she was drugged. Standing up for others. Those are the actions of a hero.”

“You’re right,” says Danielle, her eyes dead. “Seb is the villain. Like father like son.”

Fuck.

She turns to Seb and raises the gargoyle again.

“It wasn’t my fault!” cries Seb. “The Rex Factorem told me to do it. It was my initiation challenge.”

“Oh, of course the Rex Factorem dared you to drug a seventeen-year-old girl!” barks Danielle.

“They dared me to make Tessa sleep with me,” whines Seb. “But I knew she wouldn’t. She’s too into girls. So I—”

“You drugged her!” says Danielle.

“That’s what you told Dr. Peters at the Rex Factorem meeting,” I say, the final pieces coming together. “That’s why he looked angry and that’s the reason he tried to bribe Tessa to stay silent. So the Rex Factorem didn’t get associated with you drugging her.”

“All these years since Janey died and nothing’s changed. History repeats itself! This is why I have to end the Rex Factorem. And you,” hisses Danielle.

“It was wrong,” cries Seb. “I just wanted to live up to Dad’s expectations. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s too late for apologies,” snaps Danielle. “This is the time for justice.”

She holds the gargoyle up high.

“Wait!” I plead. I might think Seb is the lowest kind of scum on Earth, but I can’t watch him die, no matter what he’s done. “Please, just think about this,” I say to Danielle. “None of this will bring Janey back.”

“But I can hurt them the way they hurt me. Rip the thing they love away from them.”

“Do you think this is what Janey would have wanted?” I ask.

Danielle stops and glares at me. “You didn’t know Janey.”

“Neither did you,” I say. “And that is truly a tragedy. But you’ve read this,” I say, holding up the journal. “From what she wrote, do you think she was a violent person?”

Danielle lowers the gargoyle.

“She was training to be a nurse,” I say. “To help people. To save people. Do you think this is the life your grandparents would want for you?”

“Stop it,” says Danielle. “I know what you’re trying to do.”

She pauses, and a silence falls between us all. I allow myself to breathe properly for the first time in what feels like hours. Maybe my words have sunk in. Danielle has her answers.

“Eva? Eva? Are you there? The line is getting patchy.”

“Who said that?” snaps Danielle.

It’s James. In the silence, she’s heard my phone.

“Danielle, please stay calm,” I say, stepping over Seb and walking closer to her. “When I realized Seb’s dad was going to confess, I recorded it so that you would have all the evidence you need to get justice for Janey.”

“Recorded it how?” spits Danielle, redirecting the gargoyle at me. “Who’s listening? Your dad?”

“Eva, don’t engage,” whispers James.

It’s a bit late for that.

“Eva, the police are minutes away, just keep her talking. Mum says don’t antagonize her. You mustn’t approach.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and slowly throw it on the grass, holding my hands up in surrender. “I promise, Danielle, this is the only way we could have gotten justice for Janey. Now the world will know what the Rex Factorem did. How her death was covered up. You can have peace.”

“I will never have peace!” she cries.

“But are you really going to kill your own half brother?”

“He’s no brother of mine!” she screams.

She pulls the gargoyle behind her head, getting ready to swing it at Seb.

I run and lunge for her leg.

We slam to the ground. She lets go of the gargoyle and it lands with a thud millimeters away from Seb’s head.

She screams in frustration.

I act fast.

One hand behind her back.

Then two.

I swing my legs around her back.

She isn’t going anywhere.

Danielle bursts into tears.

Blue lights are all around us.

It reminds me of when they arrived and I was standing over George’s body.

But this time I feel nothing but relief.

Detective Crawford is leading the way, and James is by her side, holding up his phone.

He’s got the whole thing.

Danielle won’t get away with this.

“It’s over.”

It’s finally over.

CHAPTER 38
DECEMBER 10

Slayer 18181: TWO WRONGS DON’T MAKE A RIGHT! Beecham admissions officer arrested for the murder of George Danvers and Dr. Peters!

Dec. 10, 4:01 p.m.|15,000+ views, 8,400 likes

Reply: Slayer 18181: See video link for her full confession and attempted murder of Sebastian Eldridge.

Dec. 10, 4:02 p.m.|13,000+ views, 10,000 likes

Reply: Slayer 18181: Also admitted to attempted murder of Lily Earnshaw by pushing her down the stairs.

Dec. 10, 4:02 p.m.|9,000+ views, 5,500 likes

“I can take that now, Eva,” says Detective Crawford softly, resting her hand on my shoulder.

I look down. My hands are clasped around Janey’s journal. I hadn’t realized I was still holding it.

