The Oxford Inheritance (16 page)

Elliot chuckled. “The good ones always are.”

They sat chatting in the cluttered café for another hour, as darkness took hold outside the steamed windows and students lingered hopefully on the edge of the room, waiting for a seat to become vacated. At last Elliot yawned, pressing his fingertips to the plate to capture the last crumbs of cake. “Well, at least we're over the hump now.”

“What's that?”

“Halfway point,” Elliot explained. “Only three weeks until Christmas holiday.”

“I forget the semesters are so short here.” Cassie felt a curl of unease in her stomach. She was almost a third of the way through her year in Oxford, with nothing but mysteries to show for it.

“Are you jetting off home?” Elliot asked.

She shook her head. There was nothing to go home for. “No, I'll be here.”

“Good, you can cover my shifts at the library. We stay open all of break.” He grimaced. “Cater to all the poor souls who have no place else to go.”

Like her. “Sure, I'll take the shifts,” Cassie said. “Do you have family nearby?”

“A whole rabble, down in Sussex.” Elliot sighed. “My mother insists on a happy family Christmas, every year. Walks on the downs, board games, drunken Uncle Andy ranting about women's lib.”

“Sounds nice,” Cassie replied, wistful.

“Sure, it's all fun and games until someone mentions the war.”

“Which one?”

“Any of them.”

Cassie laughed, looking around the room. Then her gaze landed on a familiar face, and her laughter died in her throat. Hugo was sitting in a corner seat, lounged back, watching her.

“Jesus, what happened?” Elliot turned. “Oh,” he murmured, turning back with a grin. “Well, hello.”

Cassie looked away quickly, back to Elliot. “It's not like that. He's just . . . a guy I know.”

“You don't have to explain yourself to me.” Elliot launched into an anecdote about a man he'd been accidentally stalking all year, and although Cassie tried to stay focused on him, she couldn't help but feel Hugo's gaze burning into her skin from across the room.

After a few more minutes, Cassie couldn't take the discomfort any longer. “I should really be getting back,” she said, cutting Elliot off and reaching for her coat. “I have another essay due.”

“Oh, the petty travails of the undergrad,” Elliot said, not unsympathetically. “Well, see you Thursday. It's reshelving day; see if you can contain your joy.”

“I'll do my best.” Cassie forced a laugh as she rose to her feet. She shot a quick glance across the room to check on Hugo, but he was gone, the seat now occupied by a dour-looking man with his crossword.

Cassie exhaled in relief. She was imagining things, thinking he'd been watching her. She tripped lightly down the stairs and outside, wondering if she should pick up some groceries and cook Evie dinner.
After her roommate's outburst earlier, it would be nice to have a relaxing evening in together.

“Cassie.”

Cassie whirled around. Hugo was leaning against the wall outside the bookstore, his hands in his pockets. “Who's your friend?” he asked, casual.

“None of your business,” Cassie replied shortly, trying to recover from the shock. Her pulse was racing, alert to danger.

Hugo arched an eyebrow. “Heading back to college? I'll walk with you.”

“No thank you.” Cassie began walking away, toward the main street, but Hugo fell into step beside her. She turned to glare at him.

“I can't help it if I'm walking in the same direction,” he protested with a smile. “Would you prefer I trail you, five paces behind?”

Cassie stayed silent, walking quickly. Hugo's long strides easily kept pace.

“So how have you been?” he asked easily.

She looked over. Surely he must have heard the gossip about what happened with Sebastian? But Hugo's expression wasn't glib; instead, he had a look of quiet concern on his face. She felt a flush of discomfort. “I'm fine,” she said quickly. For the first time since the attack she felt embarrassed that details of her personal life were in wide circulation. She didn't care about the other Raleigh students glaring in her direction, but Hugo . . .

“If you ever need . . .” Hugo paused. “If you ever need anything, just ask.”

Cassie was taken aback by the sincerity in his voice. “What I need is for my roommate to stop weeping all over our apartment,” she said sharply, to remind herself as much as him of Evie's distraught state. “I don't know if you were just stringing her along or if this is all a game to you, but it was real to her, okay? And now she's lost all of you, and I'm the one left dealing with the fallout.”

Hugo blinked. “Cassie—” he began, but she didn't want to hear any more of his charming excuses.

“Look, I need to go.” She hoisted her bag higher on her shoulder and stepped out into the street, leaving Hugo behind as she ducked through traffic and put a safe distance between them.

