Revelation (Private 8)

someone killing for a spot in a dorm."

A warm, tingling rush came over me and I paused. That rush you get when you suddenly realize

that someone has said something important. Maybe something they didn't mean to say.

"Wait a minute. How do you know she was juggling several guys at a time?" I asked.

Marc stopped walking, already a couple of feet ahead of me, but it took a second for him to turn

around. A long second. Every inch of my skin was on fire. This wasn't the first time Marc had

blurted something about Cheyenne that he'd had no real reason for knowing. He had also brought

up the whole Cheyenne-drugging-Josh thing a couple of weeks ago.

"Just something I heard," he replied with a shrug, looking me in the eye. His expression bordered

on defiant.

"Kind of like everyone's now heard I killed Cheyenne," I said pointedly. "How do you know it

wasn't just a rumor?"

"Well, let's just say this one I had on good authority," Marc replied with a smirk. "Anyway, I should

be getting to the paper. I have a couple of stories to polish before we put it to bed."

He turned and speed-walked away so fast, I didn't even have time to formulate another question,

let alone a good-bye.

70

NEW HOME

I sat at my desk on Tuesday evening, listening to a Katy Rose CD and rereading the same gossip

article about Ivy for the ten millionth time. It didn't matter how many times I Googled her, it was

always the same articles. Mentions of her family's philanthropy, her grandmother's long obituary,

some old piece about Ivy and her horse winning some random juniors competition years ago.

Google wasn't about to explain that photo I had found in Ivy's room. It wasn't about to spit out a

video of Ivy killing Cheyenne. All it was going to do was frustrate me.Giving up for now, I slapped

the laptop closed and turned around to look at my cavelike room. I hadn't put anything away yet. I

think I was hoping that it wasn't real. Or maybe I just wasn't ready to give in. Stashing my clothes

in that sad little dresser and tucking my bags under the creaky old bed would be like admitting

defeat. But that night, as I looked around the dreary, confining space,

I couldn't take it anymore. I

couldn't live in a bare cell, plucking my clothes out of