Dead Air
Season 1, Episode 3

Breakdown
Rachel Caine

1.

Over a cup of coffee, the situation looks worse in the morning light. If Dick isn’t guilty—and it’s starting to look like he’s a nonstarter—then where do I go from here? I tried Brandon McDonal’s lawyer but got radio silence, and nothing from my direct request for a prison interview. I fill out another online form, and call his lawyer’s office again, but I just get voicemail. It’s my third message, and I make sure to leave my email as well. Maybe he’s like me and hates the phone.

There’s just one thing left for me to focus on if I’m going to have anything to put in the next show: Len Brockman. He’s a retired detective who was involved in Peg’s case, and though my Dick Carlisle lead is ice-cold, I know I should follow up with him and see what he has to say. I don’t let myself even think what’s next if Brockman doesn’t have new information. I just go.

• • •

Len Brockman’s house deserves a description, I decide, and as I stand on the sidewalk in front, I fumble my digital recorder out of my pocket, thumb it on, and start talking. I sound nervous. I try to slow down.

“Setting up for former police detective Len Brockman interview. I’m at his house at 1077 Willowhill Road. It’s a ranch house development, brick and wood. The houses are smallish, with big yards. Mr. Brockman obviously isn’t one of those people who likes to be out in his garden. He’s got patchy grass, overgrown trees, some ragged hedges up near the house. The place seems . . .” I try to figure out how to describe the feeling it gives me. “Neglected.”

I turn off the recorder. The neighborhood is pretty quiet, but then, it’s midmorning, and most people will be at work, or school.

I walk up the cracked path, then climb three steps to a bare concrete porch. Someone once had hanging plants here, but the hooks are rusty and empty now. I have one of those lightning flashes that warns me to turn around, get back in the car. But that’s a Macy instinct.

I will myself into Mackenzie, and ring the doorbell. I don’t hear it sound inside, and there’s no answer, so I put knuckles to the screen door. The mesh that covers it is old and frayed at the edges. Not much of a barrier. But there’s a faux-carved wooden sign hanging on the wall that says THIS PROPERTY PROTECTED BY SMITH AND WESSON, and I feel my throat dry up.

I hear the heavy thump of footsteps coming, louder and louder, and move back to put a couple of feet between me and the door. I wonder if he’s going to answer it with a gun in his hand, and if he does, if I’m just going to run.

I hear multiple locks clicking open on the other side, and then before I’m ready—if I could ever be—the door is swinging open. It’s dark inside, so I don’t see Len that clearly, but my first impression is that he’s big, and was probably athletic once, but not anymore.

“Mackenzie, right?” he says. I called ahead and managed to sound somewhat professional when I requested an interview. “About the Peg Graham murder?” His voice is low and a little scratchy. I smell old cigarettes and nearly gag; the place is going to reek of it. Not that I’m allergic. Just averse.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “I appreciate you giving me your time. Can I come in?”

“Sure, kid,” he says, and stiff-arms open the screen door. I wish he hadn’t, because it doesn’t give me much room to pass, and I end up brushing against him way too closely. He doesn’t seem to mind. I’m extra glad that I texted my plans to Ryan. “Go on into the living room. You want coffee or anything?”

I politely decline, and walk down the hall as he splits off, heading for the kitchen. The hallway is about ten feet long, lined with photos. It’s like a timeline of Len Brockman’s life. A couple photos of him as a kid. One as a gawky teen. One in a formal Army uniform. Then in his mid-twenties, a change to police uniform. A wife drops into the pictures, then out again. No kids, apparently, or if there are, they don’t merit wall space. The last couple of pictures are of Brockman receiving awards from a uniformed police captain, and then a grinning shot of him in front of a HAPPY RETIREMENT banner. He and his buddies are holding up beer glasses shaped like guns.

I realize he looks young to be retired now. Maybe in his mid-fifties?

I step into the living room, and the smoke hits me hard. It’s everywhere: swirling in thin gray clouds around the lights, lurking like a fog over used ashtrays, yellowing the curtains and old Sears furniture. I look around for somewhere to sit that won’t coat me in secondhand nicotine, and finally settle on a battered leather recliner. I perch on the edge of it. I anxiously scan the room and try to commit it to memory. The curtains are drawn, with just random shafts of sunlight bleeding through.

I’m trying to figure out whether the carpet is blue or gray when Len Brockman comes back and sets a coffee mug down on the table next to me, then takes a seat on the couch and sips from his own cup. I said I didn’t want coffee, and somehow I feel like he knows that but wants to see what I’ll say about it.

I don’t comment. And I don’t touch the cup. I pull the digital recorder out of my pocket and hold it up. “Would you mind if I record this? It’s easier than trying to take notes.”

“Sure, go ahead,” he says, and I turn it on. Without prompting, he says, “For the record, this is Len Brockman, talking about the case of Margaret Graham.” Great. He knows my business better than I do.

“Thank you, Mr. Brockman. This is Mackenzie from Dead Air conducting the interview. So, Mr. Brockman, based on the police records, you were the investigating officer on this case, is that right?”

“I was in charge, yeah. Obviously, lots of police involved; this case was the biggest thing to hit for years,” he says. He’s relaxed. Now that my eyes have adjusted to the bad lighting, I can see that he has something in common with Ryan’s dad: He drinks a lot. In Brockman’s case, it’s gone to a beer gut and a doughy face . . . but Brockman’s pale eyes are still sharp, and they’re taking me in. “Peg Graham was an icon on the racing scene. Guess that’s why you’re doing this show about it.”

“It is,” I lie. I’ll go along with whatever he thinks, as long as it keeps him talking. “So, how did you become involved in the case?”

“Police don’t get involved in a case, kid. We get assigned. I got the call that there was a possible robbery or assault out at Heart Stone Farm.”

“Were you at the precinct when you received that call?”

“I was out on the road.”

“You were the first on the scene.”

“I was.”

“Can you walk me through what you saw?”

“It’s in the report.” He’s beginning to sound impatient. “I entered the house with the husband. He led me upstairs to the master bedroom. Peg Graham was on the floor at foot of the bed, shot dead, horseshoe in her hand. You know the drill.”

“I mean, who did you see? Speak to? What were your impressions?”

“I spoke to everybody in the house, which just amounted to the nanny and Dick Carlisle himself. I stayed until the other detectives and uniforms got there, then I had the uniformed officers secure the house and I called for the coroner and forensics. Usual stuff. The other detectives I sent to talk to the workers on the farm while I got on the phone to HQ. I knew this was going to be a mess.”