She closed the final distance to college, wondering how she let him get under her skin. From the first moment they met, out in the courtyard that night, there'd been something about him that set her on edge. And now, with the breakup with Evie, she had even more reason to stay away.

Except somehow, there was something drawing her in too. Brief glimpses of connection, the tempting depths of those dark eyes.

Back home, Cassie shook her head, turning in through the college gates and toward her building. She should be relieved. Without Hugo hanging around Evie, her home was safe from intrusion again: no wayward guests, no risk of late-night visits. It was her domain once more. Safe and sound.

She climbed the stairs to the attic, fumbling with her key before realizing the door was already unlocked. Evie must have forgotten the latch again. She pushed it open, taking three steps into the room before she glanced up, and everything changed.

A scream froze in her throat. The world fell away.

Evie was hanging dead from the rafters.

CASSIE HAD BURIED HER MOTHER IN THE GRAVEYARD OF THEIR
small-town Indiana chapel among the weeds and crumbling headstones, neglected under the leaves of fall. Her stepfather was the only other mourner. He stood beside her, swaying, still drunk, as Cassie dug her nails into her palms and counted silently in her head to keep from weeping as the priest said the words, the coffin was lowered, and the only person Cassie had ever loved in the world disappeared into the hard, unforgiving soil.

Evie's memorial service filled the great Raleigh chapel. There were embossed programs printed on heavy cream card stock, and the antique pews were packed with family and classmates. Evie's parents wept together at the front of the procession, sunlight bursting through the stained-glass windows while the choir sang “Pie Jesu.” Evie's father, younger brother, and uncles served as pallbearers, dressed up in black suits, their faces pale with grief. The wood of the coffin gleamed, smooth as silk, wound with wreaths of calla lilies and white roses, Evie's favorite. She'd been embalmed in a pink silk party dress Cassie had helped her mother pick from the wardrobe, her cold lips painted red, a favorite scarf wound gently around her neck to hide the bruises her clumsy clothing-line noose had left behind.

Cassie still couldn't believe she was gone. By the time she'd screamed, rushed forward to uselessly lift and heave at Evie's dangling body, it was already too late. She'd been dead for an hour, the coroner report said.
The porters had to cut her down with garden shears in the end, the only thing they could find sharp enough to sever the line.

They filed out of the chapel after the service, a sea of somber black. Cassie
didn't say a word, and nobody tried to speak to her. But she could feel the eyes on her, hear the hushed whispers.

“She's the one who found her.”

“And after that thing with Sebastian too.”

“Why didn't she say anything?”

“Cassie?”

She didn't hear the voice for a moment, too wrapped up in her numb haze. Then she blinked awake and found Evie's parents in front of her, their faces still crumpled with grief. “We're heading back to London for the burial,” her father said, his voice hoarse. “But we wanted to thank you. If there's anything we can do . . .”

Cassie shook her head. “No, you shouldn't even have to offer,” she said. “Have a safe trip back.”

Evie's mother gave her a trembling smile. “I hate to ask, but Evie's things . . .”

“Don't worry about them,” Cassie said immediately. “I'll pack everything up and have the porters send it on. That is,” she paused, “If you want . . . ?”

They exchanged a look. “Yes,” Evie's mother nodded, clutching a tissue. “Whatever you think . . . I mean, whatever mattered to her. And if you want to keep anything, some of her jewelry maybe, or clothing . . .”

Cassie inwardly recoiled from the idea. “Thank you, I'll see,” she lied.

“I'm sorry,” Evie's father said, ashen. “For everything we've put you through. I'm so, so sorry.”

“No,” Cassie objected, “You shouldn't be—”

“Take care.” He spoke over her.

“And look after yourself.” Evie's mother threw her arms around Cassie. Cassie stood helpless in the grief-stricken embrace. She should be the one apologizing, not them. She was the one who'd seen the signs. The warning fragments, the mood swings; it had been the same with her mother. She should have known. But she'd been so wrapped up in her own problems that she'd ignored it all.

This was her fault, not theirs.

At last Evie's mother pulled away. Her husband wrapped an arm around her and steered her away, toward where Sir Edmund was waiting with a somber expression to take them to the hearse. The burial would be a private, family affair back in London. Cassie had been invited, but she'd politely declined. One day of this hell was enough.

