The next day, Monday, is the coldest it's been all semester, enough to prick tears from Indy's weary eyes the moment she slips into her thrifted loafers and steps out of the residence hall. The Commons are miraculously clean, no crushed plastic cups, silver confetti pieces, lost shoes or any other evidence of the fast-paced soiree that had played out over the weekend remaining in the yellow grass. The atmosphere has changed entirely. Proudley knows when to party, but Proudley knows when the party's over.

Though she has an hour before she needs to be anywhere, Indy has left early anyway, needing to walk and let blood rush to her limbs but also to be alone with her thoughts without distraction. After meeting Jude, she feels she's on the brink of something. If there were ever a time to focus, it would be now.

Like usual, she takes the stairs to the top of DuBois, rubber soles echoing dully against the ancient linoleum. Spider webs cling to the railings, gather in menacing clusters in the corners between the wall and ceiling. The air is not much warmer in here, either. She breathes into her palms to warm them.

When she rounds the corner at the top landing, what would have been a sigh of relief hitches in her throat instead. For once, the attic isn't vacant. Percy sits against the wall beneath the window, locs pushed back from his forehead by a thin white headband, a matching hoodie beneath that letterman jacket he seems to always be wearing yet looks as new as when he first received it. His eyes are trained down at his phone, a beam of sunlight from above him painting one abstract segment of his face in whitish-gold. Indy doesn't know where the feeling comes from, but an eerie sense of déjà vu startles her, almost as if she's looking at an image of him, of the two of them, from high school.

Then he looks up and notices her, and the moment is gone. "Yo."

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," he says. He raises an exaggerated brow. "Ah. Found you."

So much for being alone with her thoughts. She slings her backpack from her shoulders, letting it fall with a thunk to the floor below. She waves away the shower of dust that blooms from the impact, stepping closer to the window. "We're supposed to be having progress meetings with Dr. Clover today. Have you talked to him yet?"

"No. My time slot isn't till later. You?"

She pulls her phone from her coat to glance at the time. "Not for another forty minutes."

Percy grabs a styrofoam coffee cup that's sitting beside him and hops to his feet, agile as an acrobat. "Are you going to mention—"

"Why would I tell him about the journal?" Indy says, looking at him like he's insane, because he is. "That's a one-way ticket to a mental institution."

"Maybe, but it is Dr. Clover. If anyone would take you seriously on this, it would probably be him. Let's just be real." Before Indy can protest—she wasn't really going to, as he is sort of right—he holds out the cup in her direction. "Cinnamon dolce latte?"

Indy looks at him, then at the cup, then at him again, skeptical. "Is it with—"

"Of course it's with whole milk, idiot. I only watched you order it every single fucking day in high school."

Indy closes her mouth. She takes the drink.

She's barely sipped at it when he asks, "Are we going to talk about Saturday?"

The drink's still hot, almost hot enough to scald her tongue, certainly hot enough to make her forget for a moment how frigid the air is around them. She glances up at Percy, leaning back against the windowsill now, his bottom lip slightly chapped. He never brings chapstick around, despite how dry he knows his lips get, and Indy has tired by now of reminding him.

"I'd rather not," Indy answers. "There's nothing to say."

"I saw you crying."

"Yeah, well. I do that sometimes. Don't you?"

He sighs, giving her a look that is both comforting and aggravating at once. Comforting because it reminds her of a time they were both much younger: Indy's roller skates catching on an uneven pebble and her small, soft body crashing against the unforgiving stones. Percy is there, frowning at her, picking the sharp particles of gravel from between her skin. He admonishes her the entire time even though it makes her cry more, but he doesn't stop until every piece of gravel is gone.

"Did you enjoy yourself, at least?" Indy asks. He must hear the accusatory note in her tone, because he looks at her steadily, like he's bracing himself for impact. "I know there weren't any embarrassing videos this time, but Sylvia said—"

"I drank a little, but nothing crazy," Percy snaps. "Okay?"

His eyes on hers are fire, fierce, formidable—but warm. She has no choice but to melt. "Okay," Indy says. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Percy looks away, and she is left to guess if her apology's been accepted.

"Listen. Do you think you can meet for lunch today? Not just with me, but with everyone, and...a guest."

Percy flinches imperceptibly. "I don't like the way you said that."

"Said what?"

"Guest." He shudders as if for added theatrical effect. "You made it sound so menacing."

Indy glares. "Answer the question, Perce."

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, sure, I probably can."

"Good. It's important," she says. She joins him by the window then, setting her coffee on the sill and hopping up next to it, letting her shoes beat back against the wall to an imaginary rhythm as she sits. "Thanks for the coffee, by the way."

Gently, Percy punches her knee. "You're welcome."

She fishes around in her jacket pocket until she locates a flat tin of menthol-smelling chapstick, and offers it to him.