He isn’t telling me anything that isn’t already in the report. He’s sipping his coffee and back to looking relaxed, but I feel something tingling in the back of my mind. Something that’s telling me to watch my step. “Okay. So . . . did you hear the horses?”

“What?”

“The horses screaming out in the barn. I mean, that’s what everybody says about the crime; that’s what makes it so eerie. That all the way out at the stallion barn, the horses started screaming.”

I mean it to be a neutral question, just something to get us on a more interesting track, but the second I say it I sense something shift. It feels like the air hardens between us. He leans forward and puts his cup on the table with a smack that sloshes brown liquid over the edge. “That’s bullshit,” he says. “The kind of shit papers make up to boost circulation. I never heard it, because it didn’t happen.”

I’m taken aback, honestly; he’s acting like I’ve insulted him personally, and I haven’t. “There were four workers who said—”

“Superstitious Irish and Mexicans, looking for attention. Look, either we stick to the facts, or you can take your ghost-hunting tabloid crap and leave. All right?”

I’m shocked by the sudden blast of racism, and I know he’s on the verge of ending the interview. I swallow my anger and stay perched on the edge of the recliner, feeling like I’m hovering over a very long drop. “Of course,” I say. I wish I had water to drink, but I try a sip of the coffee; it’s bitter and it tastes like smoke. “Okay. How did you go about establishing the husband’s alibi?”

He gives me a sharp look. “What, you think I’m taking you to Detective School? All you need to know is, I verified it.”

“So you talked to the other people he claimed were with him.”

“Point is, Dick Carlisle didn’t do it and McDonal did. Look, I got better things to do than walk some wannabe reporter through a solved crime. You want to ask me about any other cases for your show? If you don’t . . .” This time, he’s out of patience. I’m losing him. He’s starting to move forward, probably to get up and throw me out. I try something else, out of sheer desperation.

“So . . . if Brandon McDonal hadn’t confessed, who would have been your second choice as a suspect?”

That question seems to relax him a little. “Shit, throw a rock. Peg Graham was a filthy rich woman trying to break into a man’s business.”

“In the interviews I’ve found with her, she talked a lot about running clean horses. Some of her competitors didn’t seem to agree with that.”

He doesn’t answer. I press on.

“Did you question any of the other horse breeders who might have had a grudge against her?”

“Like I said: Throw a rock, and you’ll hit somebody.” He shrugs. “Want to waste your time? Cox, I guess. Irongate Farm. He was in the press talking shit about her, but that’s just the business. We done? Because Brandon McDonal confessed. End of story. You’re digging up nothing because there’s nothing to find.”

“Did you talk to Ryan Graham-Carlisle that day?”

He frowns at me. “Who?”

“Ryan. Graham. Carlisle.”

He seems to think about it, then laughs and puffs a cig to full burn before he says, “The kid? Seriously? He was, what, two at the time?”

“Three,” I say. “Did you ask him anything?”

“He wasn’t even there.”

“His nanny was there.” I dig out my notebook and flip through. “This was in the evening paper that day: ‘Camila Velasquez, nanny to Peg Graham and Richard Carlisle Jr.’s only child, Ryan, raised eyebrows when she claimed not to have heard the shot that ended Peg Graham’s life, though she was in the home at the time. Detectives on the scene dismissed this seeming contradiction, pointing out that the home is “enormous” and it would be difficult to hear any noise, even a gunshot, from one side to the other.’ If Ryan’s nanny was there, doesn’t it follow that he was there, too?”

“I already told you he wasn’t there. That’s all you got? The misquoted word of some illegal immigrant maid—”

“She was legal,” I snap. I’m really not liking this chain-smoking, racist prick, and it’s affecting me, though that’s not exactly good journalism. I try to moderate my tone. “Not that it makes any difference, but she had a work visa. Just like Brandon McDonal. I assume she didn’t have an alibi, if she was the only other person in the house. Did you ever suspect her?”

“Of course we did. Tested her hands and clothes for gunshot residue. Nothing. No proof she had any kind of motive.”

“But you didn’t investigate her otherwise?”

His temper roars back to life, and his voice turns hard and loud. “Turn that thing off. You’re gonna twist everything I say, aren’t you?”

All of a sudden Brockman is on his feet, and he’s tossed the still-burning cigarette on top of a pile of dead ones in the nearest ashtray. He picks up my recorder and throws it to me. I nearly drop it. He seems larger now, looming over me. I stand, because it feels like I need to.

“You fucking millennials,” he says. “These are real people you’re screwing with, you know. Cops and prosecutors who did their jobs and got justice for a dead woman and her family. You go poking around and trying to pretend like McDonal didn’t do it, and you’re going to regret kicking that hornet’s nest for something as stupid as a college radio show.”

I hold my recorder in a death grip. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Brockman?”

“Look, I played nice with you. But you need to stop before you start something you can’t control. That’s not a threat. That’s a warning.” He smiles at me, and I feel a real chill that makes me wish I’d never come here. “Time to go, Mackenzie.”

I swallow and taste smoke.

I escape down the hallway and out into the fresh air with an absolute feeling of relief. Behind me, the door slams and locks flip. When I turn off the recorder and try to shove it in my pocket, I get a whiff of rancid cigarette smoke rising up from my clothes, and when I cautiously sniff my jacket, I reek. I’m going to have to wash everything I have on.

Worst. Interview. Ever.

I know I have to get better at this if I’m going to make any real progress. I’m shaking from the confrontation. Brockman didn’t pull a gun on me, but I felt threatened, no doubt about it. I still do.

It occurs to me, though, as I get into car and crank up the music to center myself, that I’ve just done something the old Macy would never have done.

I faced down a hostile witness. Maybe I could have done better. I will do better next time.

But I did it.

And that means something. I think.

2.

I hate to take a hint from the poster child for lung cancer, but he’s right about one thing: Peg Graham had been, for her time, a real boundary-pusher. In the old-boy club of racing and thoroughbreds, she’d been one of the few female stars. And she’d spoken out loudly and consistently against doping, which meant that her rivals surely would have wanted her quiet. After all, they were making a lot of money off the status quo she wanted to change. It’s not much of a lead. But it’s something I can chase until Brandon McDonal either turns me down or says he’ll talk. I don’t have much hope I’ll ever see him. Especially as his old public defender is still ghosting me. I try another call and get told, firmly, to leave a message.

