Luckily, the post has barely any engagement. Still, rage bubbles up within me as I read the last paragraph. Secret feelings between me and Molly? It’s the biggest rot I’ve ever read. And why hasn’t Oscar’s death been brought up as a potential reason for Molly’s change in behavior? It seems, if one goes by Occam’s razor, to be a much more reasonable explanation than the arrival of Danni Blythe, no?

“This is ludicrous,” I say with conviction. “Honestly, what have you called me up about? Someone who’s obsessed with my family read into me looking at a friend of mine, and this constitutes a crisis?”

“Not a crisis, no. Just something to keep in mind. If, perhaps, you’re being less discreet than you thought…”

But I’m hardly listening at this point, because I’m so relieved. This is all utterly baseless. Yes, this person, along with those who made the teasing comments on Molly’s video, has stumbled across the truth, but that’s exactly what it is. A stumble. Half of their “evidence” involves clips and photos from well before there was anything to speak of between Danni and me. We haven’t slipped up.

“It seems to me that the anonymous tipper and this poster are likely one and the same,” I say. “They were probably lying about being a Bramppath student.”

“Perhaps,” William says, but his tone is doubtful enough to make me uneasy.

“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask.

“No. I’ve told you everything I know.”

But if what he knows is so limited, why take it seriously enough to call me in the first place? What isn’t he telling me?

After hanging up, I make a beeline for Danni’s room. To my dismay, I find her door propped open by a shoe, which means she’s in the shower. It’s what we all do. Our key cards are susceptible to water damage, and the tiny shower cubicles here have a nasty habit of soaking everything we bring in with us, including things placed on the tiny bench provided for storage. We even have to throw our towels and clothes over the door to keep them dry.

Luckily, there’s only one shower in use on this level, so once I close the bathroom door behind me, I’m quite confident in calling out Danni’s name.

“Rose?” she asks. “Hold on. One second.” A moment later, she opens the cubicle door a crack, poking her head through. She has a towel wrapped tightly around her, and her dark blond hair, darker still from the water, is soaked and plastered to her forehead and neck, greasy and slick with shampoo or conditioner. She smells of cocoa butter.

“I just got a call from William at the palace,” I tell her in a low voice. “Someone told him we’re involved.”