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The canvas bag of rocks drags him down. It weighs over two hundred pounds, much more than Rocco himself. Without the pin holding it in place, it plunges straight down and Rocco is dragged along after it, screaming all the while. I don’t hear the impact, but I hear when the scream stops, the silence sudden and abrupt.
I don’t want to look over the edge.
Yet I have to.
I have to be absolutely sure.
With both hands clamped over my mouth, and my legs shaking beneath me, I force myself to stand. I peek over the ramparts.
I see a dark shape broken on the rocks below. The canvas bag has split, spilling its stones all around.
I want to sink back down and hide here, shivering, for as long as it takes.
But I have to get back to the infirmary.
No part of this plan is harder than the journey back. I have to stop three or four times, my stomach heaving. Luckily there’s nothing in there but tea, so I keep the sick down. I can’t leave vomit as evidence.
I’m not worried about prints on the rope. The rough jute shouldn’t hold fingerprints, and the tide is coming in. The waves will beat against the remains of Rocco Prince, washing away fibers and hairs. Maybe even washing away the body.
No, it’s my alibi I’m struggling to protect. I have to get back inside that infirmary before anyone notices I’m gone.
I race across campus, unseen as far as I can tell. I slip around the back of the building, pausing outside the window.
For a moment I think I hear a sound, something almost inaudible, a footstep on sod. I whip my head around wildly, seeing nothing at all. I can certainly hear Dr. Cross snoring.
I shove myself back through the gap in the window, lowering the sash as quietly as I can. Then I slip back under the blankets of my unmade bed.
I don’t think Dr. Cross has moved an inch.
I watch him for several minutes, my heart still jittering in my chest. My brain runs even faster.
You’re a murderer. A murderer. A murderer.
I stuff that thought back down.
I’m so fucking lucky that it worked. I think it worked, I hope it worked . . .
I could still be caught. There’s so many things I might have missed. I’m no criminal. I’m not even a Spy, not really. I don’t know what delusion gripped me, thinking I could pull this off. It was pure luck if I did.
I check the clock.
Then I clear my throat, loudly. When that doesn’t work, I get out of the bed and shake Dr. Cross.
“What is it?” he grumbles, coming to abruptly.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Cross. I just thought you wouldn’t want to sleep too long. It’s been fifteen minutes.”
A lie. Over an hour passed. I can only hope he wasn’t watching the time.
He glances at the clock, blearily.
“Yes, right,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t want to sleep too long. Is the challenge still going?”
“I have no idea,” I say
“How’s the arm feeling?”
“Good as new, almost,” I say, showing him the unmarked bandages.