I check the time, and it hits me that I’m supposed to be going to the Kentucky Derby. In just a few hours. I feel a little giddy, and short of breath, and tell myself that it’s just reconnaissance; I’ve never had much of an interest in horse racing, after all. I might be a little giddy about who’s taking me, though . . . but I shove that thought off, turn the key in the ignition, and head for a quick pit stop at the library.

The Internet’s great for a lot of things, but for pre-computerized news, it’s not exactly a complete reference. I still have a hard time with the idea that people lived with paper maps and no online shopping—not to mention no social media—but I was starting to like the concept of the human Google . . . as in, ask a librarian.

So I go straight for the periodical section on the second floor in the Kentucky Room, and ask the older man behind the desk about specialty publications for the horse breeding and racing worlds in the period I need.

I don’t expect so many. There are binders of paper magazines, some for the public, some just for the experts. There are reports of commissions that would take a magnifying glass and hours to figure out the jargon alone.

I quickly give up on the specialty stuff and dig into the horse version of People, something that racegoers could buy in the gift shops, most likely, or gambling addicts could subscribe to by mail. It has loads of horse, owner, breeder, trainer, and jockey profiles, and I manage to winnow it down to specific pages and people of interest.

There is, of course, a faded article gushing about Heart Stone Farm and Peg. I haven’t seen the picture before: Peg, in impeccable riding clothes, standing with Champion’s Heart and smiling like she’s already accepting the trophy. I recognize the stallion barn. It hasn’t changed, except that all but one of the luxurious horse stalls in the picture have only one name plaque, but today most have at least two or three marking previous occupants.

Peg talks about doping in plain, no-nonsense terms. I never understood why anyone would do that to such beautiful animals. They want to run. They need it. All we have to do—and our duty as their partners and caretakers—is to teach them how to do it best. They don’t need drugs. They need love. Okay, it sounds naïve even to me, and I can’t imagine how it played with her rival breeders and owners.

One issue later, I stumble across a two-page glossy center spread about Irongate Farm, and an owner named Curtis Winfield Cox. For a second, I think the picture has to be a joke; the man shown is just too stereotypical. He could have made his living posing for magazine ads for expensive scotch or private banks. He has a chiseled, refined profile, dark hair, and the dress-down jeans and flannel shirt don’t exactly detract from the expensive watch he’s flashing.

I know I’m hitting something good when one of the first questions in the profile isn’t about him at all. It’s about Heart Stone Farm, Peg Graham, and the challenge she’s issued for other owners to sign on to a no-doping pledge before that year’s Derby.

Cox’s reply to that is pretty much everything I needed to know. No, I’m not going to sign on to support an empty gesture. She’s only doing this to make up for her lack of experience and reputation in the horse world. Everybody knows what Irongate Farm stands for: great horses that run clean and run well. I don’t have anything to prove. You can practically hear the sneer in the words, and for a moment I feel the anger Peg must have felt, reading this long-distance slap.

Or not so long distance at all. Irongate Farm is—of course—in Kentucky. Still, as Brockman said, Cox is just one of a whole industry who had reason to hate Peg Graham.

I need to research horse doping, too. Every time I get one question answered, it feels like it opens up two more I know nothing about. I sit back and look in despair at the technical journals piled up. I can’t get fluent in horse-ese in the time I need to start getting this show moving.

Ryan, I think, and feel a little guilty flutter at the name. Ryan’s majoring in equine management; he essentially owns a horse farm. This is probably his second language. I could ask him to give me a tutorial.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, turning heads at other library tables, and I grab for it and answer before I remember to look at the display.

“Hi.”

Oh my god, I’ve just answered a phone call from Ryan. “Uh . . . hi. Ryan?”

“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”

Mackenzie. Be Mackenzie. “Fabulous. Just buried in research. What is it?” I’m trying to make a smooth transition to Hey, speaking of research, want to help me out? but he answers before I can get the rhythm down.

“Speaking of research,” he says, and that’s how you do it, with that smooth, easy confidence, “you getting ready?”

Oh shit, how long have I been here? “Yes! Yes, sure am.” I’m standing up now, cramming notebooks into my backpack. “Uh, just—just working on my hair.”

“You’ve got something appropriate to wear?”

I don’t know whether I should be offended that he asked. Feminism is hard sometimes. I give up and just answer. “Yes. When are you coming by?”

“About an hour and a half.”

“But the Derby doesn’t start until . . .”

“Yeah, not until six forty-five. But it’s a madhouse then. We’re going for the undercard races. Specifically, Race Eight.”

I pause, struck by the incredible entitlement of that statement. It’s the Kentucky Derby, the premiere event in the state all year; even the rich and famous fight to secure their spaces for it. But Ryan’s skipping it in favor of one of the earlier races, as if it’s just another thing to do.

Wow.

“I’ll be ready,” I tell him, and dash.

The librarian throws me a squinty look as I bolt for the exit, leaving a table full of material behind. I manage an apologetic shrug, and race on.

I drive home so distracted that I almost miss the turn into my apartment complex and have to take it too fast. And, of course, only then do I notice a police cruiser parked on the opposite side of the road. I’m sure I pass them every day and barely notice. The officer is sitting in the car, just a shadow in the glare.

I’m relieved when he stays put.

3.

I shower and dress in record time. I’m nervous as hell that what looked amazing in the consignment store is actually tacky and cheap . . . but when I zip it up and check the mirror, I’m still happy with it. It’s on the line between flirty and businesslike, and in a color that flatters me perfectly. I feel confident and powerful, which is exactly why I bought this dress to begin with. I have heels to go with it, and I slip into them, leaving my hair loose around my shoulders. Then I waste a solid fifteen minutes frantically searching for a tiny shoulder bag before I find it, and finally, as I’m applying lipstick for the first time in, well, months, the doorbell rings. I take a breath. Barely made it.

Kara opens my bedroom door, arches her eyebrows, and says, “Damn. Kind of early for a hot date.”

“Could you not right now?” I’ve forgotten earrings. I’m combing through the jewelry box for a matching set. I have a tendency to lose one, not both.

“Only if you introduce me to the swoonable dude at the door.”

I find earrings, slide them in place, and push past her for the door, which is closed; she hasn’t let him inside, which I find a little surprising. I open the door, ease out, slam it shut behind me, and yell, “Lock the dead bolt!” I’m pretty sure she won’t. I’m also pretty sure she’s peeking out the blinds.

