Page 59 of An Academy for Liars

“That’s all right,” said Eileen. “You’ve done nothing wrong. And Dante’s tough, I made sure of that. He can handle himself.”

“I’m not sure that he can,” said Lennon, close to crying now. “He’s hurt. Badly. I’m worried about him. There was so much blood.”

Eileen raked a hand through her hair. “Thank you for telling me all of this. I want you to go back to your dorm, have a shower, and find yourself something to eat. Okay?”

These instructions were relayed so tenderly that Lennon felt, for a moment, confused. It had been a long time since she’d been mothered, and the last person she would have expected to be mothered by was the vice-chancellor. “But what about Dante? Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

“He’ll be fine.”

“Will you send someone for him?”

As quickly as Eileen had turned soft, she became cold. “What I do in my capacity as vice-chancellor is none of your concern. Nor is the business that Dante keeps. I understand your concern, but right now my primary responsibility is ensuring the safety of the students and faculty I have here. Do you understand?”

Eileen stripped off her cardigan and wrapped it gently around Lennon’s shoulders. It was heavy, but strangely cool, as though it had been hanging in the back of a closet, never worn. Eileen buttoned it up to Lennon’s throat, like she was a child too young to do it herself.

“To replace your shirt,” she said, referring to the bloodstains. “I don’t want you alarming anyone as you make your way across the campus.”

Lennon nodded. Made for the door.

“And Ms. Carter?”

She faltered, turned back to Eileen. “Yes?”

“Break the news to Claude, will you? He and Benedict were so close.”

“I—I will.”

Lennon walked back to Logos House, aware of the stares that trailed her as she went. Upon entering the foyer, she climbed the four flights of rickety, creaking stairs up to Claude’s room in the attic. She knocked on the door. Claude answered, squinting at her as though staring directly into the sun. “Lennon? What the hell happened to you? Is that blood?”

Lennon had prepared a speech on the way back from Irvine Hall, but in the moment all she could think to say was: “He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Benedict.”

A half beat passed in silence. Claude faltered—his expression frozen somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Come in. Have a seat by the fire.”

Lennon was stunned silent for a moment. She had expected yelling and tears and tearing at clothes, a barrage of questions about who and when and where and how. But what she hadn’t anticipated was Claude’s complete and utter composure. She stumbled through the door after him. “Claude, wait—”

“What would you like to drink?” he inquired, cheery.

“I—I don’t want anything,” said Lennon, carefully lowering herself into one of the two armchairs that stood in front of the hearth. “Listen, Claude, I have to—”

“How about something sweet?” He went to a well-stocked bar cart and began to mix what appeared to be two amaretto sours. He took a long time stirring up the cocktails, staring at some fixed point on the wall with a furrow in his brow. “So, you said he’s dead?”

“Yes,” said Lennon, crying now. “And I’m so sorry. Dante and I found him this morning. His wrists were cut.”

Claude turned to face her, his expression blank. He passed her thecocktail with a mechanical motion, and some of the drink sloshed over the edge and spattered the Persian rug. He sat stiffly in the empty armchair beside Lennon. “Benedict wouldn’t slit his wrists. He always told me if it came down to it—whenit came down to it—he’d use a gun. He had one, you know. He kept it in his tea cabinet. An antique, belonged to his father.”

Lennon’s hands began to shake around the cocktail glass. “Listen, I don’t know what happened. That’s just what I saw. He’s dead, Claude. I’m so sorry—”

Claude hurled his glass across the room. It struck the far wall and shattered on impact.“Fuck.”

Lennon sprang to her feet, but Claude remained seated, staring at a nothing spot on the floor, his shoulders heaving.

She edged toward him, extending a hand. “Claude—”

He stood up so suddenly that Lennon, startled, staggered back and fell into a nearby bookshelf. Claude caught her by the arm and dragged her out of the bedroom, down the hall, and several flights of stairs until they reached the rickety elevator on the second floor. By this time, those who were in the house had already come upstairs or out into the hall to investigate the sound of breaking glass. Blaine emerged from Emerson’s room.

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