Limerence: Chapter 10

I’m halfway through washing my hands in the girl’s bathroom when I spot a red-haired shadow through the mirror.

I tense. “Sorry, did you need to use the sink?”

Less than five feet away, Sophie Adams stands in all her high-heeled glory – arms crossed and red hair framing her heart-shaped face. I’m half-tempted to ask what product is responsible for her voluminous, shampoo-worthy waves.

“I like your backpack,” she says. “Burberry, right?”

I nod, unsure where this is going.

“It’s cute.” She wears the ghost of a smug smile. “People always say it’s tacky to wear last season’s line-up but…” The smugness intensifies. “Good for you. Someone has to buy the leftover inventory, right?”

Heat blooms across my cheeks before I can stop it.

I do not care what Sophie Adams thinks.

Her opinion doesn’t matter.

I repeat that mantra at least three times till I feel confident enough to turn around and face her head-on. “I couldn’t tell you. The backpack was a gift.”

Her smile slips – just for a moment – and I can almost hear the gears grinding in her head. Trying to work out who might’ve given me a designer backpack. “You know,” she says, a little too sharp to be polite. “You look very familiar to me, but I don’t think we’ve actually met before.”

“We’ve met before,” I say. I don’t offer my name.

Her memory may be short but mine’s not. I officially met Sophie the first day of freshman year, when her interest in me waned the moment she realized I was a scholarship student and wearing department-store sneakers.

The first was a forgivable crime, the second not so much.

Her eyebrows furrow. “Oh, have we? That’s weird, I’m normally so good with names. Even the forgettable ones.”

My jaw clenches. I’ve heard enough of Sophie’s backhanded compliments to last a lifetime, but this is the first time they’ve been directed at me.

I think I have a new appreciation for Penelope and Ava’s patience.

An awkward silence ensues, and despite myself, I give in. “I’m Poppy.”

She gives me an expectant look. “Poppy…?”

“Davis.”

She perks up. “Oh, Davis! As in Governor Davis? Or like the oil industry Davises?”

“Uh…neither.”

“Oh, Davis as in Senator Davis.”

My smile is so tight-lipped it hurts. “Davis as in nobody you’d know.”

Her face clears with realization. “Oh! Oh, I see. You poor thing. You’re a scholarship student, aren’t you? Like Mickey?” The pitiful expression on her face isn’t nearly as convincing as she thinks it is.

I know satisfaction when I see it.

“You know,” she continues, “My mom loves donating to charity. I can see if she’d be willing to part with some of our canned goods. I mean, they’re just collecting dust in our pantry and if it’ll feed your family this winter –”

“I don’t need your charity,” I snap.

It comes out more harshly than intended, and Sophie’s eyes light with victory.

She’s gotten under my skin.

She tucks a loose curl behind one ear. “Well, if you do need charity, I’d advise you to keep from asking Adrian. He’s generous enough as it is, and he’s never able to say no to the working class.” She shoots me one last condescending smile before click-clacking her way out of the bathroom.

I stand at the sink, simmering with rage, mostly directed at myself.

A jab at my financial status – that’s all it took.

Four years and I should know better.

Anywhere else, in any other high school, this wouldn’t matter. Nobody would blink twice at my backpack or my last name.

These things only matter here, where names go hand-in-hand with your rung on the social ladder.

Well, I can only assume Sophie knows my name now.

***

Unfortunately, Sophie’s grating comments are the least of my worries.

Tonight, I have plans with a murderer.

I briefly consider hiding out in the library or computer lab till the night’s over, but I get the gut feeling that ditching Adrian is not a good idea. So, when classes end, I slink back to my dorm room and resist the urge to tidy up my desk the way I would for a normal guest.

Because Adrian is not a guest.

Instead, I dig out the cheap pocketknife that Rick gifted me four years ago – a going away present after I got my acceptance to Lionswood.

Your mother’s been houndin’ me about makin’ sure you’re ready for school or somethin’ like that, he’d muttered as he thrust the knife into my hands.

It had seemed like a ridiculous gift at the time (and certainly against the school’s code of conduct to bring weapons onto campus), but I’d stashed it in my luggage anyway.