Ryan is looking at me when I turn around, and I have his full attention. The heat starts at the back of my scalp and floods down my face and neck. Then he blinks and smiles and says, “Good choice, avoiding the hats. You don’t want to try to compete on Derby Day.”

I’d seen plenty of amazing hats in the consignment store, but honestly, I knew I didn’t have the bravado to pull them off . . . but it still stings just a little that Ryan apparently doesn’t think so, either. Ryan’s wearing Rich Casual that probably cost more than my beat-up Toyota, especially those probably handmade loafers. I like the sea-green shirt; it brings out gold flecks in his eyes. Business, I check myself. This is business. Not a date. “You’re sure I’ll fit in?”

“You look perfect.”

He doesn’t offer me an arm or anything date-ly like that, and we walk side by side down the apartment stairs to the parking lot. I don’t have to ask which car is his. It gleams like a dark gem. I climb in and take in a deep, involuntary breath that is scented by leather and the soft hint of Ryan’s aftershave. He’s gone light on it, which I appreciate. I’ve inhaled enough CK IN2U at college to be wary. “What happened to the truck?”

Ryan makes a face as he slips into the driver’s seat. “Dad wants me to keep up appearances.”

The shadowy driver in the police car is still there, unmoving. This time, I feel a prickle of alarm. It isn’t weird he’s still hanging out here, is it?

I push the thought aside and get into the car. Sitting in it feels like being in the plushest jet fighter cockpit ever, and I’m vaguely surprised the seat belts don’t buckle themselves. Ryan reverses out and we head toward the main road. I don’t hear a thing beyond a slight rush of road noise, hardly louder than my own breath. It feels like we’re gliding on air.

“Do you need something to eat?” he asks me. “We’ve got enough time. I could get drive-through.”

I can’t imagine defiling this car with even the classiest of drive-through choices. “No, I’m fine,” I say. I’d gnawed through a protein bar back at the apartment while curling my hair. I notice how he didn’t offer a sit-down meal; he’s trying as hard as I am to keep this professional. At least, I hope he has to try.

Back to business. “While we’re driving . . . what can you tell me about the history of horse doping?”

“You mean, the entire history? Because that’ll take longer than this drive.”

“Condensed.”

“Okay, doping in racing started out by trying to make other peoples’ horses go slower. Anything to make them sleepy, clumsy, or in some cases, really damaged. Morphine was a favorite during the thirties. Heroin.”

“Heroin?” My voice comes out sharp. I feel a tiny pulse of horror, and a get flash of Delilah.

He doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. He just nods. “Strychnine, too. All that slowed down when regulations started coming in postwar, but that just led to new drugs. Amphetamines, mostly. Then, in the sixties, diuretics were introduced. Legal, because bleeding is a problem for racehorses, and diuretics reduce pressure on the lungs. Horses can suffocate during a race if blood hemorrhages into their nasal cavities. So there’s a legit use, which makes it much tougher to control as an enhancer, or as a cover for other substances. It was finally banned just a few years ago, along with all race-day drugs.”

I feel queasy at the idea of horses suffocating on their own blood, but I press on. “So specifically what was your mom against?”

“Methadone, lidocaine, reserpine, Dilaudid, Sublimaze—that’s basically horse fentanyl. All of which got fed to horses starting in the seventies and on. Sublimaze was especially problematic. It could keep a horse running on broken legs. You can find video of horses winning, then having to be put down straight after the race.”

“That’s horrible.”

“And we haven’t even started on anabolic steroids, which were a monster problem until recently.”

I feel a little sick. People are terrible; it’s the whole point of my show. But the heartless way that they’ve used these beautiful animals for cash, power, and status . . . it makes me sympathize even more with Peg Graham and her clean racing campaign.

“Heart Stone Farm doesn’t do any of that, right?”

“Never has, never will,” he says, and I believe him. “That’s my mom’s legacy. My dad made a commitment to continue it after she died. If a horse is unhealthy, we don’t run him until he’s fit. If a horse isn’t competitive, we don’t game the system to ensure he will be. It doesn’t make us the most profitable farm. But it does make us the one with the healthiest animals.”

I like him a lot in that moment. I nod, and we ride in a comfortable silence. Again I marvel at the speed and grace of the car. It performs like a Heart Stone Farm thoroughbred. Despite his preference for his truck, Ryan seems to care as much about keeping his car in top condition as he does his horses. I don’t know if that’s admirable or materialistic.

The car—it’s a Porsche, I realize, recognizing the logo on the steering wheel—makes short work of the drive, and before I know it, we’re turning off the increasingly packed main road toward a sign that says PRIVATE DRIVE, MEMBERS ONLY. It leads up to a completely separate entrance to Churchill Downs. Ryan is, of course, on the list, and after presenting our IDs for scanning, we’re rolling into what could be the parking lot for an embarrassingly upscale auto dealer. There’s a whole section chock-full of town cars with drivers, but on the self-driving side, Ryan’s not the only one with a Porsche. There’s a metric ton of luxury SUVs that don’t look like they’ve ever negotiated an unpaved road.

As I step out of the car, I feel like I’ve walked into another world, and I’m not at all sure I belong here. As Ryan comes around from his side, I meet him at the back, and we stand a little awkwardly for a few seconds before Ryan says, “Showtime. Mind acting like my date again?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’m in.”

He extends his elbow without looking at me. I’m grateful for the support, as it turns out, because while the heels I’m wearing look perfect, they’re already driving red-hot nails up through the balls of my feet. I force a smile as Ryan leads me toward the door.

We pick up champagne flutes from the attendant’s tray, and I make a point of eye contact with him, smiling and thanking him. He nods in return. Maybe he isn’t allowed to say anything. I have no idea what the rules of this place are, but I have a sinking feeling that I’m not going to like them.

We have to wait for a moment until the elevator arrives, but when it does, we step into a sleek, paneled interior. It’s a smooth ride up, and the doors open on Millionaire’s Row 6. I know what it’s called because of the brass plaque beside the button that Ryan pushed. We passed the first stop on Millionaire’s Row. I suppose those are the poorer class of rich people.

The place is a lush mix of dark wood, trendy lighting, and glass art. And of course, there are windows. An entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook an outside stepped terrace where the die-hard racing enthusiasts can gather to cheer—or, I suppose, be seen by the crowd.

There’s a healthy, buzzing throng at the bar, and most of the round tables set near the windows are full. Everyone is extremely well dressed. Ryan’s right about the hats. My lack of one is something of an exception. Even those who didn’t go full, confectionary Derby have at least tucked in a fascinator or a shiny comb. I feel underdressed.

