Warmth spreads through me. It starts in my feet and moves all the way to my face, where I can’t stop a smile from forming. “I’d like that. Very much.”

  “Maybe today’s a day for both of us to nail down a legacy,” he says.

  “I agree.”

  Nicholas extends the bottle of Pappy toward me. “Maybe we should drink on it?”

  “I like that idea.”

  Before I can take hold of the bottle, a voice calls up the stairs. I think it’s Natalia.

  “Mr. Gaines? I think you really should come down and see this.”

  29

  I’M OFF THE BED so fast I almost fall.

  I reach the stairs as my mind swirls.

  Someone else is dead. Someone else is dead. Someone else is dead.

  But as I descend the stairs, the students are gathered around the foyer. I do a quick head count. All five are there. All standing, none the worse for wear.

  So then, what’s the problem?

  When I’m all the way down and standing among them, I ask, “What’s the matter?”

  “We believe our perimeter has been breached, sir.” Captain Stephenson points to the front door. “We heard something shatter and then yelling.”

  “A window?” I ask.

  “We don’t know,” Duffy says.

  The stairs clack behind me. Nicholas’s swanky boots against the wooden steps.

  I go toward the front door and veer into the music room. The group follows along behind me, and when I enter, my eyes can’t help but drift to the left, to the misshapen lump under the quilt.

  Outside, through the surprisingly clear glass, the remains of another shattered bottle lie on the front walk, about ten feet from the portico steps. In the yard, it looks like a rugby scrum. Two protestors have broken through the police line and rushed Hyde House. One of them, a young woman in black jeans, a black leather jacket, and with hair dyed the same color as her clothes, yells at the house, her face contorted into a mask of rage. A campus police officer—a woman with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail—has grabbed ahold of the woman and is either attempting to pull her away from the house and behind the barricade or is trying to get handcuffs on her wrists.

  “I know her,” Duffy says. “She was in my business law class. Kylie? Is that it?”

  “Kylie Conway,” Natalia says. “Her hair used to be fake blond.”

  The protestor’s voice is muffled by the glass and bricks, and I can’t make out what she’s saying. I’m not sure it’s necessary to know the exact words. She hates the Hyde family and all they represent, and she’s letting it be known in no uncertain terms.

  The officer, who isn’t much bigger than the protestor but is clearly stronger and trained in restraining what Chief would call “miscreants,” gains the upper hand and manages to turn the woman back toward the barricade. The protestor offers little resistance, satisfied perhaps with getting through and saying what she had to say to the front of the house.

  The other protestor resists more. A young man, hair perfectly coiffed into an Elvis-like pompadour, wears two cops on his back as he lies spread-eagle on the lawn of Hyde House. He’s also wearing dark clothes, and his horn-rimmed glasses sit askew on his face, which is being pushed toward the grass by one of the cops.

  “I don’t know that dude,” Duffy says. “Anybody?”

  “I think I talked to him at a party once,” Sydney says. “Didn’t he, like, flunk out?”

  “He did,” Natalia says. “Michael Braun. He still lives in Bluefield.”

  Chief mans the barricade by himself. I expect at any moment for all the remaining protestors lined up there to charge through the line like extras from Braveheart. Chief could do nothing if they made that break, and Hyde House might succumb to the onslaught of bottles and bricks and taunts, allowing the protestors to succeed in their desire to disrupt the process.

  But none of the other protestors join the two runners before us.

  While one cop pushes the bespectacled guy’s face into the dirt, the other works a pair of handcuffs out of his belt and begins to apply them to the protestor’s wrists. The man squirms on the ground, writhing his torso and kicking his feet, which makes it increasingly difficult for the cops to manage him. Finally, the cop with his hand on the protestor’s head gives it a solid shove into the dirt, and the young man grimaces as though he’s in real pain.

  Someone gasps behind me. One of the women, but I can’t tell which one.

  “That’s bullshit,” Sydney says.

  “He should stop resisting,” the captain says.

  “So it’s okay to rub his face in the dirt?” Sydney asks.

  “I didn’t say that.” The captain’s voice is sharp. “The police shouldn’t do that. Not at all. I just wish . . . I wish he wouldn’t resist. It’s all very complicated.”

  The protestor stops moving as much, and the cops manage to get the cuffs on him. Each cop takes one of the young man’s arms, and they haul him to his feet. Once he’s up, one of the cops—the one who shoved his face against the ground—actually steps in front of the kid and adjusts his glasses for him, making sure they won’t fall off as they walk him away.

  “Those cops are a mere twenty feet away,” Natalia says. “If anybody wanted to knock on the window, you could get their attention. I mean . . . we could tell them about Milo.”

  Nobody turns, but we all know his body rests on the couch behind us.

  And Natalia is right. The cops are within easy hailing distance for the first time all day. A good thumping against the window might just get their attention, and they could come over and let anyone out who wanted to get out.

  Or they could take Milo away.

  My right hand tenses. It forms into a fist, one that could easily knock on the window and summon the police.