Now, as I finger the aluminum handle, I experience a surprising burst of gratitude for Rick.

The blade is thin and small, probably more suited for cutting fruit than skin, but it’s not as if I intend to actually use it.

Not unless I have to.

There is, however, another crucial component of tonight’s plans that I will be using. A last-minute addition that, if things go my way, change everything.

A sharp knock on the door sounds, and I startle, tucking the knife back into my pocket.

And then I reach into my other pocket, where my phone sits, and silently press the Start button on the voice recording app I installed thirty minutes ago.

Nothing says leverage like a murder confession on tape.

I take a few deep breaths to quell the nerves fluttering in my stomach before opening the door.

I must not do that great of a job because the first words out of his mouth are: “You look terrified. Am I truly that scary?”

Yes.

Adrian leans against my doorframe, looking effortlessly prepared for a Vogue photoshoot. Like me, he’s still wearing his school uniform, but he’s shed his blazer, unbuttoned the top of his white dress shirt, and rolled up the sleeves to reveal toned forearms.

“You know, we don’t have to do this here,” I suggest. “I could bring my sketchbook to the library or…”

The rest of the sentence dies on my lips as he strolls right past me and into my room. I reluctantly close the door.

Okay, maybe I should’ve tidied up.

He pauses by the twin-sized bed and tugs my stuffed lion free from the crumpled comforter. “Well, this is cute,” he teases.

A flush creeps up my neck. “I’ve had that since I was a kid.”

He pets the lion’s mane, coarse with age, and says, “I see going to Lionswood has been a lifelong dream.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Something like that.”

“Quite ambitious for a small town Alabama girl, isn’t it?”

My eyes narrow. “I’m not sure Mobile qualifies as a small town.”

He shrugs and then glances over at me. “You know what I find very interesting about you, Poppy?”

Already, alarm bells are sounding in my head, but I try channeling as much unbothered confidence as I can. “What’s that?”

He puts the lion down and gives me his total attention. “Out of the thousands of kids who took the SSAT test trying to place into Lionswood’s scholarship program – or any private school, really – you had the highest score out of every single one.”

A rock settles in the bottom of my stomach.

He can’t know. There’s no way he knows.

I clear my throat. “Actually, I had the second highest.”

He shoots me a lopsided smile that doesn’t have even an ounce of remorse in it. “Well, highest now.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

“Regardless,” he continues, “Thousands of kids. You out-tested them all. In every single subject.”

Even as my anxiety skyrockets, I hold my ground. “I can’t tell if there’s a question or a compliment attached to the end of this.”

“I just find it strange, is all,” he says, “By those test scores, you’re a child prodigy. Probably a genius. And yet, you’ve done quite poorly since you’ve been at Lionswood. A mediocre C-student.”

His eyes bore into mine, and for a brief moment, I worry that if I open my mouth, I’ll spill every secret I have.

It’s unsettling, to say the least.

But I remind myself that he doesn’t know anything – he can’t – and smile like I’m not a question away from breaking out in stress hives. “Well, you know what they say. Cs get degrees.”

And Cs also put me on the precipice of losing my entire scholarship.

His stare lingers for a second too long for me to believe I’ve convinced him, but I’m done with the academic interrogation. “I thought you came here to see my art.” I tilt my chin toward the sketchbook lying on my desk.

He holds his hands up in surrender. “You can’t blame me for trying to indulge other aspects of my curiosity. That’s what tonight is all about, isn’t it?”

“Well, I have questions for you too,” I retort.

“Go ahead,” he replies, “My academic record is all yours to scrutinize.”

“I don’t think it counts as scrutinizing if they’re all As.”

“And one B-plus,” he corrects me, “Sophomore year. On a quiz about Wuthering Heights. In my defense though, Professor Smyth puts me right to sleep every time.”

I almost chuckle – almost – before I realize he’s doing it again. Using his smile, his charm, to disarm me.

And it’s working.

He doesn’t look like a killer when he’s standing across the room, trading quips with me.

But he is, I tell myself.

And I can’t let my guard down, especially not if I’m going to lure him into a confession.

