NOW

To: “Ambrosia Wellington” a.wellington@wesleyan.edu

From: “Wesleyan Alumni Committee” reunion.classof2007@gmail.com

Subject: Class of 2007 Reunion

Dear Ambrosia Wellington,

Don’t forget to sign the guest book at dinner. Write an inside joke, a favorite anecdote, a sentimental memory. We’re sure you learned during your years at Wesleyan that words truly are the most important currency.

At least, most of you did.

Sincerely,

Your Alumni Committee

When we get back into the ballroom, Sully trailing behind me for once, we’re pinned by dozens of suspicious eyeballs—all of the girls at the table, clearly using our absence to fuel their dinner conversation. Adrian barely even looks up. This time, he doesn’t ask me where I’ve been. After sitting down, I push a medallion of beef around before depositing it on Adrian’s plate, a gesture he usually thinks is cute.

“No, thanks,” he says. He’s still mad. The drive home will be tense and I’ll probably get a We should talk, except we never will. I’ll apologize for leaving him alone for most of the afternoon but never tell him the real reason, and in a few days he’ll be back to normal again and so will I.

The emcee for the evening—Braden Elliot, who lived with two other guys in a wood-frame near the one I shared with Hadley and Heather—gives a speech while dessert is served, something chocolate in haphazard squares. A grim thought flits bannerlike through my head: This is my last meal. Whoever wrote those notes won’t let us get away so easily.

Braden calls out the winners for a ceremony I didn’t know was happening, a throwback to awards we gave at graduation—apparently, the idea is to see which predictions we voted on back then align with our guesses now and whether they came true. Most Likely to Appear on a Reality TV Show. Most Likely to Win an Oscar. It should be my name being called for that one. In another world, one where I wasn’t Flora’s roommate, where I didn’t meet Kevin or Sully, maybe it would be me. Most Likely to Get Arrested Protesting. Most Likely to Be Found Naked in Olin. Everyone laughs appreciatively, while I want to disappear.

“Most Likely to Get Away with Murder,” Braden says now, followed by a stilted laugh. “Wow, this one’s morbid. Ambrosia Wellington?”

My name being called, the drumbeat of blood in my ears. All eyes in the room on me, like sets of daggers. Nobody is laughing this time, nobody is clapping.

“You should go get your award,” Ella says. She probably voted for me. Adrian is focused on his plate, his jaw hard. As much as I want to run away, I stand up and walk toward the stage, sucking in my stomach, rolling my eyes like a few of the other winners did. Except when I get to the front, Braden doesn’t give me a cheap plastic trophy and shake my hand like he did with everybody else. He opens the box where the votes were placed, several little flags of paper, with confusion furrowing his face.

“This is so weird, but it’s like this category didn’t really exist,” he says, away from the microphone. “There’s a box and all these votes, but no record of the category, and no trophy. I’m really sorry. I don’t understand.”

I gape at him, unable to laugh it off. “Let’s just pretend,” he says with an apologetic smile. I accept his hand when he stretches it toward me, but instead of going right back to my seat, I open the box and pull out a handful of the votes.

They all have my name on them. Dozens of Ambrosia Wellington, written in neat calligraphy. One of them sticks to my sweaty palm, flutters onto the floor as I walk back to the table. I don’t look at Sully or Adrian, at Hads or Heather, at the Butts C girls. Onstage, Braden clears his throat and moves on to the next category. Most Likely to Invent the Next Facebook.

I didn’t get away with murder, I want to scream. I didn’t kill anyone. I did something unforgivable, but I didn’t go that far. I don’t have the stomach for it. I didn’t even have my room key, and Flora would have locked the door—

I didn’t have my room key, because Sully did.

There was something on her top—suddenly it slices through my memories from that night. Something on the mesh, a dark strip, almost black. And her choker was missing. I see it like I did earlier today—Sully showing up, playing nice, offering to make Flora a hot chocolate.

Sully, taking the Best mug and smashing it against the bathroom floor.

Go ahead and do it. You want to.

But Flora didn’t want to.

What did Sully say to me tonight? You can’t make someone do something they weren’t going to do already.

She didn’t convince Flora to cut her wrists.

She did it herself.

I don’t know how Sully didn’t end up with blood all over her. She must have been very careful. She must have known exactly what she was doing. How deep to cut. How to make it look like the shard was held in each hand. How to keep a girl from screaming.

The realization, the absolute certainty, hollows me. Kevin was right. Somebody did kill Flora.

“It was her,” I say in a tiny voice.

When I look up, Sully and Adrian are gone.