Locked (13 page)

I wait, nonplussed, as he closes his eyes, letting out an aggravated sigh before opening them again. “It’s no use. I was going to figure out the proper way to say this—”

“Since when have you ever tried to say something properly?”

“Since I’ve had to thank someone for sticking up for me,” he snaps. “Which might be something I’d thank you for, if I were the type of person who thanked people, and if it hadn’t been so colossally stupid.”

I blink a couple times. “That was definitely the worst thank you I’ve ever heard.”

“I told you I was trying to figure out the right way to say it. Not my fault you decided to jump out at me before I was done.” He rubs the back of his head again. He’s going to tear his scalp off if he keeps doing that so hard. “It was preying on my mind.”

I jump up and down to keep warm, blowing on my hands. “Daphne Brown just got murdered, and that’s what preys on your mind?”

“My mind is expansive enough for multiple things to prey on it.”

I shake this off, scrutinizing him. “So—what happened? Are you okay?”
      

“Why would I not be okay?” His brow furrows slightly.

“I don’t know. The police might have roughed you up or something.”

“You watch entirely too much TV.”

“Yeah, well,” I mutter. “It’s cold out here. Let’s get coffee.”

There’s a Starbucks on the next block. We walk there together, not speaking in favor of keeping our scarves pulled over our mouths. It’s cold enough that very few people are out. When we reach the Starbucks, which, as it turns out, is where all the people are, Sherlock finds the least overcrowded corner and I order drinks for us both, the complicated expensive kind with elaborate names.

“I don’t like whipped cream,” he says when I slide into the wooden chair next to him.

“It’s the best way to celebrate a prison break, didn’t you know?” But I take a spoon and scoop his whipped cream onto my own drink before sitting down. “So tell me what happened. Why did they let you go?”

“Because I didn’t kill her.” He stirs his coffee with one of those little sticks and eyes the people at the table next to us. Probably deducing which one of them is cheating on the other.

“Okay, no duh for us, but they didn’t know that.” I take a sip. It burns my tongue.

“Neither did you. The assumption everyone else made, it was the sane assumption to make.” He’s watching me intently.

“Don’t be an idiot. You’re my friend. That’s how I knew.” It’s not like I can explain how alone he looked, or how it made me feel.

He lapses into silence. I let it stretch on for approximately seven seconds.

“God, Sherlock, just tell me.”

“I thought it was obvious,” he says, shrugging. “She wasn’t killed with the hockey stick.”

“Oh, my mistake. I was a little mislead by the fact that it was covered in her blood.”

“You were intentionally misled. If one is going to kill a person in a highly populated building in the middle of the day, one does not use something so loud and with the potential to require multiple blows, with the possibility of screaming. No. She was drowned.”

“
Drowned
?” I’m very glad it’s loud enough in here that nobody’s going to overhear this conversation.

“In the locker room sink,” he says. “Whoever did it took pains to hold her hair back and dry her face afterwards, but there were a few damp strands, as well as a bruise forming on her forehead that was too light to have come from a blow from the stick. That, and the fact that the blood pool was considerably smaller than it would have been had she been struck while her heart was still beating. I noticed it all within seconds. Once I informed the police and a rudimentary medical exam was performed—waste of time—they finally believed me, and I was exonerated. She would have to have been killed earlier in the day, during a period of time in which I was confirmed to have been in French class, correcting the teacher on her pronunciation.”

“That’s brilliant,” I say, shaking my head and warming my hands on my cup. “You should be the cop. But then why did they keep you for so long?”

“Something about my attitude,” he says carelessly. “They said they thought it would do me some good. Which was stupid of them. Good is done to me only when I allow it.”

“Right…” He’s sipping his drink, perfectly calm. Unruffled. There’s even a small smile on his lips. Like he doesn’t understand the mountain of crap he’s landed in. “Sherlock, you know even if the police don’t think you did it, that’s not going to stop the rumors. Half the school is convinced they caught you in the act.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, his smile widening.

“And you’re…happy about this.”

“Of course I am.”

“Yeah. Okay.
Why
?”

