The Garden of Dead Dreams by Abby Quillen Page B

feet, telling the others a story, gesturing, his voice booming through the room. Outside red and orange speckled the undergrowth beneath the trees. Etta turned to a blank page in her notebook.
    She’d considered missing class, since Hardin had offered to excuse her, but what would she do? Sit in her room all day surrounded by boxes of Olivia’s stuff? A noise came from the back of the room and Etta turned.
    Director Hardin stood just inside the doorway with Walker Ryan. They were both imposing men, and they were at eye level with each other. The director had his hand on Walker’s arm, and his skin looked ashen against Walker’s canary yellow jacket. Walker shook his head.
    Etta scanned the room, her gaze bouncing from Pari and Lorna to Lydia and Hillary to Jordan, Poppy, Chase, and Katie. They didn’t know about Olivia yet. Etta had assumed the announcement would be made at Sunday dinner. Unable to bear the thought of it, she’d skipped dinner and relied on the stash of food in their mini refrigerator, most of which had been gleaned from care packages Olivia’s aunt had sent. They arrived each month brimming with crackers, nuts and seeds, and jars of homemade granola, applesauce, and dried fruit, always with a handwritten note addressed to both of them, although Etta had never met her: Dear Olivia and Etta . . .
    Director Hardin moved to the front of the room. His gait seemed more tentative than usual. Etta registered that he was standing behind the podium, heard some random words in his baritone voice. Olivia’s name. And she had a vague sense of other things floating from his mouth: “troubled,” “imbalance,” “breakdown.” But what Etta was most aware of was the sensation of eyes probing her. Maura’s hair fluttered across the back of her chair, her gaze locking with Etta’s.
    Outside the sun was hovering just above the treetops. Etta stared at it until she couldn’t stand the brightness and had to squeeze her eyes shut. She only opened her eyes again when silence descended across the room.
    “Sir, I think Olivia was plagiarizing.” It was Jordan. His voice was devoid of inflection, like he was reading aloud from a text.
    Etta found herself searching for air at the same time that the room seemed to collectively exhale.

Chapter Twelve
    “I knew that play was too good to be written by a girl.” A grin spread across Mallory Chambers’ round face. “Kidding, kidding. But really, who’d our golden girl crib off of? Marlow or Shakespeare?”
    Maura’s hand shot into the air. “Does this mean that the runner-up should have won the contest, because Winston told me I was the runner-up?” Maura went on, but Etta lost track of the words. All she could concentrate on was the strange quality of Maura’s voice—shrill and whiny.
    Pari stood and spoke when Maura finished, her dark eyes surveying the room. “Perhaps everyone should take a lie detector test.”
    “Or maybe we should put a gallows in the basement. We can torture cheaters—lock ‘em down there without food,” Mallory interrupted.
    The director looked dazed as he gazed at the back of the room, his white hair a tousle of flyaway strands.
    “I’m only saying, another student could have been writing Olivia’s material. There may be another offender,” Pari said.
    “Her writing was dark,” someone at the back of the room murmured. “For such a sweet person.”
    “And weird,” someone else said, much louder. “Remember that missionary pig farmer? One word—creepy.”
    “I don’t see what that proves.” It was Chase Quinn, and the sharpness of his voice surprised Etta. He was sitting sideways in his chair, his back to Etta. “If she had a breakdown, she is clearly disturbed. Perhaps she has some kind of multiple personality syndrome.”
    “The question is, if she didn’t write those stories, who did?” It was Pari again.
    “Maybe it was Galen,” someone called out
    Etta’s pen bounced onto the floor with a clatter.
    “Aha!