A snake in the grass is still a snake in the grass no matter how pretty its scales are.

“Here,” I tell him, grabbing my sketchbook and practically shoving it into his hands. “All my stuff is in here.” I know Adrian senses the change in my demeanor, but he doesn’t say a word as he flips to the first page.

Most of my sketches are signed and dated – a habit drilled into me by Ms. Hanson, so Adrian will be able to tell that I started this notebook freshman year.

He provides no commentary, which leaves me feeling more and more self-conscious with each new sketch he comes across. He’s not even looking at me, but I feel like I’m the one on display, cracked open so he can see what I’m made of.

Vulnerability. That’s what this feels like right now.

When I’m not sure I can handle the silence anymore, I mutter, “For the record, I never said my art was good.”

His eyes never leave the page. “You’re right. You’re not good.”

My stomach plummets.

Logically, I know I should file Adrian’s opinion under the list of things that don’t matter, but the comment stings all the same.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted to see my art so bad. If you had high expectations, that’s on you.”

“You’re not good,” he repeats, and finally looks up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re incredible.”

A shallow breath escapes me. “What?”

He turns another page. “I told you. Your work is incredible.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“I’m not, and I’m also not uncultured when it comes to the arts.” He holds up a sketch of the azaleas from Mobile’s botanical garden. “Like this one. I could see it in the Louvre. It’d fit right in the eighth department.”

I let out a disbelieving scoff. “Okay, now I know you’re fucking with me. You have not been to the Louvre.”

“Of course I have,” he shrugs. “My family likes to summer in Europe. My mother usually drags me there at least once a year.”

Well, I can’t argue with that logic.

If I’ve learned anything at Lionswood, it’s that summer becomes a verb once you enter a certain tax bracket.

He flips to the next page, and my breath catches when I see how far he’s made it. “Wait, you don’t need to see that –” I reach for the sketchbook, but he effortlessly holds it out of reach. “That’s nothing –”

“This is not nothing,” he cuts me off. He’s staring at the sketch, the one I completed just a few days ago, with wide eyes. “Is this supposed to be –”

“No, of course not,” I interject. He’s still staring at the sketch.

“These are my eyes,” he says. “It’s not my face, but these are my eyes.” He points to the image’s dark, shaded eyes that don’t fit the rest of the drawing. “You drew me.” His voice is leaking nothing but ego while I grapple for a way to defend myself.

I could show him the reference photo, but I know it’d only confirm his hypothesis.

“I hate to break this to you, but you’re not the only person in the world with dark brown eyes,” I tell him with cherry-red cheeks.

Adrian suddenly steps into my space, and my heart pounds like a drum.

He leans down, his faces only inches from mine, with a smug smile. “No…but these are my eyes,” he says. “The eyes never lie. Did you know that the human iris is more unique than a fingerprint? All these little patterns and shadows you’ve so accurately drawn here? Those are mine.”

My breath hitches when he raises a hand to my face, but it’s only so that his thumb can trace the ridge underneath my eye. His touch is light. Gentle.

“Like your eyes,” he continues, his voice soft. “Light brown speckled with dark.” There’s a pause, and then his thumb dips lower. “And your freckles. Almost as unique. Like constellations.”

My mouth flounders open because he’s looking at me and touching me and I have no idea what to do with any of this. His thumb against my skin is soft – not the touch of a killer.

But he is a killer.

I reel back as quickly as I can, my lower back bumping into the desk. His thumb falls away from my face and it feels like I can breathe again. “You wanted to see my art,” I say, clearing my throat. “That’s it. Show’s over. You’ve seen it. It’s time for you to hold up your end of the bargain. You said you’d tell me the truth. What really happened to Mickey.”

My phone’s burning a hole in my pocket.

Something like confusion flickers across his face.

I keep my hands behind my back to conceal that they’re shaking. “I want to know why you did it. Why you killed Mickey.” I’m careful to be specific because I’m not sure I’ll get a second chance at this.

Tension settles over my dorm room, a stark difference to whatever that was only moments ago. “You’re persistent, aren’t you?”

“I want to know why you killed Mickey Mabel.”