“Because it means we’ve got an interesting killer.” His smile is positively shark-like now. I catch the couple at the next table glancing at us anxiously. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for an interesting killer.”

Christ. “And you wonder why they think you did it.”

“No, I don’t,” he says, leaning forward in that way he does when he’s got something fascinating to share, when it’s obvious he doesn’t care about anything but himself and his information and my reaction to it. “I don’t wonder at all. They think I did it because they were meant to. I received a note the morning of the murder in my locker, asking to meet me at lunch to discuss something important. I incorrectly deduced it was Daphne wanting to talk about the photograph. Although, in a way, I was right. She was there.”

“Sherlock,” I say.

“Anyway. The time requested was very specific. 12:25 p.m. Only five minutes before lunch would end and the gym would fill with people. I had assumed Daphne didn’t want to be alone with me for long. In reality, the killer timed it perfectly so that I would be discovered alone with her body and a very dramatic murder weapon, albeit not the real one. Meaning…”

“The killer has a grudge against you,” I say, completely forgetting about my drink. “You do realize you’ve been making sure every single person at school has a grudge against you ever since you moved here?”

“I was just being myself.” He leans back in his chair, his smile turning dry. “They say that’s the best way to make friends.”

I sigh.

“We’re going to work out who did it, obviously,” he says, making no effort to scoot in as two people squeeze past for the table behind us.

“We?”

“Yes, we. Us. We’re a good team, as previously established. I think better when I write things down or work out loud. The second is preferable.”

The people behind us ask if we’re using our third chair, and I push it toward them without looking. “You mean you just want someone to show off to.”

“And that.”

“Sherlock,” I say in a low voice. “I don’t know if we should get involved. People at school—they hate you right now.”

“They hated me before.” He says it like we’re discussing whether or not it was raining yesterday. I’ve never met someone so impervious to hate.

“This is different. They didn’t think you were a murderer before. I know how rumors work.” He’s not paying attention. I reach over and give his wrist a little shake. “You have to be careful, okay?”

“You may ask many things of me, Irene Adler, but you may never ask me not to get involved in the first interesting murder that’s entered my life so far.”

The bell rings. Two girls from school have just walked in. Their faces change from rosy with cold to flushed with anger as they catch sight of Sherlock and I.

“Okay,” I say, averting my eyes. “Whatever. Let’s just go.”

And as we push past, dropping our empty cups in the trash, they watch us leave in a way I don’t like at all.

“Your boyfriend’s a murderer, honey, you need this beer.”

|||

(written on a scrap of paper provided in a holding cell)

Psychology analysis of Irene M. Adler:

Negative traits: Self-destructive tendencies. (Ex.: depression, no other outlet.) Seeks risk as form of self-medication. Reserved. Suspicious. Prone to guilt. Prioritizes appearance of normality. Hidden aggressive streak. (Ex.: casserole.) Believes the best of people. (Ex.: Me.) Defends others before herself. Poorly handles grief and loss. Empathetic. (Ex.: cares too much.)

Positive traits: Clear-headed in the face of an emergency. Loyal. (See note.)

Intelligence level: High. Tempers this for fear of standing out.

Primary fear: Drawing negative attention to herself (side effect of being known for sister’s death). Prefers to fly under the radar. Does not want people to look at her long enough to see damage.

Secondary fear: Appearing unstable to mother. Keeps appearance of high-functionality in all arenas for this purpose.

Recent note: Difficult to gain trust, but extremely loyal once trust is gained. (Finding me with a dead body didn’t put her off me.)

Former conclusion: Invested in normality, will not associate with me.

Conclusion incorrect. Associates with me. Anomalous.

Possible mental deficiencies? Debunked.

Secondary conclusion: Uses me as another form of risk-taking. Am a distraction (as she is distraction to me. Was a distraction. Is?) Finds value only in my intelligence.

Secondary conclusion incorrect. (Or rather, outdated.) Defended me at her own expense. Displayed concern for my safety. (Ex. Emotion involved.)