Cassie looked blankly around the courtyard and caught sight of Olivia and Paige with the rest of their group clustered by the chapel entrance, wearing their best mourning suits, looking somehow too glamorous for such a grim affair. There was no sign of Hugo with them. Cassie had been watching for him out of the corner of her eye, but it seemed he'd stayed away from the service, as if he knew the quiet rage that danced in her bloodstream, the blame that waited on her lips.

Olivia caught her eye and made her way over. “Cassie.” She gave a weak smile, reaching to squeeze Cassie's arm. “How are you holding up? It's just awful.”

“I'm fine,” Cassie said quietly, looking away.

“We were just going back to Carlton. I thought I should offer everyone someplace to go have a drink, after the service. Will you come?”

“You're having a party?” Cassie's voice rose with disbelief.

Olivia's eyes widened. “No,” she said quickly. “Not like that. A wake, I guess you could call it. A moment to share our memories. Everyone's so shaken up.”

“Oh.” Cassie took a breath. “Thank you, but, no.”

“Please.” Olivia kept hold of her arm. Her blue eyes were full of ur
gency. “I know it's not your thing, but . . . We all lost her. I think it would be good for you to just be with other people. You shouldn't be alone.”

Cassie paused. She remembered after her mother's service, how her stepfather had gone straight to the local bar to drink himself into oblivion, and she'd sat home, alone. The house had never been so empty.

She found herself nodding. “I'll see you there.”

She could have walked over with the rest of the crowd, but Cassie didn't
want to stay another moment in her funeral dress. She'd bought it cheap from a store on the high street, a plain black shift she knew she'd never want to wear again. She stripped it off and left it in her trash, changing into a pair of jeans and a sweater. She pulled on her coat again and headed for the front door, but she couldn't help stopping just inside the living room.

Her eyes went to the beam. She saw Evie there, all over again. Cassie felt her chest constrict. It had been wrong, all wrong, to find her like that, with everything else around her so ordinary. Evie's notes, arranged neatly on the table, a half-drunk mug of tea, crumbs from the biscuit plate. She wondered for a hundredth time when the terrible decision had been made. Had Evie sipped her tea and planned it? Put down her mug, walked to the supply closet, paused to organize her notes in a neat pile before she looped the makeshift noose across the beam?

Cassie forcibly stopped the black thoughts crashing through her mind. She turned her gaze away from the scene of the crime and hurried out of the flat, her footsteps thundering on the staircase as she tried to leave the terrible image behind.

By the time she pushed the door to Olivia's suite ajar, two dozen students
were milling in the room, arranged on the couches and sipping wine with hushed voices. She barely recognized the room from the blank canvas it had been when she'd thought it her own; now there were
framed abstract, colorful paintings on the walls, an exotic rug covering the hardwood floor, a tufted settee in pale blue velvet set back by the windows beside a vintage bar cart, fully stocked. The door to the bedroom was cracked open, a careless tangle of clothing strewn on the bed, high-heeled shoes scattered on the floor.

Paige came and swept Cassie into a hug. “If you need anything,” she said, joining the long chorus of people who'd promised just the same thing. Cassie nodded and let Paige steer her over to a seat. Miles and a few of the other clique were all there, Olivia's professor Lewis too. There was a heavy silence in the air as they murmured small talk, nobody sure what to say.

“Did her parents get off okay?” Paige asked quietly.

Cassie shrugged. “As well as can be expected.”

Paige fell silent. Miles tugged at the collar on his dress shirt. “She'd hate this,” he said. “All of us sitting around, so fucking morbid.”

“Miles!” Paige hushed him, but he didn't stop.

“I'm serious. Evie was fun, she was joyful, she was the life of the party. Remember how we almost missed the bus back from London, and couldn't find a taxi, and she started singing right there in the middle of Regent's Park?”

Paige gave a faint smile. “And you and Eddie joined in and Hugo took her waltzing around the bicycle racks.”

The group around Cassie relaxed, nostalgia drifting across their faces.

“I thought we were going to get arrested,” Miles added. “But then she asked the policeman to dance, and he couldn't make up his mind whether to read her the riot act or accept!”

Paige laughed. The other people in the room drifted closer, crowding round to hear.

“She was in my library group,” someone else spoke up. “She always forgot her password, she never could keep it straight.”

“It was ‘Persephone,'” two classmates said at once, and then laughed.
“I suppose she thought if everyone knew, someone could always remind her,” one added with a fond smile.

