by Sarah Ockler
I think I’ve got a way to identify the perpetrator beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Please hear me out.
I wasn’t withholding information; I just didn’t connect the dots until now. I only suggested tracking down Miss D that day at the pep rally because it seemed like a Keith Mars sort of thing to do. I didn’t realize that she—that I—had real evidence.
But I do.
The morning after prom, someone sent Miss Demeanor a set of photographs from an anonymous e-mail account called #ScandalWhore. The person explained that she didn’t have a Facebook account and requested that I post the photos directly to the #scandal page. It was both a red flag and against the rules, and I politely refused.
Obviously, #ScandalWhore later deduced that your FB password was stored on your phone, so she uploaded the photos taken with your phone directly to your account, sharing them on Miss Demeanor’s page and tagging them with #scandal.
But there were also photographs posted that weren’t taken with your phone (the ones of you and Cole on the deck and the ones with Marceau—your phone is in those shots). This person clearly took them with her own phone, then either sent them to your phone and uploaded them that way, or pulled them up on a computer screen and photographed them with your phone, uploading everything in one batch.
I never gave it a second thought, because we didn’t have your phone to confirm.
BUT . . . clearing through the old Miss D e-mails tonight, I found the photos #ScandalWhore first sent me—the ones taken with her phone. They were original, unedited files, so they still had the associated metadata (technical details that cell and digital cameras store with the image file—file size, the time it was taken, location info, and the type of phone or camera used). I can’t believe I overlooked this before.
I’ve attached those originals here.
With this metadata—particularly the cell phone details—you can prove it’s Olivia with real evidence instead of hearsay. Then you can turn it over to Zeff, clear your name, and officially close the case.
I’m sorry. Until now, it didn’t occur to me that the photos in Miss D’s inbox contained data we could use, or I would’ve found an anonymous way to get it to you.
Hope it helps.
Yours truly,
Franklin
“Huh. Weird.” Kiara frowns at the data onscreen, a jumble of letters and numbers that might as well be launch codes for nuclear missiles.
It took me a while to find her home number in the Internet wormhole of our student directory, but as soon as I tracked her down and explained the situation, and swore that I didn’t hold Ash’s secret Miss D experiment against her, and bribed her with Ben & Jerry’s, she came over pretty much immediately.
Now we’re huddled in my bedroom over the computer and a carton of New York Super Fudge Chunk. I swallow a mouthful and pass her the spoon. “Guess it’s back to the drawing board.”
“It’s not that. It’s just—check this out.” With the spoon, she points to a line that looks like it might be a serial number. “The phone that took the picture of you and Cole on the deck isn’t even available in the States. It’s some super-high-tech conceptual thing. Crazy expensive. According to my research, it’s still in beta overseas.”
“Lucy Belle? You in here?” Mom pokes her head in the door, her smile widening when she sees Kiara.
I do a quick intro. “Kiara’s helping me, um, study.”
“For computer science,” Kiara says, at the same time that I say, “Physics.”
“Computer physics,” I say. “It’s highly conceptual. Lots of . . . computer . . . things.”
“I’m really good with computers.” Kiara’s smile is frozen on her face, like, We’re not shady AT ALL!
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Kiara,” Mom says. “It’s so rare that Lucy has friends over.”
“Mom!”
“Don’t be dramatic, sugarplum. It’s true! Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Dad’s making brisket tonight, so if you have any room left after that ice cream, come on down. Kiara, you’re welcome, too.”
“Thanks,” she says.
“Computer physics?” Mom crinkles her nose. “I don’t think we ever had anything like that when I was in school. I’ll leave you to it.”
With Mom finally gone, I turn back to Kiara, my stomach as cold as our predinner ice cream. “The beta phone . . . overseas where exactly?”
She squints at the numbers again, toggles back over to Google. “It’s Scandinavian. Finland.”
I CAME TO BRING THE PAIN AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT
There’s a text on my phone, news flash from Griff, and I’m sitting on our front porch pondering its blazing WTFery.
