Who was the roommate? Why hadn’t they called 911? And why did the address on Grove Street seem familiar?

Exhausted, Genevieve closed her eyes, and immediately fell asleep. And it was then, untethered in the landscape of her dreams, that the answers came to her.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE WITNESS

In her dreams, a shadow haunted her, familiar voices she could not yet name mingling in indistinct whispers that surrounded her like mist. She turned slowly, stretching out her fingers in the darkness, trying to grasp anything solid, to catch a whisper like a firefly in her fist and peek at it, fluttering, caught.

She heard the sharp, confident laughter of Miss Love and saw the bright flash of pink hair streaking across the darkness; she saw a blurred sweep of frizzy red hair and heard the jeering taunts of Ms. Pierce echoing through her memory. She stumbled and threw out one trembling hand and finally grabbed more than air. Her hand tightened on something solid that felt like a tree branch, hard and sinewy, and the unknown whisper grew louder as the branch flexed beneath her hand.

It was an arm she held, the arm of a person whose face it was still too dark to see, and she tried to yank her hand away, but she couldn’t move. Genevieve stood frozen as the figure slowly began to appear; light was filling the room and suddenly she could see. The figure was at least a head taller than she, with broad shoulders and black hair. And as he came fully into focus, his face creased in anger, the whisper became clear, and she knew.

Genevieve gasped and sat up in bed, wincing against the sunlight pouring in through her window. Her heart was pounding. What day was it? Saturday. She never slept this late.

She lunged for her bedside table and yanked open the top drawer, pulling out the printed sheet of staff information from Pinewood High. Genevieve once more scanned the list of addresses. “Oh my goodness, of course,” she exclaimed to the empty room. Snatching her phone out from beneath her pillow, she hastily texted Brandon.

I know what Tyler’s motive is! she typed, and drummed her fingers impatiently as she waited for the read receipt. But she knew it was useless. Brandon was like a slug on weekends; he never woke before noon unless he absolutely had to. He’d probably crashed out on his recliner as the light was dawning, after playing video games all night long.

She punched the call button and waited for the ringing to kick over to voicemail. Hey, this is Brandon, don’t bother leaving a message.

“Wake up already!” she said. “I have to tell you what I found out. Never mind, I’m coming over.” She kicked off the covers and changed into her jogging outfit. As much as she needed to talk to Brandon, she also needed to burn off this energy and try to process the new information her hazy dream had gifted her, the pieces of which she had possessed all along.

Genevieve stomped into her sneakers and zipped up her jacket, astounded at how she could have missed it, all this time, working right alongside Tyler—the flash of his dark eyes, the gleam of his black hair, the way his square jaw locked in place when he was irritated. How had she missed it?

She stretched quickly, drank a glass of water, and then stepped into the cool morning air. It was later than she was used to running, and the warmth of the sun seeped into her bones as muscles heated up and blood surged through her veins.

Genevieve settled into a rhythm, forcing all thoughts from her mind in her disciplined ritual of meditation; she focused on her breathing, watching as her breath clouded before her; she focused on the strength of her legs and the insistent, steady beating of her heart. She focused on the sound of her heels striking the pavement, and soon she felt calmer. The mountains rose before her, steady and true, and before she knew it, she was jogging down Aspen Lane toward her second childhood home. Genevieve slowed to a walk on the flagstone path, climbed the wooden porch steps, and let herself in.

“Genevieve!” Mrs. Summers entered the foyer and embraced her warmly. Genevieve hugged her back, then looked her up and down and laughed.

“Is it Halloween yet?” she asked. “What are you wearing?”

Mrs. Summers spun in a slow, flirty circle, like a model on a runway—she was dressed in flannel pajamas decorated with pumpkins and an assortment of very not-scary monsters. “Charlotte and I are having a pajama party,” she explained, pulling Genevieve into the kitchen despite her protests that she wasn’t hungry.

“Nonsense! Of course you are. I’ve solemnly promised to remain in jammies until at least noon and we’re having hot chocolate and watching Scooby-Doo all day long. Care to join us?” Mrs. Summers, taking care not to slip on the tile floor in her thick orange and black reading socks, began ladling cocoa from a small crock pot.

Genevieve took the steaming mug of cocoa gladly. “I’m afraid I’m overdressed for the occasion,” she said, indicating her sweatpants and running sneakers, and they looked at each other and laughed. “Where’s Butterscotch?” Genevieve asked, glancing around the room.

