‘Who, Mona? You’re acting like this is the case of the century or that people have been slaving over some mystery or like you’re doing people a favour, but no one outside Sandown gives a shit about Roxy Raines and you know it. Who does this help?’

I tell her what I’ve known about myself all along. ‘It’s not about helping. It’s about truth, and liars –’

‘Can you even hear yourself?’

‘– and people so blinded by cowardice that they can’t even face their own truth.’

‘You’re impossible! What’s wrong with you? You aren’t entitled to other people’s life stories, Mona, not their pain, not their death, it’s not yours. Even if you’re the one that figures it out.’ She stops. ‘Was Ellis right? Is any of this true or did you make it all up?’

‘I haven’t made anything up.’ My pen is flying. Finale. Rain lashes the window. ‘Not one thing.’

‘You’ve abused his trust so completely. Do you know how much he looked up to you? He thought you were a genius.’ I know, I’d say, if I could manage it. I can’t. I can’t even stand to listen. ‘You should be so ashamed of yourself.’

It almost hurts.

Almost.

We’re quiet in the dorm save for the scratching of my pen. I can’t even hear Peyton breathe.

Then she asks, ‘Why the fuck do you call yourself CAP?’

I don’t look back at her. I keep writing. ‘They’re my sister’s initials,’ I say. ‘Celeste Avery Perry.’

A moment passes. ‘You’re insane.’ Another lick of time, fuzzy with rain. ‘You know what, fuck this, I’m not sleeping here in case you try and murder me again,’ she mutters under her breath. Then she gets up, duvet wrapped round her shoulders, taking nothing else with her, and leaves, slamming the door with a resounding crash.

I write, and write, and write.

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 31

SATURDAY 12 JUNE

I don’t remember going to sleep but I must have done, apparently, because a sound riles me awake, and I peel my cheek from the sweating wood of my desk. The curtains are open but there’s no sun in the room. Utterly dreamless. I look around and assess – Peyton isn’t here.

Visions from yesterday, spectral and thin, like a rapidly dissipating dream.

She’s dead, then. Roxy Raines is dead.

The supposed end of a search. Then why isn’t it satisfying? Booker laid it all out in technicolour. What’s left unresolved? Perhaps the fact that the only other person who this information mattered to now hates my guts.

My phone. That’s what woke me up, I realize, and I click it awake to discover a text from Dad.

On my way.

I scramble awake. Not now. We’re – I’m – almost finished. I still need to talk to Mary Anne.