Griff: breaking! new info on olivia sitch. ryan/brian remembered other party antics & is sending me pix. meet @ picnic early to review? meeting ellie after that. sry i can’t hang. :-(
There aren’t any classes today, just a half day at Cosgrove Park for the senior class picnic. I didn’t tell Kiara what her findings meant, and after a sleepless night, I’ve been dressed and outside for an hour now, staring at my phone, Night of the Living Dog panting softly beside me.
Incapacitated.
Until the bathroom confrontation yesterday, I believed Griff’s theories about Olivia, convinced myself that Olivia had to be at the heart of this scandal. When Griff told me she’d found my phone in Olivia’s bag, I swallowed the tale, disappointed but not surprised.
And now that I have irrefutable evidence of the real perp, proof beyond that pesky shadow of a doubt?
It can’t be.
Griffin is one of my best friends.
Why would she do this to me? To Ellie?
I hit reply: good work, agent colanzi. meet under aspen grove @ north side of lake. 11AM.
• • •
Cosgrove Park is a sunny green blanket dotted with classmates and Frisbees and dogs. It’s a postcard, and half the class is here early, everyone excited to soak up the sun. To make those last-chance memories we’re supposed to make before the glory days pass us by in the blink of an eye in the summer of sixty-nine, or however that song goes.
But what are my last-chance memories? How will I look back on high school?
Ellie.
Cole.
Franklin/Miss Demeanor.
Asher, et al.
My sister.
Griffin.
It’s all too much, too unreal, a drama staged against this picture-perfect backdrop for entertainment purposes only. Maybe one of Jayla’s people did it, some twisted Angelica Darling publicity stunt, and any minute now, they’ll roll out the cameras and make a big announcement and we’ll laugh and eat cake like we were always in on the joke.
Night blows a breath through his nostrils. Even he knows we’re out of excuses.
With time to spare before Griff’s arrival, I guide us to the aspen grove, away from the popular sun-swept meadows where most of the class is starting to congregate. Night stakes out a patch of grass next to me, and after spreading out my blanket, I tie up his leash and set up his water bowl.
“Brains! Braaaaaains!”
Three human shadows fall over my legs, teetering and moaning in the breeze. Tens, Kiara, and Stephie stare down at me, faces caked in undead shades of gray, torsos cloaked in ripped green T-shirts hastily scrawled: L.O.H.S. Zombie Hoard!
“So, the whole horde effect is kind of lost when it’s just the three of you,” I say, “and when you spell ‘horde’ wrong. Also, real zombies don’t eat brains. Or talk. Why does everyone get that wrong?”
Tens leans toward me with his arms out. There’s gray face makeup caked into his dreads. “Braaaains!”
“Do you know how hard it is to crack open a human skull without, like, a bone saw? Our jaws don’t have the bite force to . . . Forget it.” I shake my head. “What are you guys even doing?”
Tens, still holding out his arms, moans, “Senior prank! Praaaank!”
“The prank was the campout
thing,” I say. “On the school lawn?”
His brow furrows. “Last I heard, Margo Hennessy was telling everyone it was the zombie horde invading the picnic thing.”
“She changed it,” I say. “To the campout.”
“Shit, dude. Why are we always the last to get the memo?” Tens says.
I hold up my phone. “Three guesses.”
“Guys, who cares what the masses say? We rock the zombie horde prank.” Stephie gives a defiant nod. “Lucy, we made you a shirt.”
She hands it over, and I tug it on over my tank top. “So, I love it, but as a zombie fangirl, I’m compelled to set the record straight.”
“Real zombies don’t eat brains,” Kiara says. “Got it.”
“Real zombies don’t exist, technically,” Stephie says. “But if they did,” she quickly adds after seeing my death stare, “no brain-munching.”
“Yes, and the spelling issue,” I say. “With these shirts, and our current count of four, we’re saying that we’re a very small but dedicated group of people who collect zombies.”
Kiara laughs. “I’m strangely okay with that.”
“Me too, actually.” I check out my new shirt. I kind of rock it. “Thanks, dudes.”