“Who? Oh! The dog. Richard took her to the park.” Mrs. Summers’s brow knitted in concern. “I’m giving it another few days, tops, and then we have to place her somewhere. He was sneezing up a storm last night; Benadryl can only do so much.”

Charlotte skidded into the kitchen in matching orange and black fuzzy socks, clutching a stuffed animal. Her bright face flushed with pleasure.

“Hi, Genevieve! I thought I heard your voice. We’re having a pajama party! Want to watch Scooby-Doo?”

Genevieve knelt and wrapped Charlotte in a bear hug. “I wish I could, sweetheart, but I’ve got some things to do this afternoon. I’ll take a rain check, okay?”

“Okay!” Charlotte beamed at her. “What’s a rain check?”

“It means you owe me a pajama party soon.”

“Yay!” Charlotte twirled in her socks and dashed out the door to the family room. “Come on, Mom!”

“That’s my cue.” Mrs. Summers grabbed a plate of homemade sugar cookies iced with purple frosting and handed it to Genevieve on her way out. “This ought to wake up the great sleeping bear,” she said, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Genevieve headed downstairs, eating a cookie on the way.

The basement was as dark and cool as a dungeon. Genevieve heard Brandon before she saw him; he was snoring softly and, as she’d predicted, had fallen asleep crashed in the overstuffed recliner by the computer, which emitted the only light in the room from its neon whirring fans.

Brandon was bundled in one of Charlotte’s My Little Pony blankets. She must have popped down in the morning and thrown it over him, Genevieve thought, amused. His phone, tucked into a fold of blanket, lit up and buzzed suddenly with a message that she recognized as her own from an hour before. Setting the plate of cookies aside, she plucked the phone from his lap and whipped off the blanket. “Wake up, Marshmallow.”

He half opened one sleepy eye, mumbled something incomprehensible, and smashed his face into the cushion. “Seriously!” she cried, exasperated. “How can you stand sleeping so late? It’s practically the afternoon.”

She snapped on the light, and Brandon held out his hand, palm up, in protest. “Too bright.”

Genevieve plopped down on the couch and tucked her feet underneath her. “I guess I’ll have to eat all these cookies myself then.”

He rolled in her general direction and peeled his eyes open, blinking rapidly in the light. God, she hated him for those lashes.

“Gimme one,” he muttered.

“Nope.”

He narrowed his eyes. “It’s the least you could do after waking me up before noon on a Saturday.”

“I have news,” she said, leaning forward eagerly and handing him a cookie. “You are not going to believe what I figured out⁠—”

“Stop talking,” he said, and she stared at him impatiently, waiting an impossible length of time for him to uncurl his big body and eat his cookie, which he did with agonizing slowness, his eyes once again closed.

“Brandon—”

He held up a finger, and she folded her arms crossly. Finally, finally, he took the last bite, chewed slowly, swallowed, and opened his eyes, gazing at her in amusement. “Sugar consumed,” he said, with great satisfaction. “You may proceed.”

“Gee, thanks,” she said icily, tugging the folded slip of paper from her jacket pocket and flicking it toward him. It bounced off his chest and fell into his lap.

“What’s this?” he asked, fully awake now. She waited for him to unfold the paper and read it. He did, then looked up at her blankly. “So?”

“So while you were sleeping, I figured out what Mr. Mattison meant by Tyler’s motive. And it’s true, he would have very good reason for being upset with both Miss Love and Ms. Pierce.”

Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose and suppressed a soft groan, which she ignored. She proceeded to tell him about the night before, how she’d found Tyler’s phone, about the cryptic message on the screen, about how she’d looked up his address in the employee file. Brandon’s eyes grew larger as she went along, and at one point he burst out, “You showed up there, alone, at night—” but she quickly cut him off and continued the story, ending with the mention of a roommate.

“I was sure the address seemed familiar,” she began, but Brandon had stood—his hair sticking up in every direction, the My Little Pony blanket pooled at his feet—and he would not be silenced this time.

“Genevieve,” he said, “are you seriously telling me you suspect this guy of cold-blooded, pre-meditated murder, and you show up at his house⁠—”

“No, no,” she protested. “You’re not listening. It’s not Tyler’s house.”

“What—”

“The reason the address seemed familiar to me,” she continued, “is because I’d read it a few days before, on the staff list Dillon emailed.”