Ryan and I queue up at the bar to get drinks—well, he gets drinks. I stand passively and am rewarded with another glass of champagne. I’m just barely twenty-two, and not a single person has asked for ID.

Ryan’s not the youngest scion of wealth here—there are a couple of bored-looking teens engrossed in their phones—but he seems to be pretty popular. Back slaps and firm handshakes from the older men, smiles and nods from the older ladies. I get appraising glances and politeness for the most part. Some freeze-outs and thousand-yard stares.

“So,” I say when we’re finally at a table, one that sits back from the windows and isn’t in such demand, “if I’m here for research, help me out.”

“It’s the early races, so this crowd is mostly owners with horses running, or breeders coming to keep up on the news, or big bettors. The stars and socialites start showing up around four or five for the prime photo ops, and we’ll be gone by then.” He scans the crowd. “Trent McNamara over there, he owns Firestorm Sunday; that’s a horse that comes out of Champion’s Heart’s breeding. Favored to win today. The Reynards over there, they’re another breeder family. They own Fox Run.”

“Cute,” I say, and he gives me a puzzled look. I like the way his brow kinks in the middle. “Reynard? He’s a fox character in old German fables.”

“So?”

“Reynard . . . fox . . . Fox Run . . . ?”

“Oh. I see.” He gives me a quirk of a smile. “My dad didn’t read me stories.”

I let it go.

An idea hits me, and I ask Ryan, “Is Mr. Cox here? Irongate Farm?”

That earns me an odd look, but Ryan nods and points into a knot of people near the bar. “Right there,” he says. “Why?”

“He came up in my research,” I say. “I’d like to meet him.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t sound too thrilled, but he walks me over into the crush, and we slide up next to Mr. Cox as he waits impatiently for service. I watch his fingers tapping the bar, and I can imagine the server’s tip dropping in time with it.

He’s older, of course, but not as old as I expected. Must have been surprisingly young at the time of Peg’s murder—probably close to her age, I’d guess. He’s a hard-looking man now, with a bit of a Western flair to the cut of his very expensive coat; I glance down and am not surprised to see he’s wearing cowboy boots, but no real cowboy could afford those. He’s white, of course (I see very few non-white faces in this crowd), and when he turns at Ryan’s greeting, his eyes are deep-set, dark, and if not cold, then cool. They don’t warm up to Ryan at all.

Ryan must know that, but he’s friendly anyway. “Mr. Cox, how are you? Who have you got running today?”

Cox’s eyes skim me and make the same quick, dismissive calculation I’m growing too familiar with. “Got Sunward Spike in the tenth,” he says. “Anything from your place today?”

“No, sir, not today. Heartfelt Sunrise wasn’t up to it, and we scratched him.” Ryan turns toward me. “This is Mackenzie, my date.”

“Charmed,” Cox says. He isn’t. He isn’t even looking at me; his gaze is fixed on the server coming his way with a glass of amber liquid. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Yes,” I say, and put on my game face. “I’m just fascinated by all of this. I really don’t know a lot about horse racing, but Ryan’s a darling for giving me such a great education in how it works!” Too much? I try toning it down. “Of course, the horse world is so much a part of his life.” I squeeze Ryan’s arm.

“His whole family’s life,” Cox agrees. “Well, his mother’s, and then his father’s, at least.”

“Oh, did you know Ryan’s mom?”

Ryan shoots me a glance of pure alarm. I almost regret it, but I know that I’m not likely to get another chance at Cox today. Maybe ever.

I get the man’s full attention now, and a second scan. He can’t add me up. “Long time ago.”

“I’m just curious,” I say, and try a warm smile. “She seems like such an important figure in Ryan’s life, and she built such a wonderful business. Were you two friends?”

“Wouldn’t say that,” Cox says. He seems annoyed now. “We were in the business together. We didn’t socialize.”

The tone tells me he never took her seriously; he takes Ryan as more of an equal than he ever did his mother. Was it because she was a woman? Or because he didn’t respect her ideals? Hard to know, and I’m not about to find out, because he grabs his drink and says a quick goodbye before heading off to someplace we aren’t.

“Did you get anything from that?” Ryan asks. I can tell it rattled him a little, and the words are just a touch sarcastic.

“Well, at least he knows who I am now—maybe he’ll take my calls when I follow up with him,” I say, and shrug. “Sorry.”

He accepts that, and we claim another neglected table. We sip really good champagne and people-watch for a while, and as research goes, it isn’t a terrible way to spend an afternoon. Ryan’s friends and acquaintances wander over. One of them is a guy dressed in a dark jacket with a metal pin in his lapel—something with white flowers on it. Heather? I don’t know. School pin? Family crest, maybe? He technically meets the dress code, though he’s rumpled enough to have slept in his expensive clothes.

He’s about our age or a little older: white, with raven-dark hair and eyes the color of agates. “Ry-boy! Hey man, what are you doing here?” he asks, and drags a chair between us. He ignores me, but then, he also ignores the woman who’s left standing alone in his wake. She’s obviously had a lot more champagne than I have. Her pink fascinator feather waves a little as she sways.

Ryan sends me an unreadable look, then says, “Hey, Callan. Just here for fun today. You betting? McNamara’s horse seems good.”

“Yeah, but not much of a gamble. Besides, Dad’s cut me off again. But hey, free drinks,” Callan says, and holds up what looks to be a double shot of scotch. “You’re still on for the party, right?”

“Right,” Ryan says, and I get a very real sense that he either wishes Callan hadn’t said anything about the party, or that I wasn’t here to witness it. Not sure which it is. He’s deliberately not looking my way.

“Cal,” says the girl left standing. She sounds pouty.

He ignores her, and leans over to whisper something to Ryan. Ryan pulls back and nods. I wonder what someone who’s so loud and obnoxious has to keep secret.

“Cal! You said we’d watch the next race.” She’s dialed up to impatient now.

Cal rolls his eyes in a way that shows how drunk he is, then tosses back his scotch in one long gulp before slamming the empty onto our table, shoving his chair back, and turning to face her. “Yes, babe, I’m coming.” There’s nothing sweet about it. I shudder inside. Cal’s got a mean look in his greenish eyes, and when he takes her arm, it’s with a force that could leave bruises. “Let’s get you another drink and into a better mood, shall we?”

They head to the bar—Callan pulling her along, her stumbling—and I look over at Ryan, who’s frowning as he watches. “You know that guy?”