They began sharing stories in turn, anecdotes about Evie and all her misadventures. Somebody turned the music up, and soon the room was full of lively conversation, laughter, and warmth. Cassie sat in the middle of it all, feeling more of a stranger than ever. She hadn't known the Evie they were all talking about, not really. They'd shared afternoons together, yes, curled up in the attic with their books and tea, a few morning runs, that night Evie invited her to the formal dinner at Merton. But listening to Paige and Miles, and the rest of them, talk about Evie's favorite food, and taste for gin cocktails, and habit of discarding her high heels before the end of the night and demanding a piggyback ride from the nearest tall man, Cassie realized that she'd never really known Evie at all.

But these people had. They'd partied with her, shared drinks and dinner dates, and had stories enough to fill the room with laughter. And they'd turned their back on Evie when she needed them most. Nobody was sharing the story of avoiding her calls, dropping her like an unwanted nuisance the moment Hugo moved on.

Cassie felt a spark of resentment. It was like all the sympathy baskets and cards she'd received after her mother died. Meaningless words from people who hadn't cared enough to notice while she was alive. A waste of paper, a waste of space. She shot to her feet, her chest too tight to breathe. She caught a concerned look from Paige, but nobody moved to go after her as she left the room. They were too caught up in their happy memories of Evie, all their pretty lies.

In the hallway, Cassie gasped for air. A whirlwind of guilt and sorrow and unexplained rage was storming in her chest, drowning everything out, demanding release. She stumbled down the corridor, blind to everything, feeling the dark clutches of the past threaten to take hold of her and never let go.
No,
she told herself.
Not now, not here.
She'd held those demons at bay too long to fall apart now.

Then she heard it, through the thunder of her heartbeat. The sound of a piano. Bach. One of her mother's favorite symphonies, playing melancholily through an open doorway farther down the hall. The delicate notes washed over her, bittersweet, bringing with them the faded memories of a sun-drenched room, tulips in a vase on the mantel. Her mother's sweater, soft against her skin.

Slowly, Cassie's heartbeat slowed.

The darkness fell back, just enough for her to breathe again. The world steadied on its axis.

She took a few more steps down the hallway and pushed the door open.

Cassie stopped. Hugo was sitting in the dark room, his head bent away from her over the piano, fingers moving slowly over the keys. He missed a note, discordant, and hit it again, letting out a twisted laugh as he reached for the whiskey bottle balanced on top of the piano.

She pushed the door wider; the hinge squeaked. He turned. “Cassandra, Cassandra . . .” he drawled, sloppy. “Don't you look lovely tonight?”

Cassie's anger returned, sharp in her gut. He was hiding away back here, too cowardly to face them at the funeral. “You skipped the service,” she said, icy.

“Miss me?” Hugo slammed the piano lid closed and spun around on the stool.

“You should have paid your respects. Her parents were there.”

“You think they'd want to see me?” He met her gaze, lifting the bottle in a bitter toast. His face was pale and gaunt in the dim light, but she could see the shadows under his eyes. “Figured I'd cut the bullshit, give her an Irish wake.”

Cassie shook her head in disgust. “How can you just sit here like this?” Her fury grew. “Just laze around feeling sorry for yourself, when, when—”

“When it's all my fault,” Hugo finished for her. “That's what you're
saying, isn't it?” he demanded, rising. “That's what they're all saying. Trust me, there's nothing you can throw at me I haven't already told myself.” He closed the distance between them until she could see the tension trembling in his jaw, feel the energy radiating from his body. “You think I don't lie awake at nights, going over it time and time again?” His voice rose. “You think I don't ask myself what I could have done differently? If I'd only seen what was happening, if I'd known . . . I should have seen it. I should have known how far gone she was. I could have stopped her, I could have made it different.” His eyes were full of misery, guilt turning his dark irises black. Cassie recognized it better than anything: her own emotions, mirrored right back at her. The ache of regret, of wishing it could be any other way. The shame of knowing it was all her fault.

She exhaled in a rush. Her anger slipped away, leaving her empty again. Cassie took the bottle from Hugo's hand and stepped around him, walking over to the dark windows, looking out across the gardens illuminated by the floodlit lamps. She took a long drink of the whiskey, feeling the burn snake down her throat, warming her whole body. “We failed her,” she whispered, staring out at the dark.