Stephie and Kiara sit down on the blanket next to me, both of them reaching over to pet Night, but Tens is feeding him bologna, and until it runs out, Night only has eyes for Tens.
“Where’s your fearless leader?” I ask.
Kiara nods toward a group of kids throwing pebbles into Cosgrove’s man-made lake. I wasn’t paying attention to them before, but now that I’m looking, I spot Ash right away. He’s wearing a sandwich board decorated with silver spaceships.
“Lying low today,” Kiara says. “He’s trying to spread the word about this UFO hunter group his brother’s starting at the middle school next year.”
In addition to the sandwich board, Ash has a hat that’s been user modified into a satellite dish.
“That’s lying low?” I say.
“He thinks you hate him,” she says.
“He’s not the one who wrote the column. I mean, he lied, but, you know.” I shrug. “Pot, meet kettle.”
“That’s what I told him when he asked us if we hated him,” Stephie says. “I think he just feels bad. Like, he was supposed to protect you, and somehow he let you down.”
I let out a sigh to match Night’s. “This has nothing to do with him. I’m not even all that mad at Franklin anymore. I’m just . . . I don’t like myself right now. That’s what it comes down to.”
Stephie frowns, blue eyes sparkling in her zombie-gray face. “Well, we like you, so there. And I think Franklin’s Team Lucy too. He’s moping alone under a tree, like, way on the other side of the park.”
“And what are you even talking about, Lucy?” Tens asks. “You basically rock. And also, are you going to eat that?” He points at my lunch bag as a fake blood capsule explodes in his mouth, oozing down his chin.
“Pretty sure zombies don’t like falafel either.”
“You have a lot of rules in your fantasy world.” Tens holds out his hand, and I surrender my lunch.
As Tens and Night wolf down my falafel wrap, I close my eyes, drifting off to the melodic sound of Ash ranting about the as-yet-fruitless search for extraterrestrial life.
When I open my eyes again, (e)VIL has taken their lunch-stealing horde mentality to another unsuspecting blanket of picnickers, and Griff is flopping down next to me, grinning in her aviator sunglasses.
She’s a brunette again, with a shaggy bob that comes midway between her chin and shoulder.
I watch her a minute as she makes herself comfortable, trying to figure out where to start. So far, all I’ve come up with is, “Cute hair.”
“I know, right? Ryan loves brunettes. Go figure.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling, tapping, scrolling. “He sent me, like, five pictures. I’m telling you, Olivia is way sketch. And she totally had your phone in her bag! I don’t see why we’re waiting. When do we bust this bitch?”
“Can I see?”
She hands over the phone. The picture onscreen is just Olivia’s bottle trick, same setup, different angle, and I realize now that this entire episode with the bottle probably lasted about eight seconds at the party. Eight seconds of her life, one stupid trick, one posing-under-the-influence dare that will now live on in infamy.
I flip through Griff’s other pictures—there aren’t that many. A few more Olivia shots from Ryan. A shot from today, some shirtless football guys playing Hacky Sack, which she must’ve taken on her walk over. A selfie of Griff in front of her bookshelf at home, still platinum blond. One of Franklin working at his computer.
We had a lot of fun together. The investigation, the Veronica Mars thing. Franklin, that first night on the phone, typing up his notes, advising me how to investigate. The day at my house, everyone in the TV room, all of us focused on the same goal. Everyone wanting to help me. To be my friends.
I swallow the tightness in my throat. “Do you still have the prom stuff on here?”
“Nah. I didn’t take that many,” she says with a shrug. “Remember? You were Ellie’s Leading Lady in Charge of Uploadables.”
“But you got a few, right? Like, the video of us in the bathroom? Because that was, like, private jokes. If it ever got out, it would make everything worse.”
“Ya think?” Griffin snorts. “I deleted that stuff as soon as I realized what was happening on your Facebook. I didn’t want anyone to find my phone and take that Cole stuff out of context.” She leans forward to flick a grasshopper off her knee. Poor guy doesn’t even see it coming. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Yeah, thanks.” My insides are on fire, fingers gripping her phone so hard it might crack. “There’s just one thing I’m not sure about. Metadata?”
