Locked (22 page)

“Irene, hurry up! We’re going to miss the movie.”

“Movie?” I abandon my reflection, running down the stairs after him.

“Yes, movie. Cinema, film, look it up in your precious dictionary if you’re confused. It starts at eight fifteen sharp, meaning that if we leave within the next four minutes and thirty seconds and drive at a minimum of forty miles an hour—”

“Since when do you go to movies?” I interrupt as we walk outside, the clouds above threatening rain and blocking the stars. Luckily, Mom carpooled to work today, so I have her car. “You fell asleep on purpose last time I made you watch one.”

“Call it a coma induced by prolonged exposure to stupidity.”

“You’re kind of proving my point about the movie thing.”

“I would go to a movie if I had an interesting reason to,” he says, glancing at me—but looking away again, too quickly, like he’d done before.

“Hey, Sherlock…”

But before I can ask what’s going on, he’s gotten into the car and turned on the radio, blasting Bach.

“You’re the only person in the world who would blast Bach,” I say, climbing into the drivers’ seat, but he doesn’t respond. I pull out of the driveway feeling utterly confused.

When we get to the theater, he takes off ahead of me.

“I thought we were going to dinner?” I lock the car and jog to catch up. The lights of Regal Cinemas illuminate him.

“Dinner and a movie. Isn’t that traditional? People love tradition. Distracts them from the overwhelming fact of their own mortality.”

“…Right.”

I’m going ask what movie we’re seeing, but the question is answered for me when he approaches the front desk.

“Two tickets for the inane comedy of errors about the grad student and his professor who fall in Hollywood’s idea of love, despite the ludicrousness of the situation considering the general code of conduct regarding teacher-student relationships in most universities.”

The clerk stares at him, mouth frozen open mid-chew of gum. He heaves a dramatic sigh. “Otherwise known as
Getting an A
. You should really familiarize yourself with plots of the garbage-heap media you overcharge people for.”

“That’ll be eighteen ninety-five,” the clerk manages. I’d give her my best apology face, but I’m pretty sure all I’m capable of right now is shock.

“Sherlock,” I say. “
Getting an A
is a chick flick.”

“Correct.”

“You hate chick flicks.”

“I hate both the genre and the misogyny inherent in the term, yes.”

I reach up and rest my hand on his forehead. “Are you okay? You don’t feel like you have a fever.”

He bats my hand away, diverting his eyes for the third time. Bizarre. Usually he holds eye contact easily and alarmingly. It bothers most people. “I’m not ill. Let’s go.” He smiles strangely. “I want a seat in the back.”

Still in a daze, I buy a large popcorn and then settle with him at the far end of the theater. The movie’s been showing for a couple weeks already, and there aren’t many heads in front of us. The previews start and I’m overwhelmingly aware of how different various types of closeness can be—how different it is to sit so close next to him in the dark movie theater than it is to sprawl on the couch with him, our legs tangled, while I do my homework and he ignores his.

He’s not paying any attention to the booming trailers. He’s scanning the heads in front of us. “Aha,” he says.

“What?” I follow his gaze. The trailer playing flashes white, lighting up a figure in almost the front row. A familiar figure. “Oh, hey, isn’t that Ethan Thomas?”

“Keep your voice down.” Sherlock’s eyes are glued to the back of Ethan’s head. “We don’t want him to know that we know he’s here.”

And the ball drops.

“Sherlock,” I whisper. “Are we here because Ethan Thomas is here?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask me on a
date
so you would be less conspicuous stalking Ethan for—why, exactly?”

“Not at all.” His profile is illuminated as the movie starts to a scene full of sunshine. Meanwhile I feel like I’ve been trapped in a horror movie. “I asked you on a date so we would be very conspicuous to Ethan.”

“Why do you want to be anything to him?” At least now I know why we’re on a date.

“Because I believe he may have murdered Daphne Brown.”

The shock sews my mouth shut for half a minute. Onscreen, the couple meets when the girl forgets a pencil in class. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Who forgets their pencil in college?”

I jostle his shoulder for attention. “I thought you gave up on the murder.”