He cocks his head to the side. “Do you now?”

“Yes, you –”

I’m left choking on my words as he suddenly moves, caging me between him and the desk, eliminating what little space already separated us.

“Adrian?” I breathe out, unsure. Terrified.

Oh God.

He leans down till we’re almost nose-to-nose, his hands laid flat on either side of me. “Do you think I’m stupid?” He murmurs, eyes narrowed.

He’s shed the friendly, golden-boy mask, and he is pissed.

“You must think so,” he continues, and a hand snakes around the table, straight to my blazer pocket, and –

Oh.

Fuck.

I’m trembling like a leaf as he pulls my phone out, the timed recorder clock blinking back at me. The device looks strangely small in his large hands.

Breakable.

He glances down at my phone. “I’ve got to be honest with you, sweetheart. I’m not sure undercover work is your calling.”

Sweetheart feels less like an endearment from his lips and more like a warning. My fingers itch to grab the knife, but there’s no way he’ll miss the movement – which means I’m fucked if I don’t de-escalate this situation.

“Adrian,” I try again. Calm. Rational. Honest. “I was honest with you the other night, let me be honest with you now.”

His mouth flattens to a thin line, but there’s no disagreement.

“I wasn’t going to show it to the police,” I say. “At least, I had no immediate plans to. It’s just…” I swallow. “We didn’t exactly leave things on great terms the other night.”

You can’t blame me for this, I want to say.

But he can kill me for it.

He considers me for several, heart-pounding seconds, his flat expression giving nothing away. My phone continues to record the silence stretching between us.

And then he says, in a voice like he’s describing the weather, “My name is Adrian Ellis, and I killed Mickey Mabel.”

My brows shoot toward my hairline.

No hesitation, no concern for the recording app still ticking away.

“On Tuesday, I agreed to meet Mickey in his dorm room at 6 PM following swim practice. We chatted for several minutes, and then I opened his window and pushed him out head-first so I could watch his brains splatter all over the concrete. Afterwards, I returned to my dorm room, finished up some homework, and slept like a baby.”

I gape at him.

There is no remorse, no shame, no conscience to rear its head as far as I can tell. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

He’s fucking reveling in my shock.

“Was that a suitable murder confession for you?” He presses Stop on the recording app. “It’s ready for you to take to the cops.” He offers the phone to me. “I’m sure they’ll re-open the case when you tell them you’ve tricked Mickey’s murderer into confessing.” He pauses. “In fact, I’m sure whichever detective hears this first will take it straight to the Chief of Police…who will, of course, call my father. And then this recording of yours will disappear, and my father will make another large donation to the Cedarsville Police Department. So…” He holds out the phone again. “Go ahead. It’s all yours.”

I don’t say anything.

I don’t reach for the phone.

His smugness is palpable as he waves my phone – and the useless murder confession – in my face once more. “No? Are you sure?”

I swallow down every bit of terror threatening to make its way up my throat. “I’m sure.”

Pleased, he smiles, and then deletes the recording from my phone. “A good choice.”

I don’t look at him – not even as he sets my phone down on the desk and takes a step back. “You know, Poppy,” he says, “You’re smarter than your grades may reflect.”

My voice is shaky. All of me is shaky. “What?”

He’s still smiling. “You know when you’re beaten. I find it to be an admirable quality. Most people don’t.”

I white-knuckle the desk, but just as he turns and heads for the door, I call out, “You never answered my question.”

He looks back at me.

“I let you indulge your curiosity,” I say, “Indulge mine. Tell me why you did it.”

It’s a risky play, considering the events of moments ago but…

He cocks an eyebrow. “Is there another secret recorder I need to be worried about?”

I shake my head. “No. Just for me. I need to know.”

“You need to know?”

“Yes.” I’m not sure where the desperate edge to my voice comes from.

He opens the door and shoots me a smile that makes my blood run cold. “Well, it’s quite simple. I killed him because I woke up Tuesday morning and felt like it.”

He shuts the door behind him, and it takes exactly ten seconds – one for each fading footstep – to realize that I don’t believe him.

And five more seconds to realize he took my sketchbook with him.