Everything had happened so fast after the police arrived.

Xander had been with them.

He’d refused medical treatment. He’d wanted to know I was safe.

Dad had been there, too. James had held out his phone and done a thumbs-up, so I knew Danielle’s and Seb’s dad’s confessions were recorded.

George, Janey, and Dr. Peters would get justice. No matter what Dr. Peters had done, he didn’t deserve to die.

Detective Crawford had cuffed Danielle herself.

Another officer had helped me to my feet, while paramedics saw to Seb. They didn’t cuff him, but two police officers went with him in the ambulance. The recording had his confession about drugging Tessa on there too. I hadn’t meant to make what happened to her public, but in the moment I was only thinking about how to stop Danielle.

“Eva? Can you give it to me?” asks Detective Crawford again.

“Sorry,” I say, and hand over the diary. It’s hard to part with. I never knew Janey Pratchett, but her life and mine will now forever be connected.

Xander comes over to me, holding out a hot chocolate that I gratefully accept. His left arm is in a sling, but otherwise he seems fine. Just shaken, like me.

“The voice recording was streaming live on the internet,” says Detective Crawford. “From a site called OxS. We can do a full debrief in the morning. We have enough evidence from the stream to charge Danielle. You should know that Sebastian’s father, Daniel Eldridge, and George’s father, Richard Glanville, have both turned themselves in to the police voluntarily and are being questioned in London.”

“What about George’s mum? Is she OK?” I ask.

Detective Crawford smiles. “She asked the same about you. She asked if she could meet with you once you’re settled back home.”

My eyes fill with tears.

She’d looked like she wanted to talk to me at the memorial, but George’s dad and Dr. Peters had steered her away.

George never told me how hard his life was at home.

I can only imagine.

“What will happen now?” I ask.

“Danielle has been charged and there will be an investigation here too … as to why the Oxfordshire police didn’t investigate Janey’s death.”

“So, how does it feel to be girl of the hour?” James asks, strolling toward us like it’s Christmas morning.

“Not now, James,” says Detective Crawford.

“Oh, come on, Mum, give us some credit. A killer is behind bars today thanks to us. Well, mainly Eva, but y’know, all three of us, really.” James nods at Xander and me.

Xander nods back at James, their mini feud over. James has done some stupid things this week on OxS, but his actions today have gone a long way toward making up for it.

“Three sixth-form students who could have gotten themselves killed,” says Detective Crawford, and only then do I see what’s really been behind her cold exterior: worry for James.

She turns to me. “What you did today was nothing short of stupidity,” she says. “Running off to find a killer, with no backup, no formal training. It was reckless. Dangerous. But most of all, it was—”

“Brave,” says Dad, appearing from an interview room with Constable Perry.

I throw my arms around him. He’s only been gone, like, twenty minutes, to give his official statement, but I’m glad he’s back.

Dad grips me tight.

When I finally let go, he stands head-on with Detective Crawford. She looks at him sheepishly. “Inspector, I can only apologize for—”

“Detective,” he says, raising his hand. “It appears our children are much like us. The investigation is closed. The criminals are behind bars. I say let’s put this down as a win.”

He holds out his hand.

Detective Crawford shakes it.

Then Dad turns to me. “Don’t look so smug,” he says. “You’re grounded.”

“What? Why?” I gasp.

“Taking on a killer. With no weapon. No backup. No training. No exit strategy. Need I go on?”

“But I called James. And I knew once he told you, that you could track my phone.”

“And she was brave,” Xander pipes up in my defense.

Dad frowns. “I’d ground you too if I could. How’s the arm?”

“Fine,” Xander says.

Dad turns back to me and puts an arm around my shoulder. “Never scare me like that again, OK?”

“I promise,” I say.

The front doors to the police station open. Lily hobbles through, still on her crutches, followed by Professor Bernard and … Tessa!

“I thought you’d gone home already,” I say, rushing over to hug her.

“I didn’t get out before the college went on lockdown,” she says. “And then the police asked me to come in to make a statement about…”

I nod.

“Thank you for coming in,” says Detective Crawford, joining us. “I know it’s been a hell of a day for everyone, but we’d be grateful to get your statements.”

“Is Seb here?” asks Tessa nervously.

“He’s been taken to the John Radcliffe Hospital,” says Detective Crawford. “But he’s under guard.”

Tessa breathes a sigh of relief. “I know he’s been through a lot but—”

“It doesn’t negate what he did to you,” says Detective Crawford. “Miss Dawkins’s quick thinking today led to a full recorded confession.”