“I’d give up on that as easily as I’d give up on breathing. There are certain things someone like me needs to survive. A good mystery is one of them.” He’s leaning in, whispering in my ear. The warmth and closeness of it makes me shiver. I’d almost forgotten about his lips. “Anyway, I’ve been compiling a list of suspects and eliminating them one by one. Ethan is next on the list.”

“Ethan couldn’t have done it,” I whisper back. “He doesn’t have a grudge against you.”

“Of course he does.” He drums his fingers on the seat in front of him, drawing an annoyed glance from the woman sitting in it. “He’s in love with you. Half the school still thinks you and I are dating. The entire school certainly thought that at the time of Daphne’s murder.”

Why are the Holmes brothers always telling me people are in love with me when they’re not? “That’s ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’ve been observing the way he looks at you for some time now. His pupils tend to dilate when he’s in your presence. He often watches you in class when he thinks nobody is paying attention. He’s doodled your name in the margins of his notebook on at least one occasion. And you told me he asked you out.”

“I took off my
clothes
in front of him, Sherlock! He’s a guy! Of course he asked me out!”

“Shhh,” hisses the woman in front of us.

“It’s possible that he somehow realized you were Ares and submitted that request in the hopes that you’d try to seduce him. He could have sent that photo to Daphne in order to break off their relationship, unaware that she would forward it to the rest of the school, at which point he killed her to get revenge on your behalf and pinned it on me, hoping that you’d believe I was the killer and break up with me.”

I inhale and exhale. “That is a
very
long shot.”

“I know,” he admits. “But I’m running out of suspects. And I wanted to see this movie.”

“Really?”

“No.”

I rub my forehead. Ethan, who was friends with my sister, who’d been so nice to me at her grave. He couldn’t have done it. He’d been sad about Daphne. “So why do you need me again?”

The woman in front of us turns and glowers. Sherlock lowers his voice so that I have to lean in even closer to hear him. Our heads brush together. “I need to measure the level of jealousy that Ethan expresses upon seeing the two of us on a date. My hypothesis about him hinges on the level of his obsession with you. He wouldn’t kill for a crush. It has to run deep.”

I swallow. “So what you’re saying, if you’re right, is that Daphne Brown getting killed was my fault.”

“What? No.
No
.” For the first time that evening, he turns to fully look at me, putting a hand on my shoulder and drawing me around to face him. “Even if it’s true, which it’s likely not, it wouldn’t be your fault.”

I stare back at his face, at his skin changing in tones as the light on the movie screen switches from day to night.

“Irene,” he says. “Believe me.”

The woman in front of us finally whips around, her huge bobble earrings swinging as she does. “I’m going to call the usher, young man.”

“Are you?” Sherlock asks savagely. “I can see that you’re very invested in this film. Could it be that you’re concerned your husband, who is a university professor, is currently sleeping with one of his young students? I’ll save you some time—you’re right.”

The woman reaches over, slaps him in the face, and stalks to the front of the theater.

“People are always doing that,” he grumbles, holding his hand to his cheek.

“Yeah, I wonder why.”

The movie’s short, and I can’t really tell what happens, because the dialogue is regularly drowned out by Sherlock noting every logical fallacy and cliché. And I’m distracted by the whole reason we’re here. Ethan wasn’t the killer. He just couldn’t be.

When the credits roll and the lights come on, Ethan and his date stand up before we do. I have just enough time to recognize his date as Melanie, a glasses-wearing freshman girl on the field hockey team, before Sherlock slips his arm around me.

“Sherlock—”

“Lean into me,” he whispers.

I tilt my body into the warm nook between his arm and chest. I close my eyes and pretend it’s real for three delicious seconds.

“Oh, hi, Irene. Sherlock.”

I open my eyes. Ethan is standing by our row, his hand in Melanie’s, who looks nervous but happy. Ethan is smiling. His hair is carefully combed. He dressed up for this. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a
Getting an A
man,” he says to Sherlock.

Sherlock draws me in a little closer. “Yes, well, we do crazy things for the people we love.”

Oh God, I can’t laugh. I can’t laugh.

“Are you feeling sick?” Ethan offers me a concerned frown. “You’re covering your mouth.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” I manage and keep my eyes on Ethan’s face, waiting for a flicker, a frown as he takes in how closely Sherlock is holding me. But there’s nothing. He just shrugs and nudges Melanie, who blushes. “I kind of liked the movie, actually.”

