Chapter 9: The Linen Closet

I went to the house that night anyway.

Sage had said no three times, and then she had said she would come, and then she had said that she would be sick if I got arrested.

I told her to wait in our room with her phone on.

The house was a tall gray rental on Alder Street with a sagging porch and a dozen bikes chained to the railing.

It was ten at night, and I knew Preston was at the party the lacrosse team threw every Saturday.

Brooks had mentioned it in the dining hall for a week.

I walked around to the back.

The kitchen light was on, and Ben was standing in the doorway with his arms folded.

"I told you not to come," he said.

"You texted me."

"I took your number off the open-mic clipboard." His ears went pink. "That's the first time I've done that. I'd like you to know I don't do it."

"Why didn't you want me here?"

"Because he'll film you."

"He films everything."

"Yes." He looked over my head at the dark yard. "That's why."

"Is my jacket in there?"

He did not answer, and I stepped past him into the kitchen.

He let me.

The house smelled like old pizza and laundry soap.

He followed me up two flights of stairs to a door at the end of the hall, and unlocked it with a key from his pocket.

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