  But I also remember what I spoke to Nicholas about upstairs. He has a job to do as a member of the Hyde family. As the sole heir of the Hyde family.

  And I have a job to do as well as an administrator of this college. If that door opens to the police right now, and they know about Milo, the whole day will be over.

  And the Hyde Scholarship money might go. And the 100 More Initiative along with it.

  My fist loosens and my hand remains at my side.

  The police maneuver the protestor, one on each side, and start back for the barricade.

  As they go, the kid looks back at the house and screams something.

  And what he shouts becomes a problem.

  30

  THE PROTESTOR’S WORDS ARE hard to understand.

  He’s partially facing away when he shouts, and he’s no doubt winded and overwrought from his encounter with the police.

  “Memory,” he shouts. “Screw it. Screw it.”

  “What?” Duffy asks.

  As if the guy outside hears Duffy or understands our confusion, he looks back at the house again and shouts even louder.

  “Memory! Blew it! Screw it!”

  And then he’s hustled away even faster, following in the footsteps of the other cop and the other protestor, who have already reached the barricade, which Chief casually opens for them. Clearly he has already decided no one else is going to run. Or maybe a stern talking-to and a laser-focused look from the chief have cooled any fervor to come at the house.

  Or maybe seeing how quickly the police jumped on the two protestors—including the guy getting his face jammed into the dirt—has lowered tensions to a simmer.

  We’re all bunched together at the window, close enough to hear everyone breathe, and I want us to get back to the work at hand without any more issues.

  And I want us to leave the room that holds Milo’s body.

  “Why don’t we all head back to the dining room?” I say. “I haven’t eaten. And I know Nicholas hasn’t either. We should before—”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Sydney says. “I want to talk about what that guy just said. The one they just dragged away in handcuffs.”

  “Can we discuss it while we eat?” I ask.

  Sydney ignores me. “You all heard it, right? I mean, it was clear as day.”

  A tension fills the room, oozing into the spaces between the seven of us and settling in like a fog.

  “I don’t get it,” I say. “He said something about . . . a memory? Or was he talking about family? I assume he wants us to remember, well, something about . . . a family?”

  Nicholas holds the Pappy bottle in his left hand. He has more color in his cheeks than at any time all day, and I hope our soul-baring conversation and his commitment to the 100 More Initiative has invigorated him.

  “It doesn’t really matter what he’s shouting. And if you’re worried about them, I have a feeling the college isn’t going to press charges against them. Maybe a slap on the wrist—”

  “I heard it too,” Natalia says.

  “Heard what?” the captain asks.

  “What the guy said as they were leading him away. I heard it clearly.”

  “Memory?” I ask. “Or did he say ‘family’?”

  “I didn’t hear a damn thing,” the captain says. “But my wife thinks my hearing’s bad from all the time I spent on the gun range. She might be right.”

  “Not memory,” Natalia says, one index finger raised. She speaks to me like I’m her elderly grandfather who has started seeing and hearing things that aren’t there. “He said ‘Emily.’ Emily. You heard it too, Sydney, right?”

  “I did.”

  “Now, wait a minute—” I say.

  “That’s such bullshit,” Emily says. “He didn’t say my name. You heard Mr. Gaines. He said the word ‘memory.’ ”

  “Or family,” Nicholas says. “One or the other. I’m sure he’s angry at my family. He can join the club.”

  “This is such bullshit, Natalia,” Emily says. “You couldn’t hear what that guy said. Nobody could. He’s shouting outside through that thick glass. But you’ve never liked me. You’re pissed because of the way you got picked on in the dorm freshman year. And you’ve always lumped me in with those girls who harassed you.”

  “Hold it,” I say. “Hold it. We can’t—”

  Now Sydney steps forward. “This morning, you were out there with the protestors. Remember? Chief had to walk you in, and he said you showed up there by mistake. But how do we know it was, like, a mistake? You probably hated Milo because everyone thought he was a better writer than you. A better writer than anybody on campus. Especially since you’re an English major.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Emily asks. “I don’t care about that.”

  “You were talking about it in the other room. During tea. You and Natalia went off to the side and started talking. About sophomore seminar . . .”

  “I wasn’t in that seminar,” Emily says. She points. “That was all Natalia saying that. I was making a different point. About someone else . . .”

  Natalia seems small. Very small. But she thrusts her chin out again the way she did on the portico. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. My family doesn’t believe in doing that.”

  “Bullshit, Natalia,” Emily says. “What did you tell me in there?”

  Natalia waits a moment. I can’t tell if she’s choosing her words carefully or taking a dramatic pause. “Okay,” Natalia says, her eyes widening even more. “He cheated. Milo cheated on all his papers. We had peer workshops, and I ran one of his through Google Scholar. He lifted whole passages. That’s why it’s not right that everyone thinks he’s a great writer. He plagiarizes. I reported him in sophomore seminar and the professor ignored me. For all I know he cheated on his essay for that contest, and that’s how he managed to win. I mean, come on, we all just want a level playing field of some kind.”

  “Is that why you’re so obsessed with citing sources?” Duffy asks.