Sherlock smiles sarcastically. “Yes, the platitudes were numerous.”

“The what…? Never mind. We’ve got a dinner reservation. See you guys later.” Ethan waves and walks off with Melanie, arm in arm down the aisle.

Sherlock scowls, picking unconsciously at my sleeve with his fingers. “Damn.”

“Sort of seems like he wasn’t that jealous.” I quietly extract myself from his chest.

He doesn’t seem to notice. “Yes, well, I hardly did anything.”

The theater’s empty except for us and the usher, who’s sweeping up old kernels of popcorn. I crumple my empty bag. “Sherlock? Let’s go home.”

“Can’t yet.” He pushes himself to his feet and gazes distractedly after Ethan and Melanie. “We’ve got a dinner reservation.”

“Are you serious?” I hiss. He doesn’t reply, just gets up and leave the theater so fast that I have to chase after him. We’re halfway to the car when I’m close enough to grab his wrist. “How the hell did you find out what restaurant they’re going to? Actually, how did you even know what movie?”

“Ethan’s immediate family isn’t wealthy, but his uncle owns Adolfo’s. That’s the restaurant, by the way. Clear choice for a date. And as for the film, Melanie has tweeted about wanting to see it three separate times. Earlier today at school, I overheard her mention to a friend that she would be missing a club meeting, as she was busy at eight. Simple deduction.”

“You know, you’re missing something obvious.” I move to get into the driver’s seat but he beats me to it, dangling the keys he apparently pickpocketed from my purse. Right. I have no idea where Adolfo’s is.

“If I’m missing it, it’s not obvious,” he says.

“Ethan’s on a date. With someone else.” I buckle into the passenger seat. “Doesn’t that kind of blow a hole in your he’s-in-love-with-me theory?”

“People come up with all kinds of distractions to push away feelings they think are unrequited.” He starts the car and pulls into the road.

“If they exist, they’re definitely unrequited,” I say.

He tosses me a tiny surprised glance but in milliseconds, his eyes are back on the road. “I know they’re unrequited.”

“Good. Just saying.” I’m definitely not imagining things. He doesn’t want to look at me.

Why doesn’t he want to look at me?

I momentarily forget about it when we reach Adolfo’s. It’s seriously fancy. The restaurant is next to the water, the glittering light from the windows refracting on the dark waves. Sherlock parks and gets out, holding the door open for me.

I hop out onto the pavement. “Really playing the part, aren’t you?”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You’re being positively gallant.”

“You’re being positively irritating,” he says, holding the door of the restaurant open for me anyway. The man by the door greets us with a nod and Sherlock says, “Reservation under the name Holmes.”

“Certainly.” The man flicks through his list to confirm before gesturing us onward into the room filled with light and glass and people and clinking. “One table coming up for the lovely couple.”

I wait for Sherlock to correct him, but he doesn’t. I open my mouth to pick up the slack, but it’s too late. The man is leading us between tables populated by people in expensive clothes, purses under their chairs.

“Actually, this one will be perfect,” Sherlock says, indicating a small candlelit table by the window, where we can see the water.

“Oh—certainly,” says the man, backtracking. He lays two menus on the white tablecloth and smiles. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

“Why this table?” I ask Sherlock, sliding into a chair as the man disappears.

“Ethan and Melanie are to our left.”

I glance over. The two of them are seated a couple tables down, with a clear view of us. Ethan spots us first, his napkin sliding off his lap as he gives a slightly perplexed wave. I wave back before facing Sherlock. “I really don’t think he did it.”

He’s still resolutely not looking at me, picking up a menu instead. “They have an excellent Pinot grigio here.”

I pull down the top of his menu a little. “I’m not twenty-one and neither are you.”

“I’ll take care of that.”

When the waiter comes, a young guy with a tattoo just barely peeking out from under his sleeve, I order the shrimp scampi. Sherlock lays down his menu. “The carbonara. And two glasses of the Pinot grigio.”

“Certainly. Could I see your I.Ds?” he asks.

Sherlock leans toward him. “Let’s do each other a favor. I won’t tell your boss that you just stole a ring left by one of your customers and you’ll bring us wine without bothering about the I.Ds.”