Carolyn Keene. Two Points to Murder

With that, she turned and walked away. Nancy felt sorry for her, yet she had a feeling that things were about to get even worse for Jan than they were already.

Mike was in the otherwise empty common room, sitting in an armchair. A chemistry textbook was open on his lap, but he didn’t appear to be reading it.

“Mike?”

He looked up. “Nancy! Haven’t seen much of you since you got to Emerson. How are you? Are you having a good time?”

Nancy felt herself tense. “I’d be having a much better one if I could get some answers to a few questions I have.”

“Questions?”

“Yes. Such as, can you explain what this is all about?”

Reaching into her back pocket, she tossed a scrap of paper onto his textbook. It was the list of names and negative numbers from his locker. She had stuffed it into her pocket while running into the sauna the night before.

Mike’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you get that?”

“You know where . . . from your locker. I saw the money there, too.”

“There’s no law against keeping money in a locker, is there?”

So, he was going to play it cool, was he? Nancy was disappointed. She had hoped to shock him into making a confession. Obviously, it was not going to be that easy.

She glared at him. “Don’t try to kid me, Mike. I know what you’re up to. The only thing I don’t know is why. Are you going to tell me, or shall I let the police drag it out of you?”

He crumpled the paper in his fist. “Police? What are you talking about? I haven’t done anything wrong! Not a thing!”

“No? What about the box of packing chips in your room?”

For a split second, panic flashed across his face. “They . . . they’re just junk.”

“Just like the scraps of material mixed in with them?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I think I do. You’ve been playing practical jokes on your team, and some of them have been very dangerous, to say the least.”

“That’s not true!”

“Oh, no?”

Nancy crossed her arms. They were playing a bluffing game now, a game that she was winning. All she had to do was to keep wearing him down. Sooner or later he would confess.

“Tell me . . . why didn’t you ride with the team to the Haviland game?” she demanded.

“That’s no secret. I needed to be alone for a while.”

“Alone to do what? To shoot out the bus’s tire?”

He half rose from his chair. “Wait a minute! Are you suggesting—?”

“You know it.”

“Well, you’re wrong! Why would I do something like that?”

Nancy shrugged. “Fun? Money? You tell me. All I know is that you own a lot of things that most scholarship students don’t . . . a gold watch . . . a black Camaro . . .”

“A what!”

“Where do you keep it, Mike? Do you drive it around a lot, or only when you go cruising for people to beat up?”

“You’re out of your mind!”

He was on his feet now, pacing back and forth with a worried expression. She had him—Nancy was sure of it! It was only a matter of minutes before he made a full confession.

“Mike, why not tell me all about it?” she coaxed him gently. “It will be a lot easier that way, I promise.”

“Nancy, I don’t know where you got all these loony ideas, but you’re totally wrong. I’ve never beaten up anyone in my Me!”

A tremor of doubt rippled through her. Could he have some kind of split personality? Was it possible that he wasn’t aware of all the things he had been doing?

“Mike, trust me. I’m not the only one who can see what’s happening. Your teammates see it. So does Jan!”

“Jan? You’ve been talking to her?”

“Yes, and she’s very worried about you. Please, Mike . . . tell me everything, okay? Do it for Jan. Do it for yourself!”

A curious calm fell over him then. He rose to his full height, as if a great invisible burden was lifting from his shoulders. His voice grew strong and determined.

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