Page 113 of Long Way Down

“You doing okay?”

There was a long pause, as Contreras eased them out into traffic. Another glance in the mirror proved Lana was staring out the window. Her throat jumped as she swallowed. “Yeah.”

No.

Tension poured off the girl, stifling within the confines of the car. Melissa leaned forward to turn on the AC, just to have a little air movement.

“Well,” Contreras said, in the cheerful tone of a well-meaning man about to say something incredibly stupid. “At least you’re getting back out there. Going to class. Trying to keep busy.”

In the mirror, Melissa saw her swallow again, and blink hard at the smear of yellow streetlamp glow on the window. “If I don’t go back to class, I’ll fail. I’ll have to repeat this year all over again, and I’ll lose my scholarship. Lynn has a choice.” She didn’t sound bitter so much as heartbroken. “I don’t.”

Contreras’s attempt at a smile fell away, and he looked so stricken that Melissa didn’t bother to chide him for his attempt at positivity.

Lana turned her head, and her gaze locked with Melissa’s in the mirror. “I’m bait, right?”

“What?”

“You think it’s someone in my class. It has to be, doesn’t it? Lynn, and me. Both of us. That’s why you want to go to class with me: so you can see how he reacts. See if he’ll do something you can arrest him for.”

Melissa frowned. “We’re not–”

“Please don’t lie. Everyone’s been lying to me: you’ll be fine. It gets better. You’re so strong. Just…tell me what we’re doing. Wondering’s the worst part.”

And not just wondering about their motives tonight, but wondering if she’d ever sleep through the night again. Wondering if her attacker was done with her, if he was coming back for round two. Wondering if the men she passed on the sidewalk or in the aisles of the bodega wished her harm.

Melissa swallowed, too, a lump in her throat. “Okay,” she agreed. “We won’t lie.

“There’s a good chance,” she continued, “that your attacker is one of your classmates or your professor.”

In her periphery, she saw Contreras shoot her a doubtful glance; you weren’t ever supposed to share “good chances” with vics, for a variety of reasons.

“Or,” she went on, “it could be a janitor, or an administrator: anyone in the halls of that building who could have watched you both, day in and day out, in order to develop an obsession. We walked through Lynn’s daily routine, down to coffeeshops and most frequently stopped-at ATMs. We’ll get a list of the same from you tonight, too, so we can see if there’s an intersection there. But I’ll be honest with you: the most likely candidate is someone in that figure drawing class.” She twisted around in her seat so they could be properly face-to-face. “It’s not going to be fun walking in there tonight,” she said. “Your heart’s gonna race, and you’re gonna be in a cold sweat – if you aren’t already. We’d spare you the whole thing if we could, but weneedto catch this guy, and we can’t do it without your help.”

Lana stared at her a moment, face illuminated by the pale wash from oncoming headlights. Then her lips firmed, and she nodded. “You wanna go over my schedule now, before we get there?”

“That’d be a good use of time.” Melissa whipped out pad and pen, and Contreras helpfully switched on the overhead dome light.

She would need to do a side-by-side comparison of the lists back at the precinct to be one-hundred-percent sure, but Melissa knew by the time they arrived at the gallery building that none of Lana’s usual haunts or routines matched Lynn’s. The only point of connection was the school; was the building that stood pale and stately before them, its windows shining with warm light, its walls lined with the brushwork and sculptured curves of generations’ worth of talented hopeful artists. One of which sat dimmed and shaking in the backseat of a cop car, scared to death to go back inside and meet the predator who’d shattered her sense of peace.

Melissa got out first and opened Lana’s door. The girl climbed out with a quiet “thanks,” and hitched up the strap of her bag with shaking fingers. She held her zippered portfolio across her knees like a shield.

Contreras locked up the car and settled in behind them, the guard at their backs.

“Remember,” Melissa said, as they walked up the front steps. “Your job is to attend class, and not to worry about anything else. We’ll be watching out. Nothing bad’s gonna happen tonight while we’re here.”

Lana let out a deep, unsteady breath, and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

But what about all the nights after? Melissa wondered. What about when this case was solved and they started investigating a new one and Lana was on her own again? A needless wonder, because she knew all too well what it would be like for Lana, forever after. Knew too well the scent of mold, and mildew, and fresh rain. She couldn’t eat sunny-side-up eggs, still, because they gleamed, wet and white, the way Ivy’s staring, sightless eyes had in the sizzling flare of a lightning bolt.

Lana hesitated, once they were inside the atrium, where the palatable, but bright beams of overhead can lights fell on sculptures and statues on pedestals, bowls and jugs and teapots perched under glass cubes; where the air was redolent with coffee and fresh muffin scents from the little café over in the corner, and where students stood in drifts, most of them in dowdy cardigans or overcoats, portfolios tucked under arms or held by the handles. Lana’s gaze swept back and forth, and her breath hitched in the way of a prey animal searching for a threat.

Melissa squeezed her shoulder, once. “We’re right here,” she reminded in a whisper. “Let’s go on up, okay?”

“Do you have a gun?”

The question surprised Melissa; she turned her head to meet the girl’s gaze and found it harder than she’d expected.

“A gun,” Lana pressed. “Are those just for uniformed cops? Or do you have one, too?”

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