The air thinned, and Molly squinted through it. James was still asleep in his chair and Beth was standing in the doorway in a dress shirt with her breasts pushing gaps between the buttons. She gripped a leather duffel. “Molly?” she said, uncertainly. “What’s going on?”

“We forgot the cake,” Molly said.

“Why is James Masterson here?” Beth looked at James like he was a weasel who’d crawled in under the door. A smell rose off her, the wrong kind of hormone.

“I’ll get rid of him.”

Molly had screwed up. Why was it her instinct to bury a mess with another mess? Once at a party she’d disguised a wine stain on a linen rug with a turned-over platter of deviled eggs. As soon as she forced her feet to move she shook James awake, his mouth spilling drool down his bone marrow shirt.

“Hi, girls,” he said.

Beth stared at Molly like she didn’t know her. Molly hoped it wasn’t a relationship-ending stare. She suspected it was.

“Come on, James,” Molly said. “Let’s get you back to your room.” She grabbed his arm, but it was limp.

“Oh, my murderer,” he said. The words froze Molly’s spine.

Molly flinched. “He’s high,” she said. “I’ll walk him home.” She propped James upright, but he couldn’t stabilize. She passed Beth with the boy held out before her like a floppy shield.

Beth peered into his dazed face. “James?”

“Thank you for all you do. On behalf of all students. Sincerely.” He saluted her, then relaxed against Molly’s support, a deflating little Christ.

In the hallway, Molly propped him against a wall. “Are you really that high?” Usually White Kush didn’t have a late-onset effect, but he might have “sensitivities.”

“Did I do a good job?” His sandy hair flipped up. “I thought if I acted that bad I could pretend tomorrow I don’t remember. And, like, get you out of trouble.”

James had a point. If he’d been coherent Beth would’ve insisted on questioning him, and no one stood up to Beth’s questions, not even Molly. “Why’d you call me a murderer?”

“Come on,” he said. “You killed her dog.”

Molly’s arm twitched to hit him. He was an entitled brat like she’d suspected, meddling in her affairs without a blip of remorse. But she made herself breathe. Maybe he was right. She had to tell Beth about Chowder. Of course she did. That would be the first question when she reentered the suite. And now, an opening. Why did James Masterson call you a murderer? Oh, that? Because I am one. She should slap herself for failing to leave a voicemail while Beth was on her panel. At least James hadn’t told Beth that Molly had outed her.

When she entered the suite, the cake was on the burners, Beth pushing smoke out the window with a rag. “What are you doing? Why was James here? Why is a cake burning in the oven? Why is the dog food under the sink? And where is the dog?”