I shift the heavy basket from one hand to the other and then turn to find Ian Freaking Dave standing in the kitchen waiting for us. Speak of the devil.

My mouth drops open, and I damn near drop the basket of eggs.

“What … what are you doing in here?” I choke out, because it's only Saturday, and Dad said Mr. Dave wouldn't be back until Monday. Looking at him now, you'd never know that Church Montague helped him remove a hunting knife from his body just a few weeks ago.

“Mr. Carson, Mr. Hargrove,” he says as Spencer grits his teeth for a moment, making a split-second decision. We could run, or we could stay here and see what the big, gruff man who just so happens to be dating my mother has to say. One of the kitchen staff members comes forward and collects our baskets, just before we hear a shout from the storeroom, and I realize with a small sigh of relief that we're not alone in here with Mr. Dave.

Even if he is one of the killers, he can't get us right now.

Spencer steps forward, letting the exterior door slam shut behind him, his gaze wholly focused on Ian Dave, the perfect shot at the shooting range, the asshole, the enigma who didn't like me snooping around in the library.

“What happened between you and Church?” is the first question Spencer asks, and I raise an eyebrow. I've made the decision to trust the mysterious, stoic amber-haired boy who put a ring on my finger, but I also haven't forgotten what the twins said in Disneyland, how Church was missing the week prior to my attack at Santa Cruz High. There's something going on with him, regardless of whether it has to do with Adam or the murders.

“Jesus,” Mr. Dave grumbles, sneering like only a villain would. “You kids are idiots, you know that?”

“Church removed the knife for you,” I say, repeating the story as I've heard it, waiting for surprise or shock to register on Mr. Dave's face. Instead, he just glares back at me with dark eyes and sighs, reaching up to run fingers through his thick head of hair. I imagine he's closer to Mom's age than Dad is. No thinning hair here. “Not a great medical decision, by the way, but I trust you had your reasons.” I cough into my hand. “But who actually stabbed you?”

“Yes, Mr. Montague helped to remove the knife. I'm not at liberty to discuss who attacked me in the first place, but I have mentioned to Headmaster Carson on numerous occasions that letting you all traipse around campus like amateur detectives is a terrible idea.”

“If you hadn't noticed, we're on chicken and garden duty,” I snap back as Spencer reaches over and plucks a feather from my hair. “And if we are ‘traipsing’”—I make snarky little quotes with my fingers—“it's only because the police and the administration are useless. Nobody believes us about what we saw in the woods.”

“Just like they don't believe Eugene and Jenica were murdered,” Mr. Dave says with a long sigh. He looks so goddamn tired, I'm surprised he didn't ask for a few more days off. Spencer and I exchange a look before glancing back in his direction. “But I do. I believe you.”

“You do?” Spencer blurts out, backpedaling a bit, like he's drowning in disbelief. I mean, after all the crap we've gotten from the adults around us lately, I'm not surprised. I turn back to Mr. Dave, surprising myself with my own inner calm. I'm not usually like this, you know, calm. It's a foreign thing for me.

“Yes, I do,” Mr. Dave says, moving several steps closer to us and lowering his voice. “And that's why I'm asking you to stay out of it. Keep your heads low, stick together, and let me handle this.”

“Like a librarian is anymore qualified to deal with this shit than we are,” Spencer scoffs, folding his hands together behind his head while looking Mr. Dave over like he doesn't believe a word coming out of his mouth. “You're probably one of the masked creeps we saw in the woods. Like, seriously, we're supposed to believe you just happened on Charlotte's mom in the middle of Los Angeles?”

Mr. Dave closes his eyes for a moment, nostrils flaring, as his big, meaty hands work themselves in and out of fists. He's very clearly frustrated with us, but there's something going on between him, Mr. Murphy, and my dad. I'm sure of it.

“My relationship with Eloise is none of your business. I truly care about her, and I promise you, our ongoing communication has nothing to do with this case.”

“This case? Um, like that's not at all creepy,” Spencer says, putting a protective arm around my waist. A little thrill chases through me as I run my finger over the engagement ring again. For whatever reason, it's become a symbol of the whole Student Council, and not just Church. “Dude, you're just digging yourself an even deeper hole. Come on, Chuck.”

He steers me away from Mr. Dave, but I pull back, turning to face the librarian one more time.

“I know Mr. Murphy's been writing me those notes,” I say, and Mr. Dave's nostrils flare again, though he doesn't confirm or deny the accusation. “And I know that whatever he's up to, you and my dad are in on it.”

We turn and leave the room, letting the door slam shut behind us, but I've got that little niggle of an idea in my head again, and there's no getting past it.

I know what I need to do.

On Monday, I break my usual routine of sleeping in, waking up too late to brush my hair, and rushing to class in rumpled clothes, skewed glasses, and a bad mood. Instead, I'm up as soon as Church starts the coffee brewing, lifting one perfect brow in my direction as I whisk open the closet doors and stare at the uniform I stole from Dad's house. I'm pretty sure he came down to the dorm the night of the fight to yell at me over it, but lost his train of thought when he saw the mess my boys had made of the football team.

So, now it's mine.

The choice is mine.

And I’ve made it.

“Are you sure about this?” Church asks, hiding a genuine sort of smile with his coffee mug. “This changes everything.”

“I'm sure,” I declare, unzipping the plastic garment bag and pulling the outfit out, so I can study it. “Positive.”

Church helps me carry my makeup bag, nail polish, and blow dryer into the bathroom; the rest of the Student Council boys empty the room and guard the door, giving me time to shower and do my hair and makeup before they help me into a winter coat with a hood. It messes with my hair a bit, but oh well. I curled that shit into ringlets this morning.

“You take almost as long to get ready as we do,” the twins say, pointing across at one another. “Being a girl is hard.”

“Have you ever heard The Sexy Getting Ready Song from the show Crazy Ex-Girlfriend?” I ask, pursing my freshly glossed lips and giving the boys a look as I swirl a finger around indicating my face. “This is a bunch of patriarchal bullshit. This doesn't make me a girl. I just … it's like armor or something, okay? I feel calmer wearing it. I want to wear it. That's feminism right there: choice.”

“No arguments here,” Ranger says, his usually deep, calm voice a little ragged. When I squint, I swear I can see spots of color on his cheeks. He quickly grabs my shoulders and turns me around to face the door, his hands burning me, even through the thick wool of the jacket. If we don't resolve our little sexual tension problem soon, we're both going to explode. “But let's march out there and own that femininity, shall we?”