“Do you two have a ride to Philly?” Mr. Messerschmidt asked me and Tristen, diverting us away from an argument.
“I just sold my car,” Tristen noted, “so I’m no help.”
I frowned at that news and not just because we needed a ride. Was Tristen low on money? Or did he expect not to need a car soon?
“I don’t know if my car will make it,” I added. “I never got it tuned up. And my mom can’t take us. She’ll be out of town.”
“I’ll drive you,” Mr. Messerschmidt volunteered. “I’m going anyway.”
I expected Tristen to flatly refuse, forcing us to hitchhike before he’d accept charity from Mr. Messerschmidt. Instead he simply said, “Thanks. That’s great.”
I was further surprised to see what looked like grudging but genuine gratitude Tristen’s face, and I wished again that I knew what they’d talked about on that day he had shown up battered in class. Something had changed between them. Somehow Mr. Messerschmidt had gained a little of Tristen’s trust.
Our teacher checked the clock. “Time to wrap up.”
“We’re done,” Darcy said as Todd, finally free of his cast, tossed his backpack over his shoulder and hoisted her designer tote, too.
I looked with dismay at the chaos at our station. “Could we stay late? We have so much to do.”
“You’re not supposed to work alone,” Mr. Messerschmidt noted, although he didn’t seem very firm about it. “That is school policy.”
Darcy, near the door, gave a wry laugh. “Oh, don’t worry. They’ve already worked solo.”
I glared at her until she rolled her eyes and marched out the door, followed by Todd, who gave me one last unreadable glance before departing. Then I turned back to Mr. Messerschmidt, pleading, “Please? We’ll be careful.”
“Jill, are you sure?” Tristen interrupted. “You want to stay with me?”
I knew what he was implying, and it tore at my heart suddenly, because I still trusted him. It wasn’t what I feared he’d do that appalled me; it was what he’d done that I despised. “Yes, Tristen,” I said. “I want to stay.”
“Well . . .” Mr. Messerschmidt wavered—but only for a second. “If you promise to be careful.”
“Really?” I blurted, surprised that we’d actually gotten permission. I’d thought Mr. Messerschmidt was a rule follower like me. “I mean, that’s great,” I amended before he could change his mind. “Thanks.”
“I’ll take responsibility,” Tristen told Mr. Messerschmidt—but he was looking at me. “I’ll keep Jill safe.”
“Lock up when you leave,” Mr. Messerschmidt said. “And don’t tell anyone I let you do this.” Then he got some stuff from his desk and headed for the door, too. But before he left, Mr. Messerschmidt paused, and for a second I thought he was going to change his mind. He looked nervous and sounded edgy as he offered us a weird farewell. “Good luck, kids.”
Then he left me and Tristen alone—really alone—for the first time since we’d been in Tristen’s bedroom kissing and confessing.
And the first thing Tristen did was lock the door from the inside, sealing us in the room.
Chapter 70
Jill
“TRISTEN?”
“Just being cautious, Jill,” he said, rejoining me at our station.
My heart crept into my throat. “You think your dad . . . ?”
“I doubt he’d come here,” Tristen reassured me. “He could easily kill me as I sleep in the house if he wanted. But I have a responsibility to look out for you.”
I didn’t know what to say to any of that, so I picked up Dr. Jekyll’s notes to start working again. “We’re on the experiment dated February eleventh. He starts with the base formula then adds two grams of magnesium.” I lowered the papers and ventured cautiously, “But maybe, since we’re alone, we should, um . . . jump ahead?”
Tristen measured out some magnesium and added it to the acidic mixture, then looked to me, eyebrows arched. “You mean . . . ?”
“Test the real formula, the final formula, on a rat. To see if it works.”
I got nervous as I suggested that, because a terrible little part of me was thinking, You could show me where you’ve been hiding your portion of the formula . . . Maybe I could steal just a little more if you turned your back . . .
But Tristen silenced that traitorous small voice by advising me, “I’ve already done that, Jill. And documented the results.”
I dropped the notes, and they fluttered to the desk. “What? When?” Without me?
“I came to school late last night and fed about an ounce to a rat,” he said. “You’ll be happy to know that the experiment was a complete success.”
I realized then that he had stopped mixing the latest solution and was holding out his hand. Looking down, I noticed that his fingers were covered with small, but angry-looking, red marks. Some had scabbed over. I met his eyes again, seeking explanation. “Tristen?”
“The animal went from docile to berserk,” he explained. “I have it all on video, so we can show it at the presentation.”
I shook my head, not believing him. “You’re kidding . . .”
But Tristen wasn’t smiling. “No. I’m very serious.”
“We should repeat the experiment,” I said, getting excited. We were on the brink of winning thirty thousand dollars. And we’d be working with the real formula . . . “If we keep getting the same result, we could do it on stage at the presentation!”
“No.” Tristen was firm, his jaw set. “I won’t do it again. And you don’t want to see what happens.”
“But—”
“No!” he insisted. He rubbed the back of his neck with his scratched-up hand and averted his eyes. “I had to put the rat down, Jill. It was attacking the others. I hated doing it, but I had to.”
Tristen was so obviously pained over killing the animal—or maybe admitting it to me—that I forgot my excitement.
“I—I understand,” I said, forcing myself not to imagine how he’d ended the rat’s life. I didn’t want to picture Tristen killing again, maybe snapping an animal’s neck with his bare hands, even to spare the other rats. Still, I glanced at his hands, his now literally bloodstained