  “I don’t like any of this,” Nicholas says.

  He speaks in a normal voice, but somehow he carries an authority and an ability to redirect the students that even I don’t.

  Everyone stops talking, and they all turn to him.

  “Remember,” he says. “Comportment. We’re just about to start the second half of the process, but my dad always told me to not forget about comportment. And all of this . . .”

  I take my opening. “Look, I don’t know what that guy said outside. I don’t know if he said someone’s name or not. And even if he did say the name of someone inside this house, what does that mean?”

  “If she’s in league with the protestors and she hated Milo—”

  I cut Sydney off. “Enough. We can’t speculate. This is a small campus. We all know a lot of people here. We can’t just assume the worst about any of us. Or anybody else for that matter.”

  “Thank you,” Emily says.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I mean,” Emily goes on, “okay, I do know Michael. I’ll admit that. Hell, this place is so small that if I deny it, one of you will contradict me. I know him. But that doesn’t mean anything. And I don’t think he said my name. He said ‘memory.’ That’s all. Memory. Like, remember what the fucking Hyde family has done to the planet. That’s what he means.”

  “Easy, now,” Nicholas says.

  “Sir?” Captain Stephenson has his hand up. Again, like we’re in class.

  I really don’t want to hear his opinions on the situation. But then again, I welcome the diversion.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “I had an idea, sir. Something I was going to suggest earlier but didn’t. And now it seems like the right moment. Something to bring us all back together. To unite us.”

  Does he mean sing? Trust falls? I’m not sure where he’s going . . .

  “What are you talking about, Captain?” I ask.

  “With Mr. Hyde’s permission, of course, and assuming we have time and can manage to try something a little off the course of those pesky bylaws. Well, I just thought it would be a nice gesture if we all got together and drank a toast to Milo. To honor him and to mark his passing.”

  It sounds great, but it’s not my six-thousand-dollar bottle of bourbon to hand out.

  Nicholas appears a little misty-eyed. He holds up the bottle.

  “Captain,” he says, “I think that’s a fucking fantastic idea. Shall we all head into the dining room?”

  31

  BACK IN THE DINING room, we all stand around the table again. The plates and food debris from lunch still sit here. The students mostly managed to finish, but my plate is untouched. And I know Nicholas hasn’t eaten anything since the morning. I’m not sure how much Pappy he swallowed while he sat alone upstairs.

  The mood remains tense. Emily stands at the far end of the table where she originally sat, and she refuses to make eye contact or engage with anyone around her. I can’t say I blame her. I don’t think the guy outside said her name, and even if he did, what does it prove?

  That she knew one of the protestors?

  There’s a pretty good chance every student in the room knows one of the protestors, maybe even one of them who threw a brick or a bottle at the house. Does that prove anything except that it’s a small campus?

  The empty glasses from the first shot of Pappy remain at everyone’s places, and once we’re gathered, Nicholas goes around the room, filling them up again. I wonder about the effect two shots of bourbon will have on the students as they prepare for the interview portion of the process. But then I look on the bright side—maybe it will loosen them up, help them relax. After all, most of them probably drink more than I do. And I anticipate the soothing properties of the bourbon. With everything going on, I barely felt the first one at all.

  Nicholas returns to the head of the table and again smacks the cork into the mouth of the bottle of Pappy.

  “Well, Captain,” I say, “would you like to lead the way?”

  “Thank you, sir.” The captain bends down and picks up his glass of Pappy. “Look, it’s been a difficult day so far. For all of us. It’s stressful enough to have to come here and participate in this exam.”

  “Process,” Nicholas says.

  “This process. But we have agitators on the outside. And we lost one of our comrades on the inside. Thanks to the beneficence of Mr. Hyde, we have this wonderful bourbon to drink. And it only seems fitting that we would use it to make a toast to Milo, a young man cut down in his prime. I didn’t know Milo. Not at all. We just met today. But from everything I’ve heard about him today, he was an intelligent young man. With a bright future. And I think we should honor his loss and his memory with some words we use in the army. ‘The girl and boy are bound by a kiss. But there’s never a bond, old friend, like this: We have drunk from the same canteen.’ ”

  The captain raises his glass in the air, but before he takes a drink, he looks at me and then at the other students.

  “Would anyone else like to say anything?” he asks. “After all, you all knew him better than I did. So it’s only fitting you would speak about him as well.”

  For a moment, we all stand there. For some reason, I find Captain Stephenson’s military toast oddly moving—and appropriate. People are always slow to speak up in these situations—just as they are in the classroom—so I let the silence play out.

  Nicholas clears his throat next to me. “This is tough. I don’t know Milo at all. We were talking about climbing in there.” He nods toward the parlor. “He was entranced by the sport, as am I. And he was teaching me some things I didn’t know.” He clears his throat again. “I guess sentiment and such things aren’t my strong suit. But . . . well, anyway, he seemed like a cool guy. Real salt of the earth. Real Hyde College material. Someone I’d like to hang out with. And climb with. And I’m sorry I won’t get that chance now.”

  Everybody nods.