There was a wildfire burning somewhere up in Canada, and New York was in the process of being smothered under a blanket of smoke when Lennon and Sawyer stepped off the elevator and into the large, windowed living room of a penthouse in New York, Claude’s most recent residence, according to his file in the archives. The view should’ve been stunning, but the jaundiced pall obscured what should have been a sweeping skyline.

The penthouse itself seemed empty and mostly quiet, apart from the sound of water running. They followed that sound across the living room, down a long hallway, and into a large primary bedroom. There was a bath en suite, its door just ajar, and it was there that Lennon and Sawyer found Claude, fully clothed and chest-deep in a steaming bathtub, smoking.

“Rough day?” Lennon asked.

Claude’s gaze shifted to hers, half-lidded and lackadaisical. He didn’t seem remotely surprised to see them. But, Lennon noted, he didn’t seem drunk either.

“No worse than yours,” said Claude and gestured to Lennon’s bloody nose by wiping at his own. Lennon hadn’t even realized she was bleeding. The act of calling the gate had drained her more than she’d realized. “There’s gauze in the first aid kit beneath the sinks. Try not to bleed on the bath mats. My mom will have a fucking fit.”

Lennon retrieved the first aid kit, rolling several squares of gauze into tight cylinders, which she stuffed up her nostrils to staunch the flow.

“This is your mom’s place?” Sawyer asked, as Lennon struggled to stop bleeding.

Claude stared up at the bulbous skylight overhead, which allowed for a hole-punch cut of the flat, yellow sky. “Sort of. It’s been in the family for years, but to be honest, it’s less ours than Drayton’s.”

“Wait,” said Sawyer, looking stunned. “Your mom knows about Drayton?”

“She’s alumni,” he said. “Most of my family is, actually. You’re looking at the great-great-great-great-grandson of one of Drayton’s first boys.” Claude wiggled his fingers for theatrical effect.

It made sense to Lennon that Claude was Drayton royalty. He had that Old South accent and, for that matter, an air of audacity, a kind of confidence that could only ever come from true privilege. She wondered if that was why he’d been able to keep his memories of Drayton despite being expelled.

“So the apartment is a nepotism perk?” said Lennon dryly, trying to sound less intrigued than she really was.

“No,” said Claude. “The apartment is ten million dollars of deadweight that’s going to keep me rooted here in New York, blackmailing stockbrokers with the intimate details of their own fucked-up personal lives until the school decides to find me some other gainful means of employment.”

“That’s a harsh way to describe a penthouse overlooking Central Park and job security,” said Sawyer, but it came out strained and forced the way jokes often do when you’re desperate for them to land.

Claude didn’t laugh. He nudged the faucet with his foot and managed to cut the water off after a few false tries. He ignored Sawyer and looked to Lennon again. “You know, I’m surprised he let you come here at all. Dante, I mean.”

“Dante doesn’t let me go anywhere,” said Lennon, bristling a little at the implication. “I go where I want to go. When I want to go there.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” said Claude, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

He exhaled smoke. The gray tendrils festooned his head in a tattered halo. “Only that you mean a lot to him, and he tends to keep the people and things that matter most to him on a short leash. He’s careful that way.” He ashed his cigarette. “Why did you two come here?”

“We wanted to know if you were okay,” said Sawyer.

“Bullshit.”

“And we wanted to know what happened between you and Dante.”

“We fought,” said Claude, looking annoyed. “Dante didn’t appreciate my tone, and here we are. It’s not even a story worth telling.”

“Do you really think he killed Benedict?”

“Why ask the question when you already know what I think?” Claude snapped. “Admit it: you don’t want to know if Dante really killed Benedict, you want to know if you’re allowed to love him if he did. And you want me to tell you instead of him, either because you trust me more, and for good reason, or because you’re afraid that if you hear it from his own mouth, you’ll force yourself to hate him like you already should. That about sum it up?”

“I just want the truth,” said Lennon.

“No, you don’t,” said Claude. “Not really. You just want me to tell you a story that gives you license to love him, and I know that because I’ve been in your shoes before. But you’re worried about the wrong thing—don’t you see that? It’s not about what he did or didn’t do to Benedict. It’s about what he’s going to do to you.”

“And what is he going to do to me, Claude?”

“What he does to everyone. He’s going to use you for as long as you’re useful to him and then, one day, he’s going to cast you aside like the broken thing you are. Like he did to me. Like he did to Benedict. And the worst part is you’re going to let him.”

“Dante can be kind,” said Lennon, a soft rebuttal that sounded less pathetic in her head. “I’ve seen it.”

“You’ve got him wrong,” said Claude, shaking his head. “For the longest time I thought he’d just learned to hold poison in his mouth so he could pass for a viper. But then I realized that’s not the case. He’s just as bad as the worst of them, and Ben knew it. He was maybe the only one who wasn’t afraid to say it to his face—”

“And you think Dante killed him for it?” Sawyer asked, sounding less certain than Lennon. More wary. “You think that could’ve been some type of motive?”

“I don’t know,” said Claude, sinking deeper into the tub. “And frankly, I don’t care either.”

“What do you mean you don’t care?” Lennon asked, finding it difficult to believe this was even the same man who had raged and broken windows, desperate to discover what had happened to Benedict only weeks before. Dante had claimed that he hadn’t tampered with Claude’s mind, but now, standing in front of him, Lennon wasn’t so sure.

“I’ve decided I’m done with it,” said Claude. “Done with Drayton…or at least as done as I can be for now. I just want to keep the good memories I have, of Benedict mostly, and stay as sober as I can. If I do that, my mind stays my own.”

“So you’re giving up? You’re not even going to attempt to figure out what really happened to Benedict?” Sawyer asked, looking as disturbed as Lennon felt. She could tell he had the same suspicions she did, could tell he was wondering if these words and sentiments were truly Claude’s, or if they’d just been planted in his mind to be recited on an occasion like this one.

Claude’s eyes narrowed and filled with tears. “I’m tired. You couldn’t possibly understand how fucking tired I am.”

Lennon could see it in his eyes when he said it—a kind of weariness she’d once seen when she met her own gaze in the mirror, back when she’d lived with Wyatt, when it was a struggle just to get up and face the drudgeries of the day. “Before we go, I have one question, about something you said the night Emerson and I took you to the infirmary. You mentioned something that happened in August, but you didn’t say what. What was it?”

Claude was quiet for a long time, staring up at the skylight, the pall of yellow smoke. When he stood—an abrupt and violent motion—water sloshed out of the tub and flooded the bathroom. Both Lennon and Sawyer staggered back, on edge, as if bracing for a blow. But Claude stepped carefully out of the tub, his hands limp at his sides. He looked so sad and frail in that moment, weighted down by his wet clothes, that Lennon had the sudden urge to pull a towel off the rack and put it around his shoulders. But she held back.

“I don’t remember saying anything like that,” said Claude—a lie. Lennon was certain of it.