“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a load of regret to it.

“He’s an asshole,” I say, and I’m surprised at myself, because Macy thinks that sort of thing, but she doesn’t say it. But then, Macy would never have ended up at Millionaire’s Row, either.

“True. But he’s someone I have to put up with.”

“Why?”

“Society,” he says, which is vague but also seems to be a final explanation, so I let it go. His tone shifts a significant amount. “Oh shit.”

I turn my head, and I see Dick Carlisle coming off the elevator. Like Callan, he has a woman hanging on his arm for dear life, who I suppose must be his girlfriend and the owner of the shoes I saw back at the mansion. Peg Graham’s current replacement. Her hat is an improbably balanced mix of feathers, flowers, and some dangling fake birds and bees.

Ryan’s dad is already drunk before he tips back his first champagne flute. I can see the burn in the tip of his nose and in his florid cheeks. I hope he didn’t drive like that, but somehow, I’m almost sure he did.

“Should we—” I’m not sure what to say. Run? Hide? Go say hello? But at that moment, Dick Carlisle turns and catches sight of us, and heads our way. Ryan rises to greet him, and he looks wary. I stand up too.

“Hi, Dad,” Ryan says. “You remember Mackenzie?”

Dick gives me a blank look, but says, “Oh yes, of course. Mackenzie. Skyler, darling, can you fetch me a drink? Vodka. Top-shelf.” It isn’t really a question, and she’s gone immediately. “Ryan, your grandfather called for you at the house. He says you haven’t called him back.”

“I was getting around to it. I’ll call him tonight.”

Dick suddenly, unexpectedly, focuses on me. “And how exactly did you meet my son?”

“Dad,” Ryan says, clearly mortified. “Chill.”

“No offense meant,” he says. I can tell by his tone that he assumes all is forgiven; people at his level think people at mine have a duty to forgive. I shrug it off. Ryan’s still steaming.

Dick and Skyler don’t stay long. I’m relieved to see them gone. Ryan’s uncomfortable. So am I.

We head outside to the terrace to watch the event. I can see how some kind of hat shade would be a good idea, though I have to back up a step on the terrace to see over the lady in front of me. She’s an avid fan of netting. We watch the horses, with jockeys covered in jewel-toned silk on board, being led to the gates.

“Number four is Firestorm Sunday, McNamara’s horse.” All horse business, suddenly. I scan the stands. It’s full to bursting, even as cavernous as Churchill Downs is; the architecture of the stands reminds me of old 1920s baseball stadiums, with their peaks and gables and Cape Cod touches.

The gates snap open, and the crowd roars; it comes up from below like a wave, and I find myself cheering, too, though I haven’t got a dime riding on the outcome. We all lean forward as the horses thunder around the turns, and as they hit the last straightaway, Firestorm Sunday pulls into the lead with an incredible burst of speed. I cheer myself hoarse as he flashes past the finish line a full length ahead of the second-place finisher.

I see a flutter of confetti as losing bettors tear their receipts and let them loose in the breeze. My heart’s pounding, my eyes are wide, and I turn to Ryan to find he’s just as taken away. “Wow!” I say, and laugh in delight. “Wow, that was—”

“I know,” he says. He looks completely happy, and when someone accidentally shoves into me as they move toward the exit, I lose my balance and fall forward into him.

Oh.

He keeps smiling, and this close, it’s pretty devastating. “Look, I’m not expecting you to actually fall for me . . .”

“Ryan,” a voice says, a sharp blade of sound that cuts between us and makes us take a step apart, as if we’ve been caught robbing the place. “I didn’t know you had a new girlfriend. Whatever happened to that lovely Parker girl?”

I don’t know the man who’s standing a few feet away. Most of the crowd has already moved back indoors, out of the sun, so I get a clear look. The old man is wearing a pale suit, a blue satin vest, and—like me—no hat. His hair is thick and silver, and so is his beard, which is perfectly trimmed. He’s got unnervingly dark eyes, and they’re fixed right on me, though the question was for Ryan. He’s probably nearing seventy but he still looks fit enough. The cane he’s carrying is fancy dark wood, with a horse’s head for a handle, but it doesn’t look to me like he needs it much.

Ryan seems like he wishes he could drop through the stands to the center of the earth, but only for a second, and then he’s closed up again. No smile. No nothing. All the joy I saw in him is just . . . gone. “Liana Parker moved up to New York two years ago,” he says. “Mackenzie Walker, let me introduce you to Richard Carlisle. My grandfather.”

There’s no doubt who holds the power in the family now. Certainly not Ryan’s dad, who’s been carted off in a booze-soaked cloud. This is a razor-sharp old man, and I feel a chill when his stare doesn’t move away from me.

“Hello, Mr. Carlisle. It’s nice to meet you.”

“I’m sure,” he says, which cuts just as much as he wants it to. “Walker. I’m not acquainted with the family, if you’re local to the area.”

I force my smile to stay in place. “My father’s a science teacher. My mom’s a vet tech. She’s well-known in the business.” That doesn’t help; I can see the contempt flash into his eyes, and it makes me a little angry. A little reckless. I shouldn’t be trying to justify myself. I’m sick of Carlisle men questioning my worthiness to associate with Ryan.

“I see,” the old man says. “And you met my grandson how?”

“In class,” I say.

He dismisses me to finally turn that glare to his grandson. “You were supposed to complete the paperwork at my office yesterday for the expenditure reports. I trust you understand that this isn’t optional. You have to do it every year if you want to continue your course of study.”

“I know,” Ryan says. He still looks calm, but I’m starting to recognize his tells: He has a muscle that bunches up on his jawline, and a twitch in his fingers, which he’s careful to keep out of fists. No wonder he didn’t want to stay for the Derby even though he clearly loves watching the horses. “I’ll stop by in the morning, sir.”

“Good. I’ll expect you at seven thirty. We should go over the farm’s financials again. Your maternal grandmother requested a review of the latest quarter. I’ll need answers to her questions about a few of the expenses to satisfy her.”

Ryan softens at the mention of his grandmother, seeming almost amused. “She didn’t mention she was doing that.”

“I’m not surprised,” his grandfather says. “The woman only wants to bedevil me.”

“Did you actually speak to Grandma Georgia?” Ryan asks.

“Of course not. Her attorney spoke to mine.” Mr. Carlisle gives me another scorching assessment, as if somehow I’m Georgia Graham’s undercover agent. “I don’t wish to discuss our private business further at the moment. Is your father here?”