Griff laughs. “Ground control to major freak show. I have a theory that you’ve been spending too much time with (e)VIL. Nice shirt, bee-tee-dubs.”
I smooth the fabric over my chest.
“Translation?” she says.
The Hacky Sack guys are on the screen again, and I click through the display options until the details come up. “Every digital picture captures information, and unless you tell it not to, it attaches that info to the image file.” I point to the data on the screen. “Shows the date and time it was taken—fifteen minutes ago, for this shot. Geolocation data. Whether the flash went off. File size. And the exact kind of phone that took the picture. See all these numbers and letters?”
Griff swallows hard, and when she speaks, her voice cracks, words forced into a laugh. “Slow down, geek squad. Thanks for the tips, but—”
“If you’re so inclined, you can Google these numbers to find the exact model of the phone, even down to the color, and the fact that this particular phone, for example, is still in beta and nearly impossible to get in the States. In fact, the only way to get one is to travel to Finland and bring it back, like your parents did. You know, I think you’re the only girl at Lav-Oaks who’s fortunate enough to have a phone like this. Lucky.”
Griffin’s face is as bleached as her former hair.
“With just a little sleuthing and technical savvy,” I continue, “you can learn a lot about photographs—and their photographers—from metadata. I was surprised to learn it myself. But then, I was investigating a scandal that turned my life upside down, so you might say I was highly motivated.”
“Lucy,” she chokes, “I’m—”
“Don’t.” I drop my smile and all manner of politeness. “I mean, if you were planning to start with denial, let’s just fast-forward to the part where you’re explaining yourself.”
Griffin pushes the sunglasses to the top of her head. “I never intended for it to get so out of control. It just happened. And then I couldn’t stop it.”
I knew that Griff was the perp the moment Kiara gave me the metadata report, the moment she said the photo came from an overseas phone. I knew she was the perp w
hen I watched all the color drain from her face just now as I spoke, knew by the set of her mouth that she’d really done it.
But hearing her admit it makes me shrivel up anyway.
“Why?” I ask.
Griff takes a deep breath. “It basically started at the cabin. In the bathroom? You were saying stuff to me about trying to get on Miss Demeanor and—”
“I was teasing! We always joke about that stuff.”
“No.” Griff shakes her head. “It was laced with something. It fucking hurt, Lucy. You called me a slut.”
“I didn’t—”
“Not out loud, maybe. But you were thinking it. It was all over your face.”
The grasshopper’s back, flitting around on the blanket near Griff’s legs, but she’s not paying attention to him. She’s got her eyes closed, her face still bedsheet-pale. “I was mad at you,” she says, “and I didn’t want to be. It was a party—prom!—we were supposed to have fun. So after all the excitement with John’s speech and the pond, after everyone was back inside, I went looking for you again. I wanted to talk. That’s when I saw you on the deck with Cole.”
“And you took a picture of us?”
“Lucy. Not an hour earlier, you were all judgy about me hooking up with guys. Then I catch you making out with your best friend’s barely-ex-boyfriend? That’s some serious what-the-fuckage.” She opens her eyes, stares out across the park. “I had my phone out, so I just snapped it, not thinking. Half the time my camera doesn’t even work, but it did that time. I figured I’d give you shit about the picture later.
“Then literally a few seconds later you’re making out with Marceau. And again I’m like, Who’s calling me a slut? Then you come inside with a jab about me making out with Paul—my date, not someone else’s boyfriend, by the way. Next thing, Cole comes down and tells me you’re sick. I knew there was more to it, but I figured we’d just talk in the morning, sober up.”
Night nudges Griffin’s hand with his nose, like, The last guy brought me bologna. Griff ignores him.
“I’m hanging out with Paul,” she says, “and suddenly people are saying you and Cole are upstairs doing it. I go check it out, never thinking it would go that far, but they’re kind of right. I mean, you weren’t doing it—”