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“Nothing memorable, I don’t think.” I wait for her to follow up, to remind me of the fights that erupted around the table as the night devolved into chaos, but she stays silent. “And after dinner, I read a little bit and then went to bed.”

“Mm,” Sawkins ponders. “No drinks together, just reading and bed? That seems like quite a tame night. Especially on Christmas.”

A note of panic flicks at me, but I breathe it away. I’ve gotten used to lying after all these years.

“Yeah,” I respond with a humorless chuckle. “By that point in the trip, we were all exhausted. And it didn’t really feel like the holidays here. We’re used to winter weather and all that.”

“Let’s back up for just a moment,” Villanueva says. “You and Ms. Barton shared a room at the Raven Inn, correct?”

My memory hops back to that room, our two twin beds pushed to opposite walls, spread to reveal the once-maroon carpet, turned faded and dusty.

“Yes.”

“And you both went to bed at the same time that night?”

Again, scenes flash across my memory. Sneaking out of the Inn through the back door. Chasing after her as the stars sparkled above us.

“She actually wasn’t there when I went to bed,” I respond, hoping that kernel of truth will help spear the next lie I’m about to tell. “I don’t know where she went after dinner. I didn’t see her after we ate.”

“And she was acting completely normal that day?” This time the question comes from Sawkins.

“Yes, as far as I remember.” I blink, forcing my eyelids to wash clean the memory of Phoebe, her knees buried in the red dirt, hands clasped in front of her, eyes pleading. “She didn’t do anything that struck me as strange.”

Villanueva looks at me for just a second too long before flicking her eyes back to the papers in front of her.

“Do you know if Ms. Barton was seeing anyone romantically at the time of her death?”

I feel my face flush. “There was a lot of…” I pause. “ Intimacy among the group in the weeks we were together.”

Villanueva interjects again with a knowing look. “And a lot of alcohol, I presume.”

I nod.

“We’ve seen this thing before,” Sawkins says haughtily. “Students coming over for study abroad programs, shedding the responsibilities they have at home. That’s usually when accidents happen.”

I feel as if I’m being scolded, but Villanueva shoos away Sawkins’s disdain. “Do you remember who in the group Phoebe had relations with?”

“I know that she and Kyan got together at the beginning of the trip.”

“Did that end poorly?”

“It was…” I fumble, trying to locate a word that understates the drama that followed. “A bit tense afterwards.”

“And who ended it? The tryst, I mean.”

“It was mutual,” I say automatically and then instantly regret it. They’ve already talked to Kyan and Adrien, I’m sure they both gave the detectives an earful about what happened.

“Hmm,” Villanueva murmurs, giving me a skeptical look. “And that was it? You’re not aware of her being romantically involved with anyone besides Mr. Quek?”

I try to force the image away before it comes. The darkness of the Outback draped like a blanket over the land behind the Inn, the stars illuminating Phoebe’s hair, her head tilted backward in passion.

“No.”

“One last question,” Villanueva says, and I feel my first sense of relief since waking this morning. It’s almost over. I’m so close to getting through this without giving myself away. “Do you know anyone who would have wished Ms. Barton harm back then?”

“No, of course not,” I say quickly. Too quickly.

“No? Not a single person?”

I shake my head, not trusting my voice as my mind ticks through the long list of people who had reason to be mad at Phoebe. Those of us who hated her.

“Maybe people were irritated with her, but I can’t imagine anyone would have been angry enough to hurt her.”

“I think what my partner is getting at, Ms. Whitlock,” Sawkins interjects, “is that Ms. Barton’s death was clearly a crime of passion.”

“Wh-what?” My head snaps upward, my eyes zeroing in on Villanueva.

“According to the autopsy our office has conducted, Ms. Barton’s cause of death was blunt force trauma to the skull.”

“Blunt force trauma,” I repeat inanely. “Okay, but couldn’t she have tripped? And hit her head on a rock or something? Couldn’t that have caused it?”

Villanueva looks at me curiously, and I instantly regret my question. But I need to know.

“No.” Her response is terse. “The examination conducted on the remains yielded a finding of multiple skull fractures. Whoever killed Ms. Barton struck her with a blunt object over the head repeatedly. We have yet to identify the weapon, but it is very clear that this was a homicide.”

My stomach roils and I feel the color in my skin drain. It’s immediately replaced with moisture, clinging sickly to my underarms, my palms, my forehead.

Blunt force trauma.

But that’s impossible. I never hit Phoebe. And I certainly didn’t do anything to fracture her skull.

I don’t think I’m prepared for any more surprises until Villanueva drops her final bomb.

“That same person—or, at least, we suspect it was that person—moved Ms. Barton to her final resting place at the entrance to the abandoned mine shaft a kilometer or so from the Raven Inn.”

“The mine,” I parrot back.

“Yes. We have evidence to suggest that she was still alive at the time her body was deposited there. Scratches and flicks of red paint that we’ve identified as nail polish on the inside door to the mine indicate that she tried to escape.

However, she died from her head injuries before being able to do so. ”

Suddenly, I can’t breathe, picturing Phoebe clawing at the door of the mine, yelling, pleading to be let out.

“I still don’t understand how Jagged Rock police failed to search such an obvious place in the days following Phoebe’s disappearance,” Sawkins says, either not picking up on my distress or choosing to ignore it. Villanueva ignores him, changing the subject back to Phoebe.

“It would be helpful to know if anyone had strong feelings towards Ms. Barton.”

My mind is still racing for it all to make sense, so I barely hear Villanueva’s request. But then a sudden clarity descends.

It wasn’t all my fault.

There’s another killer. Someone who hated Phoebe. Someone she drove to murder. Who smashed in her skull and hid her body away in that mine.

“I…I don’t know anyone who would…have killed her like that,” I fumble.

Villanueva sighs, as if I’ve disappointed her.

“Look, Ms. Whitlock, I’m going to be direct with you. It is unlikely that Ms. Barton was killed by a stranger or someone she had only met a handful of times. We believe the perpetrator is someone close to her, likely one of the people staying with her at the Raven Inn in the days before her death.”

She pauses, waiting for that to sink in. “So, we are focusing our investigation on those of you who participated in the Adventure Abroad program through Hamilton College.”

She doesn’t need to say anything further. Her intention is clear.

She has a handful of suspects, and I’m one of them.

And most of the others are sitting in the waiting room downstairs.