My knuckles rapped against another simple door with no decors. A small peephole stared me in the face, but I had no chance of knowing if someone was behind it. Beside me, Ethan stood on his tiptoes, swaying past my shoulder. "Must you do that?" I asked. "What are you still doing here?"

He whipped towards me, a mock look of hurt plastered on his features. He touched a hand to his chest. "But I must witness this story blossom!" He squared his shoulders with such determination. If he applied the same amount to his studies, he wouldn't be scheduled for remedial midterms for Professor Bailey. "I would love to have been at the beginning when you tie the knot as Mr. and Mrs. Crowhaven!"

That...

I shook my head. "Look, you've been a great help to me today, but you really should go," I said. "I'd rather talk to Alyson alone."

Ethan pouted. "You sure?"

"Sure."

He blew a breath, shoulders slumping. "Fine." He peeled away from my personal space and stalked off. I watched his frame grow smaller with every step he took. When he rounded the corner, he whipped back to me and pointed. "Don't die in there, okay?"

Before I could process if he meant that as a joke or a threat, the imp popped out of the frame and sauntered off. The door swung open with a nasty creak, and a petite girl with short, blue hair poked her head out. Wait...this girl—

Oh. Alyson. Her name was Alyson.

"Yes?" she said in a passive voice, staring out into the corridor as if she didn't see me standing in front of her. Then, her gaze rose and settled right onto mine. A goofy smile spread from her lips, pulling it apart with the beginnings of a manic grin. Or at least...it seemed so. "Oh, Arlo. I didn't see you there. I thought it was some new slates pulling a prank on me again."

Which said a lot about her. New slates pulling pranks on their fellow new slates and her letting them were a new level of pathetic. If she was an elite, she would have stood up for herself, flashed her old money on their faces, and gotten them to leave her alone. And a month of backstage duty? That was the equivalent of being sent to the cleaner's quarters.

"I came to see you, actually," I said, looking around us to see if someone had tailed me on my way here. Perhaps the investigators were undercover and had been following me around. In their minds, I was only proving their suspicions true—that I was indeed the one who murdered Horace. But here I was, about to do their job for them. "Have you got time?"

She perked up, her eyes widening at the prospect of getting some sliver of chance with me. "Of course," she said. The door opened wider as she stepped aside, waving me over. "Come in. I just finished locker inventories. The girls are complaining about stolen uniforms again."

I indulged her request, coming upon a quaint lounge with two gold-rimmed couches facing each other. A low, mahogany table with carved festoons for legs and polished, glass-topped surface separated them, bearing a plump but empty flower vase as its crown. Translucent windows faced the door, exchanging rays of sunlight past the drawn curtains. Frames of unknown figures—but probably important—decorated the dull, green-gray wall paint between gold-brushed sconces with three bulbs each.

She stalked to the couch to my left, gesturing to the opposite for me to take. "What can I do for you?" she asked. "Tea? Coffee?"

"Tell me about what happened two days ago." My weight sank into the cushion, the leather screeching against it. Who knew how long this has been baking in the sun streaming across this room? They must be getting new couches every term. "Starting from the hour you first went into the dressing room."

"An odd request," she said as she copied my movement, smoothing her skirt under her legs. Her blue hair slid past her shoulder again. This time, she held most of it back from her face with expertly-placed pins. A glint of sapphire poked me in the eyes as the stones in her pendant caught some stray rays. When she settled, I realized her pendant was a replica of the Lochrame's Holy Sword. Justice for all—that was what it represented.

She cleared her throat, staring out of the window as if the blurry splotches of vegetation and people passing was an interesting capture film. "But I'll indulge you." She folded her hands over her lap. Must have thought she looked regal doing it. "Two days ago was just like any other day. I go to university, head straight to stage prep to mind some operations about our upcoming production. Talk to the actors, work the script with them—"

"You're not the main actress?" I interjected.

A wince began in her cheek, but she smoothed her expression as if she wasn't allowed to express such emotion. I must have hit a sore spot. "I'm an understudy," she said. "If I'm not learning Lucide's lines, I'm part of the directorial chair." Her tone was bordering on mocking and disbelief, but that was the impression I was going for. The only way I could get her to stop looking at me the way she did was to get her to see this side. The unpleasant side. I did come here for a love story. I was here to wreck it.

"Then?"

Alyson's lips curled inward. "Then, I went on with my other duties as a Theater major—checking the stage, the lighting, going to lectures about Classical Art and Modern Literature."

"How about backstage duty?" I asked, leaning back and propping my leg over the other. My fingers twined around the higher knee, foot jutting here and there. The perfect picture of belligerence. "I heard around here you've been stuck with it for a month."

She scoffed. "I wasn't as stuck in it as you imply," she said. "I take backstage duty every time because most of them forget to lock the doors at night—and we Theater majors always go home way past curfew—and if something is stolen or the stage art gets ruined before a major performance, I can't have the blame fall on the directorial chair. On my team."