Third conclusion: TBA.

|||

I dip the paper towel back into my water bottle and keep scrubbing. The paint is just beginning to smear, but the words are still readable.
GET OUT OF OUR SCHOOL MURDERER
. My arm aches. I rest my forehead against the cold metal.

“Irene?”

I jump. Water spills across the floor. “You’re supposed to be in French,” I hiss.

Sherlock says something in rapid-fire French.

“I take Spanish.”

“I’m asking why you’re cleaning my locker.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, bending over. I rush to hide the graffiti and bang my elbow instead, biting my lip to stop my eyes from watering, but there’s no use anyway. He’s seen it.

“I’m in training to become a janitor. What do you think?”

“
Get out of our school murderer
,” he reads over my shoulder. “A comma wouldn’t go amiss there. Unless they’re assuming I’m having some sort of penetrative sex with the school murderer. Which would make it a lot easier to figure out who it is.”

He never fails to surprise me. I splutter with laughter, but the graffiti looms in my peripheral vision and the laugh dies quickly.

He frowns. “If I’m going to make sex jokes I expect laughter lasting at least ten seconds. Again, why are you cleaning my locker? I don’t care how it’s decorated.”

“I know you don’t.” I put down the wad of paper towels. The locker needs a new coat of paint anyway. “I care.”

“Why?” he asks sharply.

“Why aren’t you in French?” I counter.

“Because I doubt the murderer currently on the loose, whom you and I are the only ones intelligent enough to catch, is in France.”

I turn back to the locker, picking up my dripping water bottle. “I told you I think we should keep a low profile. Leave this to the police.”

“I’m smarter than the police. So are you. My shoes are smarter than the police.”

“Albeit in more danger of being microwaved.” I stand up, wincing at the ache in my knees. I’ve been doing this for longer than I thought. “If you’re skipping third period anyway, why don’t you just go home?”

“Because I have fourth period with you.” He leans against the row of lockers. “And we need to break up.”

“No.”

He smirks. “You can’t stop someone from breaking up with you. Isn’t that how a relationship works?”

I do my best to imitate his electric stare, looking straight into his eyes without
wavering. “If we break up, everyone will think it’s because I believe that you killed Daphne. And if people think your girlfriend thinks you killed Daphne, that’ll just make them more convinced.”

“They’re going to go on thinking whatever they like, no matter what we do,” he says. “If we don’t break up, they’ll start believing you were involved in the murder.”

“Oh, I see.” I lean playfully against the lockers and fold my arms to match his pose. “You’re trying to protect me.”

“It’s practical.”

“Because you
care.
” I prod him lightly in the chest, copying his smirk so none of the warmth in my stomach will show on my face.

“I don’t care. I care absolutely nothing about what they think.” He scowls at me.

“You don’t care what they think of you. You care what they think of
me
.” I push off the wall and swing my backpack up onto my shoulders. “And you want to know why I was cleaning your locker.”

He says nothing. A furrow develops between his brows.

“Let’s go to class, you stupid genius.”

It’s a Monday, and fourth period is the only class I have with him. We’d eaten lunch at the back of the library, where no one could see us. Even so, it’s impossible to avoid the animosity toward Sherlock. It lights up the school like radiation. Only Daphne’s few friends, her quiet circle, are the ones sadder about her death than they are furious at Sherlock. Nobody cares that the police let him go. They only care that now they have an excuse to loathe him.

When we walk into the classroom, a deep freeze settles over the room. Every pair of eyes is on him. Fear and hatred. It’s a hundred degrees worse than anything I ever experienced, but Sherlock takes his seat at the back of the classroom like everyone else is invisible.

IA:
I think everyone’s forgotten about my Photoshop boobs.

SH:
Don’t be offended. They were excellent Photoshop boobs.

I smile and sit back. I’m waiting for someone to whisper something nasty to Sherlock. I’m ready. He defended me before. Now it’s my turn. But nobody does. This hate isn’t petty. It’s cold and solid. I feel the badness of it worming inside me and it’s only the sight of him gazing idly out the window, like the tree outside is infinitely more interesting to him than anything that could happen in this classroom, that gives me any strength.