He doesn't look offended in the slightest. In fact, he looks relieved.

"Indy!" Dr. Clover greets her like he's genuinely pleased to see her there, and isn't just going down the list of students' names until he can stop for the day. His office is small, but meticulously neat, every paper filed away neatly in the organizer on his desk, books pressed so perfectly into their places on his bookshelf that it nearly resembles a wallpaper. A sweet-smelling soy candle flickers on the windowsill behind him; he pulls a small pair of reading glasses from his face and smiles wide enough to crinkle his eyes.

"Thanks for always being so punctual," he says, adjusting the fit of his fedora: today, it's black with light brown trim. "Here, have a seat there for me."

Indy obliges, dropping her backpack from her shoulders and settling in the faded armchair in front of his desk. The name Dr. Isaiah Clover winks at her from a gold placard sitting atop of it.

"Let me start by telling you there's no need to be stressed about this meeting. It's sort of what I asked in class, but more in-depth, some one-to-one time where you can really ask me questions about your project specifically," Dr. Clover says, with the airy, nonchalant delivery of someone who's said these words a thousand times. He sits forward, interlacing his fingers in front of him. "So tell me. What are you looking into? What's your angle? I'm all ears."

Well before she settled in this chair, Indy knew her progress update would have to be a cautious, well-cultivated collection of half-truths. Somehow, she would have to balance giving him enough information to both keep him interested and prove that she was putting in effort, but not so much information that he begins to suspect this means much more to her.

She planned for this. All she had to do was say exactly what she'd rehearsed.

"I found a local case, actually."

"Local?" Dr. Clover's voice lifts; he's impressed. "That's fascinating."

"I thought so, too," Indy replies smoothly. "It was my mother that brought it up, really. She grew up in Erskine, and she told me about a case where a black maintenance man was accused of murdering one of his white clients. It was contentious back then, apparently—a lot of people, especially within Erskine's black community, felt he was unjustly accused—but soon enough, all that fire just...died out. Now no one's talked about it for years."

Dr. Clover nods intently, as if he's closely considering each of Indy's words. "It's strange, isn't it?" he says then. "How these things have a way of just disappearing, no matter how big of a deal it may have seemed a long time ago. That's something you could take into account for your project, too. What makes a case worth talking about? How and when do we stop caring?"

There's another question Indy wants to ask, in direct opposition to his: How and when do we start caring? If she could save Lamar Pine, of course it'd be worth it; of course she'd consider it a success. But what of all the other Lamar Pines the world still cared nothing about? How did she start the wheels of a turbine that had long since grown rusty and decrepit, if it had ever moved in their favor at all?

"How far are you into your research?"

Indy blinks and the moment is gone and she is here and she is focused again, though all of the noise still clamors somewhere at the sides of her brain. "It's hard to give anything quantifiable, but I have the basic background of the case and all the people of interest finished. Now it's a matter of looking at media reactions, and organizing everything."

Dr. Clover taps a pen against his desk, a judge sealing fate with his mallet. "I'm not supposed to say this, but there were some students I was worried about when I assigned this. You were never one of them, Indy. You sound like you're doing just fine. Keep up the good work."

She wants to be relieved, to heave a long sigh like she's just finished running miles. She forces herself to keep up her guard, just for a little longer. "Yes sir. Thanks, Dr. Clover."

Keys clink and settle in her bag as she stands and lifts it from where she's slung it over the back of her chair. She's about to excuse herself—if the clock above the window behind him is right, she has an important meeting of her own in barely more than five minutes—when Dr. Clover speaks again, almost making her jump.

"You'd tell me if you needed anything else, right, Indy?" he asks. "I mean—if there's things going on in your life and you need to talk it out. Or if you just need an extension. I'm always here."

It's a very college professor thing to say. Only half of them ever really mean it. "I know, Dr. Clover," she says genially, giving him a smile she hopes he can't tell is strained. "Thanks again."

When she steps outside onto the Commons, where the air has gotten warmer but the wind no less violent, she has a text from Jude Chernenko. Technically two:

i'll be 5ish mins late

blame dewey bc dewey is an asshole

While Indy could guess that Dewey might be an asshole, she doesn't know him well enough to blame him. She makes up her mind to blame Jude instead.

They agreed to meet at a noodle joint on the main street just off campus, partially because Indy wanted noodles, partially because she wasn't sure how well-acquainted Jude was with Proudley and she didn't want to overwhelm him by tossing him in the dining hall right off the bat. She's somewhat used to being the only one of her race in a room—growing up in a mostly white town, she had to be. Most white people she knows, on the other hand, are not.

When she gets to the restaurant, everyone save for today's guest of honor is there already. Percy and Gatz appear to be arguing about something, though every conversation between the two of them resembles an argument even if it's not. Sylvia has already ordered brown sugar bubble tea and sips at it, a silent observer to the madness.