Tessa smiles at me. “You’re so brave.”

“No, you’re so brave,” I say firmly. “I’m just impulsive.”

“Maybe a mix of both,” says Dad.

“Are you OK?” I ask Lily. Her complexion looks brighter now that the shock has worn off.

“Dunno if I’d say I’m OK … but yeah, I’m OK,” she says, puffing out her cheeks.

“You heard Danielle admitted it was her that pushed you down the stairs?” I ask.

Lily nods and shudders. “I’m lucky to be alive,” she says.

“I think we all are,” says Professor Bernard.

“Thank you for not pressing charges against me for vandalism,” Lily says.

“You were under the influence of Dr. Peters,” says Professor Bernard.

That’s pretty cool, I think to myself. My initial impression of her was right. She cares more about her students than anything else.

“But there’s still one thing I don’t get,” says Lily, shaking her head. “Why did Dr. Peters want to destroy the access scheme so badly? Was he just racist?”

“He was thinking of himself,” I say. “Dr. Peters wanted the access scheme to reflect badly on Beecham so he would be the clear favorite to become principal. If he could show that one of the candidates on Professor Bernard’s outreach scheme had vandalized the Glanville statue, he could discredit both her program and her campaign to remove the statue in one clean swoop. Leaking the footage on OxS made sure it wouldn’t be linked back to him.”

Dad puts his hand on my shoulder as if to say, That’s my girl.

Detective Crawford nods, satisfied with my theory.

“Makes sense,” says Lily.

“It does.” Professor Bernard sighs. She gives me a long, pensive look.

“On the subject of leaked footage,” says Detective Crawford, “what I would like to know is who helped you leak the confessions to OxS?”

I smile innocently. “Detective, you wouldn’t reveal your sources, would you?”

Out of the corner of my eye I see James breathe a sigh of relief and he smiles at me. Maybe we could be friends after all. He may have gone about things differently to me, and I might not agree with his choices, but James came through and did the right thing. I suppose I could have ratted him out to his mum, exposed all of his OxS antics over the past week, but that’s not me.

“And on that note,” says Dad, always sensing when I need a get-out-of-jail-free card, “I think it’s time we left. Are you OK to go to Beecham and pack up?”

“Guess so,” I say, and I bite the inside of my cheek. I’m not sure I’m ready to go back there but I do want to get home.

“Can I come with you guys?” asks Xander. “I’ve already given my statement.”

Dad nods and takes my arm.

“Bye,” I say, looking around at Lily, James, and Tessa. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again. I mean, after something like this, I feel like we’re bonded for life, but also, sometimes, it’s just easier to move on and forget.

“Group hug?” says James.

Xander laughs, and the moment passes.

But it is bittersweet to be leaving them.

“Professor, are you ready?” asks Detective Crawford.

Professor Bernard looks like she wants to say something to me, but she follows Detective Crawford toward an interview room. We all watch like it’s a TV show, as it dawns on us that there is going to be a lot of debriefing and reliving this awful mess in the future. Giving statements. Danielle’s trial. Seb’s trial.

“So,” says Xander, drawing everyone’s attention away from the interview room. “When I was invited to Beecham interview week, I did not expect it to be taking place in a police station.”

Everyone laughs. We need a light moment, after everything that’s gone on.

Xander is so good at knowing the right thing to say in awkward situations.

Just like George.

George.

My George.

The emotion hits me like a sucker punch. I burst into tears, silent at first, and then great body-racking sobs. My cries become a wail. I can’t stop myself.

My legs give way.

I collapse onto the floor.

“Oh God, he’s really gone,” I cry. “He’s dead. He’s really gone.”

There’s no more room to act tough and carry on.

Now all that’s left is the pain.

The absence.

The giant gap George left behind.

A gap that can’t ever be filled.

CHAPTER 39
DECEMBER 10

Slayer Admin: Out of respect for those impacted, we have removed the live stream of today’s events. Beecham College is out of lockdown. Interview week has concluded, and all remaining interviewees are heading home. Please keep your comments respectful. Thank you.

Dec. 10, 6:00 p.m.|15,000+ views, 8,000 likes

I don’t know how long it is until I stop crying in the police station, but eventually Dad brings Xander and me back to college.

I stop in the middle of the front quad, the statue taunting me. I feel so drained and conflicted. Finding out what George’s dad did and stopping Danielle from killing Seb are huge. The truth is out there now. But it can’t bring George back. Nothing can ever put this right.

“You OK?” asks Xander.

