“I…I don’t know anyone who would…have killed her like that,” I fumble.
Villanueva sighs, as if I’ve disappointed her.
“Look, Ms. Whitlock, I’m going to be direct with you. It is unlikely that Ms. Barton was killed by a stranger or someone she had only met a handful of times. We believe the perpetrator is someone close to her, likely one of the people staying with her at the Raven Inn in the days before her death.”
She pauses, waiting for that to sink in. “So, we are focusing our investigation on those of you who participated in the Adventure Abroad program through Hamilton College.”
She doesn’t need to say anything further. Her intention is clear.
She has a handful of suspects, and I’m one of them.
And most of the others are sitting in the waiting room downstairs.
9
Claire
Now
I’m guilty. I know that.
Phoebe would still be here if I hadn’t lost control that night, grabbed the knife from the Inn’s kitchen, and taken off after her.
But someone else is responsible too. That person struck her over the head repeatedly and left her to die in a dark, abandoned mine.
From the shifting glances and awkward silences, it was clear within minutes of returning to the AFP building lobby that Villanueva told everyone the same thing: that we are the prime suspects. And it’s equally clear why she did so: to turn us against each other, to inspire someone to start talking to save themselves.
For the first time since arriving in Sydney, I’m grateful I came back. I need to be here to be the first to figure out what happened that night, to identify who really murdered Phoebe, before anyone discovers my role in her death.
And then there’s the other thing.
Maybe finding out who that person is will lighten the burden I’ve carried with me for the past decade. Maybe it’s my way of making it up to Phoebe, my penitence for those horrible mistakes I made ten years ago.
The five of us are back at Kyan’s, huddled around his kitchen island, despite the massive empty dining room. Even though it’s nearly dinnertime, we returned to the house to find an elaborate, catered lunch—perfectly rolled sandwich wraps, large serving trays of various salads, smaller bowls of veggies and dips—which, so far, only Adrien has had the stomach to touch. I scan the others’ faces, everyone’s expression carrying similar emotions: anguish, shock, grief, disbelief, and something else. Suspicion.
The car ride back passed mostly in silence, and since we’ve returned, Phoebe’s murder has been hovering over all of us as we make inane comments about the weather and how delicious the hummus is.
“The police said someone smashed her skull in.” I’m surprised to hear my own voice make this proclamation, at the strangely emotionless words coming from my mouth. But I can’t stand not talking about it anymore. “Villanueva thinks it’s one of us.”
Four sets of eyes skirt away from me.
I know these people—orknewthem. They couldn’t really be capable of murder, could they?
And then I realize, they probably thought the same about me.
“Did the police question Hari?” Adrien asks Kyan.
He shrugs. “I haven’t heard from her.”
“I still think it’s weird that she just never showed,” Ellery says. “Wouldn’t she have at least sent a text?”
Kyan nods and pulls out his phone. He types something in and then holds it up to his ear. After nearly a minute he puts it down.
“She’s not answering her phone.”
“Should we be concerned?” Declan asks.
Kyan sighs. “I didn’t want to tell you all this, because, honestly, it’s not my story to share. But Hari…well, she’s had some rough patches since our program ended.”
