GREY

"Still hasn't texted you back, huh?"

A labored sigh rumbled from my chest as I glanced up at Dash. "Not unless you count the middle-finger emoji he sent in the group chat last night."

Brayden pulled his desk closer to ours, forming a tripod ahead of whatever group work Mrs. Cabot would be assigning us the moment she strode through the door.

"I mean, I get it," Dash mused. "Far as Cody's concerned, we basically hogtied and punted him to the cops with a neon sign that says 'Guilty!'"

I shook my head. "It wasn't like that. I didn't mean for the cops to go all FBI on him. I just...wanted to know what those towels were for."

Dash sighed. "Grey, come on. That's...not exactly true, man. Until last night, I'm pretty sure you thought Cody was chopping up bodies and stashing them in his minifridge or something."

I winced.

"You literally drove all the way to Browning Heights and snagged a freaking video of the guy paying off a cashier to not ask questions. Not to mention how you almost crashed the Cartrells' funeral—"

"What?" Brayden twisted to me.

My shoulders slumped, body sinking into my chair. "Okay, okay. Maybe I went a little overboard, but...I just wanted the truth."

Brayden leaned in, lowering his voice. "Bro, how's crashing that funeral gonna get you the truth about Cody?"

"He didn't actually go," Dash said. "I managed to talk him out of it."

I rubbed the side of my neck, felt my forehead heating as I ducked Brayden's gaze.

"Wait..." Dash let out a frustrated huff. "Grey, seriously?"

"I didn't say anyth—"

"You didn't have to!" Dash barked. "Bro, you seriously lied to me like that? Even after I said all I wanted was for you to be safe?"

"Dash, look...it was a spur-of-the-moment kinda thing—"

"Bull." Both brows arched angrily over his eyes. "You could've told me."

I turned to the side under Dash's piercing glare, my desk's metallic legs scraping the floor.

"...You guys not speaking?"

I bolted upright. "Jacquarious?"

He stood in the doorway to the classroom, a nervous smile painted across his face.

Brayden gave a nervous cough, Dash still staring daggers at me as I tried to ignore it. "What? No, man—we're fine. Just uh...what happened with Cody was crazy, you know?"

Jacquarious's face darkened. "Y-yeah."

"Sorry about yesterday," I blurted, Dash's daggered eyes still boring into my neck. "You were right; I overstepped. I just...hope TaKylar's okay."

"What a saint," Dash muttered under his breath, turning to Brayden with a scowl.

Jacquarious hesitated. "If you guys need a minute, I could find another group—"

"No!" I practically screamed. "We all need your help, Jac. Like, bigtime. You're, like, the next T.C. Eliot...right, Dash?"

He growled at me. "It's T.S. Eliot, Grey." His eyes flitted to Jacquarious. "But yeah, man. There's no need for you to bolt. Sit with us."

"...You sure?"

"Sit," Dash ordered.

Jacquarious gave another nervous half-smile then lowered himself to the desk angled in front of him.

Brayden scooted to the side, hazarding an uncertain glance in my direction as he held his spot near our still-seething team captain. "Did you guys, uh...see the news this morning? They released more info about the Cartrell case."

I raised an eyebrow toward him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." He shifted in his seat. "Apparently, the guy they booked for Mr. Cartrell's murder was a substitute teacher...here at Goldengate."

"A sub?" Jacquarious asked. "Really?"

"Yeah, Harold Angus—"

"Angus? No way." My eyebrows shot up. "That's the guy who subbed in for Mrs. Cabot the same day we found...you know."

"Hold up," Jacquarious mused. "You met him?"

"We all did," Dash said. "Mrs. Cabot was gone that day."

"Yeah, Jac, where were you?" I shot him a look, his shoulders hunching in unison.

"Oh...must've been the day I was out too."

"Well, whenever it was, cops are thinking he might've been using the substitute teaching job as his alibi."

Dash's jaw clenched. "Still can't believe that creep dumped a body in our shower."

"That's the thing, man," Brayden said. "Cops think Mr. Angus didn't dump the body in the shower."

"What?" I gasped.

"Their working theory is that there were two killers—one who offed Mr. Cartrell and another who murdered DeWayne."

Jacquarious sighed. "And the one who left DeWayne's body is still out there."

Dash leaned to the side of his chair, his stern glare softening as he turned to Brayden. "They really put all that on Local 88? It's almost starting to sound like a national story, if you ask me."

Brayden nodded once. "Yeah. There was a clip from the police chief, said they're still...you know...looking for leads."

Jacquarious hesitated. "...What about Cody? You guys heard anything from him?"

I shook my head, clocked Dash's scowl deepen from across the desks, eyes resetting to that unforgiving glower. "No, man. Dude's icing us out." I sighed. "Guess I can't really blame him."

"Look, I'm not sure if it's my place," Jacquarious gulped. "...But I think I know why he had those towels—and why they were so bloody."

Click! The snick-snap clattering of Mrs. Cabot's high heels clinked at the classroom's entrance.

"I can tell you after class," Jacquarious whispered as our English teacher marched forward to take her stand at the front of the room.

Mrs. Cabot uncapped the orange fibers of a decorative dry-erase marker before scribbling a single word in bold letters across the board:

TENSION.

I glanced at Dash, crossed arms unfolding to retrieve his spiral composition book and coal black pen. It's fitting, I guess.