“It’s just, now it’s all over—George’s murder solved, interview week done—I know why I stayed in Oxford after George died. Not to get into Beecham. Not even really to solve his murder. I was just trying to distract myself from this awful reality. The reality of losing him.”

A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.

“George would be proud of you,” says Dad. “And so am I.”

“Hey, I need to sort out new travel arrangements to get home,” says Xander, “but please don’t leave without saying goodbye, OK?”

I nod, and Xander walks off, leaving Dad and me.

My knees feel weak as I climb the staircase. When I reach my room, I sit on the bay windowsill. Beecham is desolate. There’s hardly anyone left. The last remaining students are hurriedly leaving with their bursting suitcases of clothes, books, and notes. I think even some of the live-in staff are leaving. Everyone needs a break after what’s happened here.

I feel a tear run down my cheek.

This will be the last time I ever look out of a Beecham window.

The last time I’m ever at Beecham.

The last time I’m ever in Oxford.

I’m never coming back after this.

After being accused of pushing a student down the stairs.

Being accused of murder.

Losing George.

I stare at the statue of Glanville.

I want to take a hammer and smash it to pieces.

The rage is bubbling inside me.

I just want to get out of here. I stand up and start shoving clothes in my suitcase. I feel like throwing my interview clothes out the window. No point in owning them anymore. I’m never going to wear them again.

No point packing my notes; I just throw them in the bin.

What’s the point?

What’s the point of anything anymore?

The room feels bare.

All that’s left is my murder board.

But I can’t bring myself to take it down.

I sit there, numb. I don’t know how long for.

Dad’s voice breaks the silence. “You did all this by yourself?” he asks. He’s been studying my murder board.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Hey, I helped!” says Xander, letting himself into my room.

I almost manage a laugh. “Maybe a little,” I say.

Xander smiles and then looks guilty for seeming happy. I get that feeling.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” says Dad. “I’ll take this to the car,” he adds, picking up my suitcase and nodding at Xander on his way out.

My phone pings with the sound I’ve come to love and loathe in equal measure. It’s a new notification from OxS.

Let me guess …

Slayer 18181: ICYMI here are the headlines of the murder of Janey Pratchett …

Dec. 10, 6:37 p.m.|5,000+ views, 2,000 likes

Slayer 18181: Superhero Inspector Dawkins Junior might have bagged her first serial killer and a place at Beecham.

Dec. 10, 6:37 p.m.|5,000+ views, 2,800 likes

“What are you looking at?” asks Xander, peering over my shoulder.

“Nothing,” I say, shoving my phone back in my pocket. “So, I guess this is the official end of interview week.”

“Has it really only been a week?” asks Xander, shaking his head.

“Less than that,” I say, as a lump forms in my throat. So much can change in just a few days. “It feels wrong to be leaving without George.”

“You got justice for him,” says Xander softly.

I blink back the tears. I can’t break down again. “Yeah, I mean, I’ll probably be grounded for life as a result, and I’m pretty sure I have no chance of getting a place at Beecham, but hey.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about not getting an offer from Beecham,” says Xander.

I roll my eyes. I can’t think about that right now.

I want to go home.

I need to grieve.

“Don’t underestimate how much you’ve impressed everyone here,” says Xander. “We’re all in awe of you, Eva. Your talent, your loyalty, your instinct, your bravery … Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you blush.”

My throat is too dry to speak.

Xander takes my hand. “Listen, I don’t know if we’ll get in, but if we do, and you survive your eternal damnation of a grounding, then I really hope that you and I can—”

We hear footsteps coming up the stone stairwell and we both freeze.

It’s silly.

Danielle is in custody, but we’re both still a bit on edge.

Someone knocks on the door and I open it.

“Professor,” I say, surprised to see her.

“I hope you don’t mind the intrusion,” she says, realizing Xander is in the room. “I finished giving my statement and rushed back as I wanted to see you before you left.”

“I was just going, actually,” says Xander. He hovers for a minute, not quite sure how to say goodbye to me.

“See ya,” he says, with an awkward wave. “Bye, Professor Bernard.”

“Goodbye, Xander,” she says. “Take care.”

And that’s it, Xander is gone. I might never see him again. I feel like I should have said more, but I don’t know what exactly.

Professor Bernard closes the door behind him and takes a deep breath. Then she gives a light cough. Her face looks pained, like she can’t figure out how to put whatever it is she wants to say into words.

“Eva, I wanted to say … or rather, I wanted to apologize for how I handled our interview. When the police told me someone had pushed Lily down the stairs, I jumped to conclusions. I’m sorry. And I was too defensive over the access scheme.”

