Page 27 of The Knight

My large watercolor canvas is covered in tones of grey and blue with a wash of gold and yellow light in the middle. The piece depicts two children in profile, facing the middle of the composition, their hands cupped between them and spilling light. Fireflies dance in the night and set their profiles on fire.

On the left—a little girl with dark wisps of hair lit by golden fireflies. She stares at the fireflies with rapt wonder on her face. On the right, a boy with a mischievous smile, looking not at the glowing bugs but at the girl.

My throat aches at the memory of Silas, when we were both young and at least a little innocent, before the yelling and throwing turned into hitting him, before things like dealing drugs and keeping secrets on his laptop ever occurred to my brother. At that age we looked so similar that only our haircut and clothing made it clear we were fraternal twins, but sometimes I would throw on his baseball jerseys and tie my hair up in a cap, so that people would think we were two little identical boys.

It didn't take long for that age to pass, and our halcyon days to end for good. There are no good photos of our late night summer hunts for lightning bugs in the tall grass, but I remember it so clearly that the painting felt more like the memory of something I observed instead of experienced.

Maybe it wasn't as perfect as the watercolors make it seem. There was yelling even then, and my brother and I fought sometimes, throwing mud and pushing each other down in the grass. We were little tyrants who made our mother swear she wouldn't have another kid. But we loved each other, and I couldn't imagine my life without him—then and now.

He deserved eternal life, even if only through my art.

"Beautiful," Rainbow declares, softly clasping her hands together. "If I have your permission, Brenna, I'd like to put it on display in Coleridge Center near the entrance for visiting parents to see."

"I—I'd love that," I tell her, shocked despite myself. "Thank you."

Glancing into Cole's blue eyes, I wait for him to say something, mouth some terrible words, or even just smirk in my direction. But he's not looking at me, and he doesn't even glance up after I've stared at him for what feels like a whole minute.

He's staring at my painting, something strange and sorrowful on his face, almost like regret.

I sit down and look away before I can start imagining even more fanciful things. Rainbow moves on to the next student, and soon enough class is over—and along with it, finals.

It's time to go home.

But all I can think about is coming back here again, and finishing what I started.

* * *

"There's something you need to know." Cole finds me after class, jogging to catch up with me on the path back to the dormitories. "The truth about that accident."

"Which accident?"

"The one you made public—because I gave you the report."

Coming to a sudden stop, I turn to face him, staring up into his hazel green eyes. The truth is, ever since the Blind Ball, I've been full of questions for him. The instant I realized that he was the anonymous person who dropped that accident report off at my door, I've wanted to know why, and I've almost asked him a dozen times, if not more.

I was afraid, though. Afraid that the truth would change how I see him—make me feel sympathy for him, maybe, or think we were on the same side. More than that, though, I was afraid that he'd make me feel like a fool even more than I already am. This whole time I thought I was facing off with him, he was playing both sides: his and mine.

I have to admit, I was also worried that if I probed too hard, took the opportunity to ask him too many questions, he would rescind his offer to help me go after Hass. I'm not sure I can get him on my own—not after what nearly happened to me. As much as I'm loathe to admit it, I need Cole's help more than any of the others, and until he gave me this opening, I wasn't sure I'd ever to be able to get any answers from him. This may be my one and only chance.

So I start in with the hard stuff. "Why did you remove the parts about the dead body from the report before you gave it to me?"

"I didn't," he says. "That's the version that I got from my source inside the department. I had no idea they doctored it."

"Really? You expect me to believe that?"

"You think I would cover up some poor girl's murder?" He advances on me until there are only a few inches between us, and I have to take a step back, tilting my chin up to look into his impossibly bright eyes. "I wouldn't do that, Brenna. What happened that day was, as far as I was concerned, a solid I did for a friend in trouble."

"Really? You drove drunk as a favor?" I snort, the sound unladylike. "Somehow I doubt that."

"I wasn't the one driving the car. Michael was. That's why his father went to so much effort to cover the whole thing up and have the police chief doctor the version of the report authorities had—he didn't want anyone to know. I still have no idea how you got the original."

"I have my own sources," I tell him lightly, not wanting to reveal too much of myself. The more mysterious I seem, the better. "None of this explains how you were found in the driver's seat."

"We switched places, obviously. The second there were police sirens."

"Why?"

Cole looks away, taking a step back and staring into the light blue winter sky. His breath fogs in the air, a Connecticut cold front turning him into something out of a winter catalog. Between his dark hair and the slight shadow on his jaw, which is already sprouting hints of stubble he doesn't always shave away, he looks like something girls dream of to keep them warm when the temperature drops.

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