“He was,” Ryan says.

“I expect he left the worse for wear. He had quite a lot to drink at the meeting this morning. I really ought to lock up the cabinet when he’s included.”

But you won’t, I think. There’s bitter satisfaction in his face. He likes seeing his son fail. Maybe because it just reaffirms his own superiority.

He doesn’t say goodbye, and I’m just as glad; he’s cast a shadow as big as winter. I feel dirty and out of place. Again.

Ryan watches his grandfather stride away toward the exit and, without really looking at me, says, “We should go.”

“Yeah,” I reply. “Probably. Unless you had more to show me here . . . ?”

“I think we’d better save it for later.”

“Ryan . . .” I don’t know what to say, exactly. “Are okay? You seem—”

“Rattled? Well, that’s normal.” He suddenly flashes me an utterly charming grin, and I feel everything in me warm up. “He has that effect on people. Don’t worry about it. I’m glad you stood up to him.” I can sense he’s truly off-balance. And I don’t know why it happens, or even how, and maybe it’s me moving forward, or him. But in the next second, we’re kissing, and oh. Oh wow. It’s . . . glorious.

Someone mockingly whistles and claps, and I look around to see that it’s Callan, the frat boy jackass from earlier. We pull apart, and I can’t tell if Ryan is pissed off or embarrassed.

We head back to the car in silence, not touching. It’s like the kiss never happened, except that when I blink I can still feel the pressure of his mouth on mine. The silence holds for most of the drive, and I convince myself that he was embarrassed. That I embarrass him.

When he pulls to a stop at my apartment, I finally look at him and say, “This fake girlfriend thing? Maybe not the best plan. The last thing I want to do is get involved with your whole family.”

“Too late,” he says, and I see a little hint of a smile. Then it fades. “I need you to keep going. I need to know what happened to my mom.”

It’s the painful sincerity in his voice that gets me.

I watch him drive off, and my attention is caught, again, by the car parked across the street.

The police cruiser from this morning is still there. As I start toward it, whoever’s behind the wheel starts the engine and pulls off into traffic.

It’s nothing, I tell myself. I almost believe it.

I don’t have time to indulge my paranoia. It’s already nearly seven, and I’m starving. I decide to text Mom and see if I can join her and Dad for dinner. I’m feeling grateful for my family after seeing Ryan’s in action.

But first, I have to get these heels off before I die.

4.

Dinner at home is always comforting. It’s nice to feel that when I walk in, I’m back in a safe place. It’s not the same in my apartment, even though it’s technically mine. This place has history.

I shut the door and pull in a deep breath. Meatloaf. Some things never change, and I’m so, so glad they don’t.

Whatever chaos happens outside, in here, it’s boring and safe and familiar.

“Hey, I’m home!” I yell, and hang my purse on the coat-tree before I kick off my shoes and line them up against the baseboard. Mom’s newest rule: no shoes on the carpet. I don’t really know why; it isn’t that the carpet’s especially awesome. But I abide by it. I pad in stockinged feet through the living room to the kitchen.

“Hey, Macy, come on in and help me whip the potatoes,” says my mother. She stands at the stove, potholders on hands, as she takes the meatloaf pan out and sets it to cool.

I wash my hands at the sink before picking up the spoon and starting to violently stir the mashed potatoes. Butter’s already melting into them, and they smell amazing. She always makes them from scratch, and somehow, mine never taste quite as good. “How was your week, Mom?”

“The usual,” she says. “Two horses with inflamed tendons, one with an infection. I helped two calves into the world. And treated a sick chicken over at the petting zoo.”

“How can you tell if a chicken’s sick?”

“You don’t want to know.”

Gross.

Dad’s sitting at the table reading the newspaper—a real, delivered newspaper, like a dinosaur. He smiles and kisses my cheek when I deposit the mashed potatoes on the table and ask him about his week.

“Usual nonsense,” he says. “Budget got cut again. I think the school board would be perfectly fine if we just read from the Bible six hours a day and called it good.”

I try not to laugh. I know he doesn’t think it’s funny.

Mom’s putting the green beans on the table. My mouth waters.

“Sit down, Macy,” my mom says, and places the meatloaf in the middle along with the serving utensils.

“Mom, can I ask you something? It’s research. For a class.”

“What is it?” Mom’s voice is noncommittal. She isn’t happy that I’ve changed my major to journalism.

I try to keep it casual. “Well, I’m doing some research on the history of horse racing, and the issue of doping is something I don’t really understand. As a vet tech, you probably have plenty of info about that, right?”

“Doping? What kind of class is this?”

“We have to pick and research a topic that relates to Kentucky. I picked horse racing,” I lie. I don’t like lying to her, and I can feel the anxiety building under my breastbone.

“I see. Well, there’s lots of information available, honey. I’m not sure I can really add anything.”

That seems . . . odd. “But what did people use on their horses, back in the day, when you first started?”

“Lots of things.”

“It’s just that someone was telling me about giving competitors’ horses heroin to make them run slower . . .”

She shakes her head. “Macy . . . maybe you should pick something else to research. Something that doesn’t involve drugs.”

That hits like a silent bomb. I put my fork down. I don’t say anything. My dad has looked up, too, and he’s staring at my mom.

“Vikki,” he says. It’s a cautious warning.

“Macy, sweetie, isn’t that what this is really about? Delilah?” my mom asks. She sounds earnest and concerned, and I don’t have any answer to that.

I glance at the blank end of the table. There’s no chair. No plate or glass or silverware. And I think, I miss you, Delilah. She joined us here a lot, all through my childhood, and up until about eight months ago I thought she always would. That was always her spot.

This was our spot. Playing cards. Dressing Barbie dolls. Studying.

But she won’t be here again.

Mom may not have been happy about my change in major, but after Delilah . . . journalism, asking the tough questions, seemed like a way to honor my cousin.

I try to push some more, but Mom slips easily around the subject, over and over, until I realize that she isn’t going to answer me. Maybe it’s just concern that I’m obsessing about Delilah’s death.

But it feels like more than that.

The rest of the evening, I try to pretend it never happened. Dad even puts aside grading homework to join us in a quick, cutthroat game of Speed Monopoly, which he invented. It’s fun, but it also just reminds me who’s missing.

When I walk out of the house at eleven, heading for the college radio station and my twelve o’clock date with trouble, I’ve got the little Scottie dog token in my coat pocket. It was the one Delilah always played, and for some reason, I feel like keeping it with me right now.

5.