“It’s OK, I understand why,” I say. “Seeing the lengths Dr. Peters went to in order to undermine the scheme, I get it now. He epitomized all the worst stereotypes of Oxford.”

“Well, we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I appreciate your forgiveness. There was something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

Professor Bernard’s forehead crinkles into frown lines, like she’s deliberated over whether to tell me this or not.

“It isn’t my story to tell, but as George isn’t here to tell you himself, I think he might like me to share this with you.”

My heart thumps.

“I’m sure you and George discussed your personal statements in your application to Beecham. But did you know George submitted an addendum?”

I shake my head.

Professor Bernard passes me the piece of paper in her hands.

“Perhaps you’d like to read it?”

My breath quickens. It’s not addressed to me, but it’s the last message from George I’ll ever get to read.

Thank you for taking the time to read this addendum to my personal statement. I have no doubt that before you received my application you received a call from my father. Despite asking him not to, I am sure he will have dropped many hints. Even though I used my mother’s name, Danvers, my father’s family name Glanville haunts me wherever I go. My father refused to allow me to apply to any college but Beecham.

The truth is, I would love to study at Beecham. But not because of the family history. Instead, to have the chance to be at a college that fights for change in a sometimes archaic institution, and to learn under the tutelage of the best of the best. But only if I deserve a place.

If you are reading this simply because of my family name, then please rip up my application. I don’t want to interview. I am ashamed of how the Glanville family made its money. I cannot escape that the opportunities I’ve had in my life and education to date have been the result of that family name. However, I do not want the rest of my life to be defined by it.

I want to find my own path. I want to fight for what I believe is right and, in any way I can, make amends for my ancestor’s mistakes. And so, full disclosure, if I am ever privileged enough to call myself a student at Beecham, I will be the first to sign up to have the Glanville statue removed.

I hope my application has shown you the real me, the George who is passionate about classics.

I hope that I am able to secure an interview on merit so I can further prove to you I deserve a place at Beecham—based purely on merit.

But please don’t give me a place because I am a descendant of H. C. Glanville. Above all, regardless of whether my application is successful, please don’t judge me by the sins of my fathers.

“Sins of my fathers.” So this is what gave Danielle the idea to use the Euripides quote. She was the admissions officer; she’d have had access to all our applications. Her plan was so calculated, so cold. It makes me sick.

But I can’t hate her anymore.

I can’t let her take anything more from me.

What this addendum has given me is a gift.

A message from George from beyond the grave. An answer to the question that has haunted me since I found out he was a Glanville. Did I know the real George?

And the answer is yes.

I did.

The George I loved was the real George.

I will never forget him. He touched my life. He helped me get here, to Beecham. To achieve the dying wish of my mother. And I will carry him with me forever.

A light tap on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

Dad opens the door. “Ready?” he asks, popping his head into the room.

“Definitely,” I say, handing George’s letter back to Professor Bernard.

“Keep it,” she says.

She offers out her hand, and I shake it. Then she cups my hand in both of hers.

“You are extraordinary, Eva,” says Professor Bernard. “And I hope one day our paths cross again.”

She leaves us, as Dad and I check the room one last time before heading out.

We walk across the quad, arm in arm. I take a final look at the Glanville statue. I hope I never see it again. The porters had let Dad park in college and I’m glad to slump down in the front seat of the car.

It’s time to go home.

As we drive out of Beecham College, it’s so dark it could be the middle of the night, but it’s barely past dinnertime. Reporters are standing in the street, blocking our exit. Their cameras are blinding through the windscreen. Dad turns off the engine and gets out. So do I. The buzz of questions hums off the buildings.

“Inspector Dawkins, how does it feel? Your second killer behind bars this year!”

“How did you figure out who the Beecham Butcher was?”

“Has Sebastian Eldridge spoken to his half sister?”

Dad raises his hand, and the reporters fall silent in an instant.

“We have no comment at this time,” Dad says. “Except one.”

The reporters edge their Dictaphones and mics in closer.

“This was a tragic and complex case spanning deaths over three decades. It fooled the police more than once, and an internal investigation is already underway. But as for the death of Ms. Pratchett and the tragic loss of George Danvers and Dr. Declan Peters, it wasn’t me who solved the case. It wasn’t Detective Crawford or her team. It was my brilliant daughter, Eva Dawkins. We ask for privacy at this time.”

Dad looks over at me and smiles. He’s proud of me but I’m proud of him too. I may have solved George’s murder, but Dad does this every day for people he’s never met before. His job takes him away from me sometimes, but never did I appreciate the danger he puts himself in to get the truth until now. He’s a hero.

