The Art of Blame

All eyes turned to me.

Of course.

The silence stretched, brittle and sharp as glass. I could feel it: the weight of their expectations, the unspoken plea for me to fix it, to say something clever, cold, calculated—something Alexandra Cahill-ish.

But my mind was still back in that room. Back in that moment. Back with Rose.

"We were just hanging out," I said, my voice quiet but steady. "In the common room. Our spot."

"Our spot?" Headmistress Hawthorne repeated, her voice laced with disdain. "You mean the boarded-up alcove you five routinely break into?"

"We don't break in," Maddie muttered. "We just… reuse space."

"You make it sound like gentrification," Tyler offered helpfully. "Which is technically a form of—"

"Mr. Campbell," Hawthorne snapped. "Do be quiet. Your opinions are as unnecessary as your presence."

Tyler blinked, clearly not understanding the insult. Eva pressed her fingers to her temples.

I watched Hawthorne scribble something onto a yellow notepad. Every stroke of her pen felt like another nail in our collective coffin.

"And you just happened to stumble upon Miss Thornewood's body?" she asked.

"She wasn't supposed to be there," Violet said quickly, her voice too high, too fast. "She hated that place. She called it 'peasant chic.' Said the mold made her mascara run."

"Ironic," Maddie muttered. "Considering she didn't even like mascara—"

"Maddie," Olivia whispered, tugging at her sleeve.

"Rose hated all of us," Eva said flatly. "If we were going to kill her, we wouldn't have left her where we hang out."

"Thanks for that, Eva," I said dryly. "Very helpful."

"You're welcome," she said, folding her arms. "I'm just saying what everyone's thinking."

Headmistress Hawthorne leaned forward, the movement subtle but dangerous. "And what exactly is everyone thinking, Miss St. Claire?"

Eva hesitated. Then she looked right at me.

"That Alexandra finally snapped."

The room went still.

Tyler made a strangled noise, somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Babe—what?"

"Shut up, Tyler."

"No, seriously," he said, gesturing to me as if we were at lunch. "Alex would never do something like that. She's just all… broody and intense. Like Batman, but sexy. Right, bro?"

I didn't look at him. I was still staring at Eva, her eyes cool and accusing. I remembered how she'd said my name earlier—like it tasted bad in her mouth.

"We fought, sure," I said. "Rose and I had history. But I didn't kill her."

"No?" Hawthorne asked. "Then who did?"

Silence again.

"Someone who wanted her secrets buried," Olivia whispered.

Everyone turned to her. She flinched, then sat up straighter, as if realizing she'd spoken aloud.

"Secrets?" Hawthorne asked sharply.

"She knew everything," Olivia said. "She made sure of it. Everyone's weak spots. Things no one was supposed to know."

The headmistress tilted her head. "Including yours?"

Olivia nodded once, quiet and fierce. "Especially mine."

Hawthorne tapped her pen. "Then I suggest you all prepare to be very, very honest."

The tension in the room snapped like a violin string. She stood, brushing off her skirt, then looked at each of us in turn, like a queen addressing traitors.

"Until further notice," she said, "you're all suspects."