When I slide into my chair, taking over from the sophomore boy who’s been playing thrash for the past session (and desperately needs a shower), I set the little silver dog next to the computer to keep me company. I load up my intro music and files.

And I hit play.

RADIO HOST: Margaret Graham, thank you so much for joining us on Racecourse Today. Folks, this is a rare pleasure. I don’t think I’ve met such a pretty, charming owner in this business!

PEG GRAHAM: Thank you for having me—just call me Peg. I’m so happy to talk about this business and the significant issues that face it.

HOST: I thought you’d want to talk about the founding of Heart Stone Farm. It’s such an interesting story!

PEG: If we have time, certainly. But what I’d really like to talk about is the widespread use of drugs in both breeding and racing, and the damage it does to these beautiful animals we should be protecting.

HOST: [beat] Well, Peg, there are regulations in place to prevent—

PEG: [interrupting] Of course there are, but they’re weak as milk. Doping of horses is so common that the estimate is that ninety percent of thoroughbreds go on the track on one or more drugs—drugs to drop weight, drugs to numb pain, to force speed. And we see the consequences, Philip. We see horses foundering in increasing numbers.

I press pause and say, “That’s the voice of a ghost. A woman murdered in her own home. Was she killed by an employee who was stalking her? By her own husband? Or because she was a woman with strong beliefs that challenged the status quo? Thoroughbreds aren’t just a tradition in Kentucky; they’re a multi-billion-dollar business . . . and people kill for a lot less. Welcome to Dead Air, where M is now for midnight, Mackenzie, and . . . murder. On my past shows, we met Peg Graham and learned about her tragic death. Which is exactly why in tonight’s show I plan to revisit the world Peg wanted to shake up . . . and the potential consequences that might have caused.”

I release the mic button and cue up the second clip.

RACE CALLER: And our horses are rounding the third turn, and Lady’s Second Chance is in the lead with Hero’s Hounds and Sugar Sand just behind, nose to nose . . . wait, now the pack is breaking a little behind, with Rotaro falling to the back and on the inside now Whisper Creek making a move . . . Whisper Creek on the inside overtaking Sugar Sand . . . Lady’s Second Chance sees the challenge and is putting on speed, Sugar Sand and Hero’s Hounds falling behind now as Whisper Creek, far from the favorite in this race, surges . . . [sudden change of tone] Oh no, Whisper Creek is down, folks, Whisper Creek is down, throwing jockey Thomas Mears under the feet of the pack, and now Devil’s Baby is down and there’s another jockey on the track as Lady’s Second Chance takes the win by a length, with Sugar Sand in second and Hero’s Hounds in third. Devil’s Baby is up now, jockey Ian Grant has him and is leading him off the track, but medical assistance is responding to Mears and Whisper Creek. Whisper Creek is not able to get up. Mears seems shaken, and yes, he’s up now, but Whisper Creek has broken down on the track. A tragic end to a beautifully run race.

I lean in and hit the mic. “That was a race run out in New Mexico around the time that Peg Graham was giving the interview you heard at the start about the problem of doping. Whisper Creek died of what they call breakdown, which sounds like a car parked on the side of the road, but it’s so much worse. Ninety-seven percent of track injuries have to do with the muscles and bones, with broken or damaged legs being the most common. Whisper Creek, who died in that clip, suffered a broken neck and a broken leg from the fall, but he died from EIPH, Exercise-Induced Pulmonary Hemorrhage. He bled into his lungs. He ran himself to death. And in the autopsy, which the owner fought tooth and nail, the racing commission found a cocktail of drugs, from diuretics to amphetamines to painkillers.

“That’s the world Peg Graham was challenging . . . one where a famous stallion can breed to the tune of tens of millions a year, even if his victories are won artificially. It’s a world of money, power, and privilege.” I drop in a bit of audio from trying to talk to mom about her take on doping as a vet tech and her reluctance to say anything, just to demonstrate how hush-hush the topic is considered and why it was a big deal Peg was so open about it.

Then I continue, setting up the topic du jour. “So tonight, we’re going to talk about some of the others in the business at the time of Peg Graham’s death, and what motive they might have had to make her go away.” I cue up more audio, sharing what I’ve learned about Peg and the racing industry.

I think it’s a good show. A solid show. I take ten calls this time, only three of which are fart patrol or perverts wanting me to listen to them jack off. The other callers seem genuinely interested. One has multiple people asking questions. They’re making it a study break event, they tell me.

I’m signing out at the guard station when the outer door bangs open and Professor Arpin, the head of the radio program, comes into the hall. Even the guard’s surprised to see him. “Hey, Professor,” he says. “Forget something?”

Arpin seems annoyed, and looks like he got rousted out of bed. His hair is sticking up, and I’m almost sure that his shirt is really a pajama top. He fixes a glare on me.

“Macy Walker?” He doesn’t recognize me, and I wonder if I should deny it.

“Yes,” I say. “Hi, Professor. Did you listen to the show?”

“I did,” he says. “And I’m sorry, but the university simply can’t have you throwing false accusations around. It’s a legal minefield! We’ve had complaints. I want you to find another kind of content for your show. Immediately.”

I take a step back. “You’re shutting me down?”

“I’m telling you that you need to change your show to something less”—he searches for the word—“objectionable.”

“Seriously? Because the guy before me played an entire hour of thrash metal that I’m pretty sure had neo-Nazi bands in it. I’m just asking questions. That’s what journalists do!”

“You’re not a journalist, Miss Walker. You’re a student. And you’re using university property. Change the show, or you’re off the air.”

I’m shaking now, I’m so angry. It’s unfair.

“Well, do you agree?” he snaps. “It’s late, and I’m tired.”

Lying about it would only buy me another hour on air, if that.

“No,” I say. I’m surprised when I say it. I’ve always done what teachers tell me to, until now. That’s Mackenzie talking. I lift my chin and meet his eyes.

“Then you are off the schedule, Ms. Walker. And you are no longer allowed in here after class hours.” He spins to the guard, who’s been watching all this with a frown. “Make sure she doesn’t get into that booth again unless I personally approve it. All right?”

The guard nods.

We both watch Professor Arpin stalk away.

“Wow,” the guard says. “What the hell did you do, kid?”

“Poked the bear,” I say, and finish signing out. “And I don’t intend to stop.”

“Can’t come back here, though. Sorry.”

I nod. I don’t believe this happened in response to a couple of random complaints. That doesn’t pull a professor out of bed in the middle of the night.

That takes influence.