"How was Dr. Clover?" Gatz asks as Indy greets them all and takes the seat next to Sylvia.

"His usual self," Indy answers. She notices Percy looking at her, and rolls her eyes, obnoxiously, so she's sure he sees it. "Obviously I didn't tell him much, Percy. I'm not an idiot."

"Speaking of idiots," Sylvia starts, nibbling at the end of her straw. "Where's the white boy at?"

"Late," Indy says, and pauses when both Gatz and Percy turn to her, confusion written all over their faces. "What? Why are you looking at me like that? Sylvia, didn't you fill them in?"

Sylvia slurps her milk tea loudly. "No."

"Why?"

"I figured that was the white boy's job."

Percy groans. "Who is the white boy?"

"I'm probably the white boy," Jude says, and Indy nearly jumps from her seat, sure he must have simply coalesced where he's standing. He tips two fingers off his brow in a casual salute. "Hey, I'm Jude. Nice to meet you."

"Oh," Gatz places a hand over their mouth. "He white white."

Jude gets a genuine laugh out of that—the sound startles Indy, how it's both jarring and beautiful at once, like a splintered mosaic. He takes the remaining seat at the table, between Percy and Indy. "Nothing I can help, unfortunately. My whole family's fucking cursed with some serious sun sensitivity."

"Jude's grandmother may know something firsthand about the case," Indy clarifies with a sigh. "I was thinking maybe he could help us, but I thought it'd be a good idea to talk it all over first."

"Hence," Jude says, picking up the menu, "noodles."

"Yes," Indy agrees. "Noodles."

"So have you talked to your grandma since we saw you last time?" Sylvia asks, jelly-pink nails tapping idly at the menu below her. The lights in here are low, likely for ambience; they cast a shadow over her eyes, lending them a nearly mischievous gleam. "Will she talk to us?"

Jude smirks. "I dropped a hint or two."

"A hint," Percy repeats, his voice utterly flat.

"This is the thing about Maryna Chernenko. You have to make everything seem like it's her own idea," Jude says with a shrug. The waitress appears, and they pause their conversation briefly to order, though Indy's barely looked at the menu so she panics and chooses the first thing on the list of entrees. "So I hinted that there was some...new interest in the Pine case. That a brief stint of fame would liven up her life for a while."

Indy fights the overwhelming urge to bury her face in her hands. "No one said anything about fame, Jude, that's not what this is about."

"I know I know I know. I know that, Indy, believe me. I'm just saying what has to be said for this to go our way."

"In other words," Gatz offers, the look in their eyes all judgment, "you're gaslighting your own grandma."

An easy smile spreads across Jude's face. "Making me the villain here, are you? That's okay. I'll play that part if I must."

Unbeknownst to Jude, Indy and the others share a look, confirming a collective thought they all have and simultaneously decide not to voice.

"The point is I'd think she'd be open to it," Jude says then, fiddling with the silver necklace at his throat. "Shit. I could take you guys over there this afternoon, if you wanted."

"Good," Indy says. Her fingers are twitching with apprehension; she furls them in her lap to make it stop. "The sooner the better."

Jude looks at her with eyebrows raised, appraising. "My car can fit five. This'll work just fine."

"Can't," Gatz says, leaning back in their seat, fussing with the frays of their sweater. "I've got peer evals in the studio."

Sylvia raises her hand. "Band rehearsals."

Anguished, Indy looks to Percy. He also shakes his head. "Calc exam."

"Tough shit," Jude sighs. "Well. The offer still stands. We can go another day—"

"No," Indy says. She only has six weeks, five, truly, as one of those has already passed. If she wastes any more time, she won't be able to live with herself. The ones with the power have already wasted over fifty years. She won't add to that number. "It's fine. Just Jude and I can go. Is that okay with you, Jude?"

Percy's chair squeaks as he sits forward. "Indy—"

"Yeah," Jude interrupts. He clears his throat into his fist. "I mean, yeah. Sure. If you want to."

The beat of silence following the decision tells Indy more about her friends' thoughts about this than any words could, but she won't let that stop her. She knew she'd have to be prepared to take risks, right from the start.

Sylvia's laughter breaks the silence at last. "God, Percy, you should see your fucking face," she gasps, then leans over, patting Jude's shoulder. "Don't worry. Chernenko's not a serial killer. Indy's in good hands."

Jude smiles again. "Aw. You always have my back, Sylvie. Thanks."

"Nah," she quips. "Don't get it twisted. You're just too dumb to be a serial killer."

Jude joins in the laughter then, agreeing with her, but Indy's gaze switches to Percy, who doesn't look amused in the slightest.

Luckily, the waitress arrives with their noodles, still steaming with scents of garlic and ginger and chili, and rescues them all without knowing it.