Oh, so she was leading it, not being in it. My bad. Time to pivot. "Well, two days ago." I circled my finger in the air as if to emulate Time turning back. Might jog her memory. "Do you remember anything that might have led to the murder?"

Alyson's expression didn't change. She knew about it too, seeing as she was the next person whom Mr. Proleau called yesterday. There were two things she could do—one, ask me what in the Lochrame's name I thought I had to do with it, or two—tell me the truth.

Bless her heart, she chose the second option. "I went home early that day, so I wasn't around when Horace was...um, killed," she said, running her tongue over her teeth. "It's the same thing I told Mr. Proleau." Realization lit up in her eyes when she put two and two together. "Were you there for the same reason?"

"Ah, caught," I said with a guilty smile. "I apologize for lying. Mr. Proleau made it clear I was never to tell anyone. Or talk about it."

She scoffed. "And yet, here we are."

"Here we are, indeed," I echoed. Tilting my head to one side to avoid the sunlight from permanently blinding me, I rested my elbow on the back of the couch and my head on my knuckles. "During the hours leading to your departure, did something feel weird? Ominous? Anything strange at all?"

Alyson touched her chin, humming a brief note in thought. "Not that I'm aware of," she said, raising her head to regard me fully. Any trace of hostility seeped out of her system. Her eyes widened—a sign of a memory clicking. "I heard some creaking from the stairs before I fished out the key to the dressing rooms."

"Did you check it out?" I asked.

She rolled her shoulders. "It was late, so I didn't bother and went home."

My eyes squinted. "I thought you said you went home early?"

"I locked the dressing room at Eight," Alyson replied, her tone pinching at the end of her sentence. That was strange. "That is early for a Theater major."

I straightened my head, abandoning the laid-back posture I adopted to get her talking. The moment her story betrayed an inconsistency, it wasn't a conversation anymore. It was an interrogation. "Then why wasn't anyone with you?"

"It was a break day, since most new slates have an upcoming departmental exam with Professor Gaile's Enlightened Literature," she said. "The directorial chair decided it was better to cut the day short so we could prepare. A theater production without half its members would be a disaster."

She sniffed, no doubt not pleased with my forwardness. "I stayed back again and waited for them to flit off to the dorms or their homes," she said. "As I was closing the rooms, I heard the creaks. I didn't check. Probably just couples making out. You know, the usual."

How many couples had she caught sneaking out in the same manner? "And the next day, Horace is dead," she continued. "And a pompous elite is banging on my door, asking me stupid questions."

Oh, she meant me.

"Well, I thank you for your time," I said, slapping my knees on my way to get up. Hopefully, she wouldn't follow me around with sticky stares. She shouldn't know anything about me other than what I showed her today. "Good luck with your...um, production."

She opened her mouth to say something, but I yanked the door open and let it shut behind me upon stepping out. The list of suspects has just gotten longer, and I couldn't bear to be in the same room as one of them.

I craned my neck to the ceiling expecting to find the planks or whatever dome hanging above me. My gut clenched when I found nothing but a sheet of black. The Theater Annex was terrifying at night.

The chill of the wind outside followed me even as I rubbed my arms on my way towards where Alyson said she heard the creaks. The stairs, if my trip here with Ethan was of any merit, were closer to where the backdrops were erected every production. Even light has a curfew in the Humanities Cluster, so not a shred of brightness leaked from the corridor. I left the door open. Just in case.

The pin I found in the dressing room sat in my pocket. I didn't bring my watch, but it must be past midnight. Alyson wasn't bluffing when she said Theater majors went home late. How do they manage to stay on top of their curriculars without getting their eight hours in? The answer could wait because the first step of the nearest stairs to the door thumped against the tip of my boots.

With a grunt, I hoisted myself on it and jumped without removing my foot on the wood. No creak. More like a solid thump. Meaning the killer couldn't have gone up. Otherwise Alyson would have recognized the sound and not attributed it to the word creak. Tap would have been in the running of word choices should the killer have dragged Horace's body up and dropped him from the height. Might be how the blood splattered that way. A blunt hit on the head after falling from heaven would do that.

But why bother? The killer could have chosen a more obvious spot to kill Horace. They could have stayed in the SPA Cluster. That would narrow down the list of suspects and pinpoint me easily. So, it wasn't me they were after. Not the university student. But rather...

Ranacrys himself.

Still, why do it on campus? What did they hope to gain by attracting the attention of Mr. Proleau? Why was Horace murdered if not to set me up and get revenge about something I did?

I stepped off the stairs and edged towards what I assumed to be the stage's wall. My fingers brushed against a rough, splintering surface, as if a hurried construction job ensued. With a clenched jaw, I increased the force in my arm, pushing inward.

Creak.

The world slowed. This was it. The creaking noise. Now, if there was some light...

A loud, crashing sound rang across the dressing room as if thunder showed up indoors. I looked up. The shadows came for me.