17
“Officer Senese!” Dale blurted. No, too loud, the whole crowd will hear that.
The police officer raised both her eyebrows. “Yes, Mister Whitehead?”
“Uh… upstairs. The supply closet. Where they keep the dangerous chemicals?” Dale paused to swallow even though his mouth felt bone-dry. “It’s unlocked.”
“Probably some professor working off-semester,” Senese said. “Being lazy while the students are gone. But I’ll take a look while I’m here.”
Words boiled inside Dale. Someone picked the lock. Took cyanide. Fed it to Lash.
No, he’d sound like a maniac. Like one of those lunatic Internet-affirmed conspiracy theorists. “Thanks.”
“Good day, gentlemen.” Senese turned to go.
Langton gave Dale a distracted nod, then faded into the crowd.
Dale stood there, uncertain. He should have said more