The click-click of reporters’ cameras returns as we get back in our car.

“Eva! Do you have anything to say?” one of the reporters calls out.

Dad looks at me. He’s about to give me the just-say-no-comment look, but he smiles instead. The choice is mine.

Do I have something to say?

“Always.”

Condolence Messages for George Danvers Fill Beecham Quad

• • •

JUSTICE FOR GEORGE!

• • •

The Last of the Old Relics of Oxford Are Out!

Lily

I got in!!!

Jan. 12|10:01 a.m.

Xander

Me too

Jan. 12|10:02 a.m.

Lily

What about the other Reapers?

Jan. 12|10:05 a.m.

Xander

Nope. We slayed them. Only me and Archie Junior.

Jan. 12|10:06 a.m.

Lily

Eva?

Jan. 12|10:06 a.m.

Xander

??????

Jan. 12|10:12 a.m.

Eva

Got my letter.

Jan. 12|10:22 a.m.

Xander

Did you get in?

Jan. 12|10:23 a.m.

Eva

They offered me a place.

Jan. 12|10:24 a.m.

Lily

YESSS!!

Jan. 12|10:25 a.m.

Xander

Can’t believe we’re all going to be at Beecham together!!!!!

Jan. 12|10:25 a.m.

Eva

I haven’t decided if I’m going to accept yet.

Jan. 12|10:26 a.m.

GLANVILLE STATUE REMOVED

• • •

Trial Date Set for Beecham Butcher

• • •

EQUAL OXFORD WINS

EPILOGUE
TWO MONTHS LATER

Eva

Guess where I am

Mar. 18|12:29 p.m.

Xander

OMG you actually went back! How does it feel???

Mar. 18|12:32 p.m.

I reread Xander’s message as I sit at an outdoor table at the Vaults & Garden café overlooking the Radcliffe Camera. How does it feel?

Strange.

Familiar.

Otherworldly.

But mostly … exciting.

This is where my Oxford journey began all those weeks ago, and I still feel the pull to race inside the domed library and devour all the books, all the knowledge. The midday sun is shining a spotlight on the Rad Cam and its surrounding pristine fenced lawn, with students’ bikes resting on the railings. It’s only now I’ve come back that I realize just how perfectly the old and the new fit together in Oxford. There’s so much new life in these old buildings. They carry history but they also inspire the future. They inspire me.

I look over to my left. I can see the wall of Beecham College from here. Coming back to Oxford, remembering how much I wanted to study and debate with the greatest minds … it’s not the same as going back to Beecham.

After Danielle was arrested, I was certain I never wanted to come back here. I never wanted to see that Glanville statue again, and I wanted to avoid being constantly reminded of how I lost George.

But the statue is gone.

The college voted unanimously to remove it.

And maybe it’s time for new beginnings.

Dad said I should at least come and see.

I need to face the past, to move on.

That’s what Malorie, the Beecham College counselor, said to me in our last session. We’ve been meeting weekly online.

I can’t believe it’s already been three months since interview week.

“There you are,” says Dad, joining me. “How was your walk?”

“Unexpected,” I say, not volunteering more. Today has been a lot to process.

Dad puts his camera away. For once, he hadn’t asked any questions when I’d told him I needed some time alone. I didn’t want to tell him where I was actually going. I don’t think he’d have wanted me walking to the River Cherwell by myself, but I’d needed to know if I could face it. I needed to know if I could go back to the place I’d confronted Danielle. I’d expected it to be quiet and full of pain, but instead all I saw was the joyful banter of students punting along the river. I’d witnessed Danielle almost killing Seb on the banks, and Janey Pratchett died there, but watching a student lying back in a punt, reading Dickens, as their friend steered them down the river, felt like a metaphor for washing all those horrible memories away and finding peace.

And there, in that moment, it had hit me … Life goes on.

Danielle didn’t destroy Oxford or what it means to me. She’s left a scar, but there is joy to be found going forward.

I want to move forward.

It’s just whether or not I can …

“Any clearer?” Dad asks, and I know what he means.

I shrug.

I’m not ready to answer just yet.

“Show me the letter again,” says Dad.

I pull it out of my bag and hand it over. He makes a whistling noise as he holds the thick, weighty paper. “We received more than twenty-two thousand applications for around thirty-three hundred places…” he reads.

“I know what it says, Dad.”

