“I still need an answer,” Ash says.

I huff. “Yes. Okay? Yes.”

“Then we have a deal,” he says, and there’s nothing playful in his tone.

I get up and open the door.

Layla comes in carrying a huge stack of books. “Oh, good. You’re both here.”

Ash takes them from her and puts them down as Layla removes her cloak and hangs it in the armoire. “I got a book on knives for you to go through, November, to see if you can recognize the one that Stefano…well, the one used in the murder. And a medical book that should help us pinpoint how long he’d been dead by the time you found him. And some just for you on deception and body language. No offense, but I think you could use a refresher.”

“Great,” I say. “Sounds like a plan.”

She looks between me and Ash. “Did something happen? You both look uncomfortable.”

Ash looks at me, daring me to break our agreement.

“Well, Aarya knows I was in her room—at least she thinks she does. She found a piece of my hair,” I tell her.

Layla frowns. “That’s not good news. We’ll need to be on guard. Aarya’s the kind who believes in retaliation for fun as much as anything else.”

“And I met with Conner again,” I say.

“Dr. Conner?” Layla repeats, and her tone is more worried.

“He claims that the guard who saw me used the same staircase I did, so it was impossible for us to both be in it at the same time. That I must have gone a different way,” I say.

“What did you tell him?” Layla asks.

“Nothing. I said I didn’t know.”

“Good,” Layla says. “That was the right response.”

“He also said that the guard used a different route than normal. I thought that was weird, considering how precise everyone is around here,” I say, and Ash and Layla look at each other.

Layla’s eyebrows draw together. “It’s not entirely impossible, but it’s not typical, either. Although I’m not sure you could prove that the guard did or didn’t do anything unusual that night, especially since they don’t talk to students.”

I exhale. “That’s what I figured.” I hesitate. “Tell me honestly, how bad a spot do you think I’m in right now?”

Even before I hear her answer, I can see the worry on her face. “Bad,” she says quietly.

Chapter Twenty-one

LAYLA AND I sit at the breakfast table in our room, which is covered with open books and food. I’m looking through pictures of knives and she’s reading about rigor mortis. It’s like a twisted version of the old couple you see in movies flipping through the newspaper and drinking coffee.