Page 137 of Kingmakers, Year Three

Lola passes the sketchbook. The Chancellor flips through the smudged pages, his eyes crawling over each and every drawing. He turns the book so Dean and I can see it.

“What is this?” he says. “And this?”

He shows me the drawing I made directly after I killed Rocco—the girl sitting on the edge of a dark well, looking down into the yawning emptiness. And then, several pages later, a picture of a male figure falling through dark scribbled space.

“Those are just sketches,” I say quietly. “I draw all sorts of figures.”

The Chancellor continues to turn the pages.

He passes through my drawings of Chicago—the Centennial Wheel, the Bean, the statues in Mount Olive Cemetery, the city skyline along the lake. And then after that, a portrait of Dean standing on the deck of the ship, his shirt stripped off and his face ferocious as he looks back over his shoulder at me. Then Dean again, closer up, just his face from the angle I see when he looks down at me, a mocking smirk on his lips. Dean again, lying back against the pile of pillows in the Bell Tower, with a rare expression of gentleness that only occurs after we’ve exhausted ourselves together. Then another of Dean, and another, and another.

My face is flaming. I can hardly meet Dean’s eyes.

I never told him that I draw him.

Actually, I hadn’t realized how many times I’d done it.

When I finally dare to look at him, he’s staring at the sketches, stunned.

“Those don’t mean anything,” I tell the Chancellor. “It’s just practice. I planned to go to art school . . .”

The Chancellor turns the pages back to the figure of the man falling through empty space.

“This isn’t Rocco Prince?”

“No,” I lie. “It’s just . . . a nightmare I had.”

“She didn’t kill Rocco!” Dean shouts.

“Then who did?” the Chancellor rounds on him.

“I’m not going to tell you that,” Dean says.

My mouth falls open in horror.

Why did Dean admit that he knows?

Dean shoots me a swift, repressive look, reminding me to keep my mouth shut.

“If you won’t tell us what you know—” the Chancellor says.

“Do what you have to do,” Dean says. His jaw is stubbornly set, his pale hair hanging down over one eye.

The Chancellor nods to Professor Penmark.

Penmark strips off his suit jacket, revealing a gray dress shirt with garters to hold up the sleeves. His bared forearms are lean and sinewy, his hands bony and dexterous as twin spiders.

Now at last I understand why Dean admitted a portion of guilt—so he’ll be the one interrogated, not me.

“NO!” I scream.

The groundskeeper grabs my arms and yanks me back.

Lola also takes a step backward, her hand flying up to her mouth. She’s pale, but her eyes are brightly interested, fixed upon Dean’s kneeling figure.

Professor Penmark pulls a silver knife from his belt.

“STOP!” I cry.

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