He hands back the letter. “Eva, what you’ve accomplished took months—no, years—of hard work. You have made me so proud. You kept your promise to Mum and you did right by George. But listen, what you do now is for you. You’ve been accepted to study at the University of Oxford. Now, it’s for you, and you alone, to decide if you want to spend the next three years of your life here.”

I stand up.

“Let’s go.”

“Go, go?” he asks.

I shake my head. There’s only one way I can make this decision.

“I need to go back to Beecham,” I say.

Dad takes my arm. “We’ll go together.”

We make the five-minute walk in silence as I gather my thoughts, but the streets are buzzing. Students are everywhere. It’s nothing like interview week. Now I can see what Oxford is like during term time. There are students cycling off to lectures, others leaning on buildings, listening to music, tourists taking photos of colleges and students dodging past them. A few are in gowns, which seems a bit surreal on a regular weekday—maybe they’re going to the Sheldonian or something, I don’t know. The tourists love it. I can tell the favorite sandwich shops because the queues stretch all the way down the narrow cobbled alleys.

We reach the gates of Beecham College, and, unlike during interview week, which was out of term time, the gates are wide open, inviting us in. The front quad is glistening but it’s not just the spring sunshine that is giving it a different vibe. The statue has gone! I mean, I knew it was gone, but it’s really gone.

I didn’t expect it to feel so different.

My heart tightens and then feels lighter.

I take a step closer. Steve, the porter, recognizes me and rushes out of his booth to greet us. He shakes Dad’s hand and then hugs me.

“Sorry,” he says, recovering himself. “I’m just so pleased to see you again, Eva.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” I say.

“Of course I do.” He smiles.

He doesn’t have to say it, but I feel it.

Family.

Beecham is family.

It’s not just words. Once you belong to an Oxford college, you belong. I might not look like 95 percent of the students who study here, but Oxford runs deeper than blood. I received so many letters from current students offering support after George’s death, and also from the ACS, the Oxford African and Caribbean Society. The students and staff care about me.

Danielle, Dr. Peters, and the Rex Factorem are gone.

The Beecham that’s left is thriving.

Professor Bernard, the access scheme, the students: They’re all good.

They’re the real Oxford.

They’re home.

Dad and I make our way through the new front quad. The steps and platform where the Glanville statue had been are empty. Xander told me he heard Beecham was in the process of commissioning a new statue, and now I really want to know what it will be. We sit down on one of the benches overlooking the quad. It’s weird. It feels the same but different.

A few students sit down on the bench next to us. Hilary term is well underway and they’re talking about a tutorial they have later today. I sit back and let their conversation drift over me. They’re science students, just back from the lab. I can’t keep up with what they’re saying, but it sounds cool. They’re animated. They’re enjoying life and a thought pops into my head: This could be my life too, if I want it to be.

“Let’s see if Professor Bernard is here,” I say to Dad. “I want to tell her my decision in person.”

“You don’t have to decide right now. You’ve got until June.”

“No, my mind’s made up,” I say, taking a look around and soaking it all in. “This is what I’ve wanted for so long. Oxford wasn’t just Mum’s and George’s dream for me. It was my dream. And being back, I’ve remembered why I worked so hard to get here and I’m not giving that up.”

“You’re sure about this?” Dad asks.

“No,” I admit. “But if I don’t give it a go, I’ll always wonder, What if?”

I look at the empty platform, awaiting its new Beecham statue.

No one knows what it will be yet, just like I don’t know what the reality of studying at Oxford will be—but I’m ready for the challenge.

“Beecham is changing, and I want to be a part of it,” I say. “Everything that’s happened—losing Mum, losing George, interview week—it’s all led me to this. And it’s shown me what I’m capable of. I know I can do this. I want to.”

“My daughter,” says Dad quietly, almost to himself, “an Oxford undergraduate.”

“One step at a time.” I smile. “Just the small detail of passing my A Levels first.”

Xander

Well??? Are you coming?

Mar. 18|3:28 p.m.

Lily

Please say yes!!!!

Mar. 18|3:45 p.m.

Eva

See you in October, Freshers;-)

Mar. 18|4:10 p.m.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost I want to thank my mum, Letitia Featherstone, who always believed in me and encouraged me to apply to Oxford. And second, I want to thank my dad, Fitz Douglas, who took me to my Oxford interview week. This book feels like coming full circle—building on the love I felt in my childhood, to my happy time at Oxford reading maths, to becoming an author. But this book wouldn’t be possible without Jasmine Richards, CEO of Storymix. I want to give a HUGE thank-you to Jasmine for entrusting me to bring her idea to life and write this book. Thanks also to the fabulous Storymix family who worked on this project: Sara Grant, Irem Ozpullukcu, and Effie Tetteh. And a special thanks to their police consultant, Danny S.

