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Then I strip off my sodden shirt and rinse it out at the sink. Wringing it dry as best I can, I hang it over the rack and then wash the milk from my hair and face.
I hope Miss Robin doesn’t mind me using all her towels.
As I straighten up, I see something that even Miss Robin’s careful cleaning must have missed—a splash of red on the tiles behind the faucet.
It looks like blood.
I rub my fingertip across the spot. It stains the skin red. I inhale a faint chemical scent.
Frowning, I wash my hands again.
A faint patch of red remains on my fingertip.
I don’t mean to be so nosy. Whether it’s my Spy training or whether I had this incessant curiosity inside of me all along, I can’t help feeling that I’m missing something here. Something tantalizing, just out of reach . . .
I don’t want to be suspicious of Miss Robin. She’s always been kind to me. In fact, she saved me from Rocco just last year. I don’t think it was any coincidence that she snatched my bookbag out of Dax Volker’s hands right when Rocco was about to discover me hiding in the shelves.
Quickly, I carry my damp shirt and the used towels out to Miss Robin.
“Better?” She smiles.
“Yeah, thank you,” I say, standing there shyly in my bra.
Miss Robin doesn’t make me feel weird about it. Instead, she passes me a soft, warm cardigan that smells as freshly laundered as the towels.
“Keep it as long as you need,” she says, smiling. “As you can tell, I have quite a few of them.”
“Really, thank you so much,” I say. “You always look out for me.”
“Well, I liked Zoe. And I’m glad to see you following in her footsteps.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Zoe wasn’t afraid to go after what she wanted,” Miss Robin says. “I see that in you, too.”
I have the distinctly uncomfortable sensation that for all I guess about Miss Robin, she sees far more about me.
“Right . . .” I say hesitantly.
“How is Zoe, by the way?”
“Very happy. She moved to Los Angeles with Miles.”
“Good.” Miss Robin smiles. “I’m glad Rocco is no longer an impediment.”
Now I feel a distinct chill. Miss Robin looks as sweet as ever, but there can be no doubt that she feels not the slightest particle of sympathy for the untimely demise of Rocco Prince.
“Well,” she says, “I’d better get back to work. I’ll walk you down, Cat.”
I follow Miss Robin back down the ladder, uncertain how much I’ve enjoyed the added intimacy between us.
When I meetDean that evening in the Bell Tower, he confronts me at once.
“What the fuck is this I hear from Corbin Castro that Lola Fischer dumped a bottle of milk on your head?”
“Yeah, she sucks.” I shrug, not really wanting to discuss it.
“Does she have a problem with you?” Dean demands.