I am so grateful for all the amazing editorial support I have had. Thank you to my brilliant editors, Gráinne Clear (Walker), Sara Goodman (Wednesday Books) and Stephanie King (Storymix), Tilda Johnson, Susan Barnett, as well as Non Pratt and Jenny Bish for their input during the editorial rounds and copyediting. Big thanks to our designer, Jamie Hammond, and illustrator Tomislav Tomic. I’d also like to thank the agents involved in this deal, Alli Helleger and Alice Williams.

Oxford Blood has been a labor of love, and I’d like to say a big thank-you to my friends and family for all their support, especially Mark Urso-Calé, Danielle Coombs, Karen Swann, and my nan, Jennifer Featherstone. Also a big shout-out to the Write MAGIC community for all the writing sprints where so much of this book was written! As much of this novel is drawn on my own experiences at Oxford, I would also like to thank some of the people that really shaped my experience at that time: Professor Victor Flynn, Professor Andy Wathen, Jo Pointer, Kabir Soorya, Kamau Lyon, and Dr. Jackie Stedall, and, of course, the whole New College family.

Finally, and most importantly, I want to thank my two wonderful daughters, Elodie and Felicity, who inspire me every day. Their love of storytelling and vibrant imaginations always push me to strive to be the best writer I can be, and I hope one day they will read and enjoy this novel.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachael Davis-Featherstone is a mixed-race, Black-British, multi-award-nominated author, literary agent, and cofounder of Creative Roots Studio, which helps writers and illustrators build sustainable careers. She grew up in a low-income, single- parent family and studied mathematics at Oxford University before receiving a master’s in English literature at Surrey University. Rachael has published more than twenty books, ranging from picture books to commercial fiction, and her works have been translated into seven languages. I Am NOT a Prince, illustrated by Beatrix Hatcher, was shortlisted for the 2023 Waterstones Children’s Book Prize. Rachael was also longlisted for the Diverse Book Awards and shortlisted for the Inclusive Books for Children Awards. Rachael champions diversity in literature and was a judge for the inaugural Jericho Prize. She is a nonexecutive director for ALCS and a trustee for English PEN. You can sign up for email updates here.

Thank you for buying this

St. Martin’s Publishing Group ebook.

To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.

Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

For email updates on the author, click here.

Contents

1. Title Page
2. Copyright Notice
3. Dedication
4. Chapter 1. December 5
5. Chapter 2. December 5
6. Chapter 3. December 5
7. Chapter 4. December 5
8. Chapter 5. December 5
9. Chapter 6. December 5
10. Chapter 7. December 5
11. Chapter 8. December 6
12. Chapter 9. December 6
13. Chapter 10. December 6
14. Chapter 11. December 6
15. Chapter 12. December 7
16. Chapter 13. December 7
17. Chapter 14. December 7
18. Chapter 15. December 7
19. Chapter 16. December 7
20. Chapter 17. December 8
21. Chapter 18. December 8
22. Chapter 19. December 8
23. Chapter 20. December 8
24. Chapter 21. December 8
25. Chapter 22. December 8
26. Chapter 23. December 9
27. Chapter 24. December 9
28. Chapter 25. December 9
29. Chapter 26. December 9
30. Chapter 27. December 9
31. Chapter 28. December 9
32. Chapter 29. December 9
33. Chapter 30. December 10
34. Chapter 31. December 10
35. Chapter 32. December 10
36. Chapter 33. December 10
37. Chapter 34. December 10
38. Chapter 35. December 10
39. Chapter 36. December 10
40. Chapter 37. December 10
41. Chapter 38. December 10
42. Chapter 39. December 10
43. Epilogue. Two Months Later
44. Acknowledgments
45. About the Author
46. Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the United States by Wednesday Books, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group

OXFORD BLOOD. Copyright © 2025 by Storymix. Text by Rachael Davis-Featherstone. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.

www.wednesdaybooks.com

All emojis designed by Shutterstock

Cover © 2025 Tomislav Tomić

Reproduced by permission of Walker Books Ltd.

eISBN 9781250342317

The publisher of this book does not authorize the use or reproduction of any part of this book in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. The publisher of this book expressly reserves this book from the Text and Data Mining exception in accordance with Article 4(3) of the European Union Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790.

Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, business, educational, and specialty retail/wholesale use. Please contact MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

Originally published in the United Kingdom by Walker Books Ltd.

First US Edition: 2026