by Kara Taylor
“Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?” Anthony asks once we’re back in the car.
“Because I think Steven Westbrook’s dead wife is Matt Weaver’s Eve.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Anthony idles by the post office curb while I Google Cynthia Westbrook on my phone.
There are two popular images of her that come up: a wedding portrait of her and Steven Westbrook, and the picture of Cynthia with Alexis and her younger brother.
Cynthia Westbrook was good-looking. Not good-looking in the polite way you’d describe Alexis, who actually looks like a horse, but pretty. She has the same defined cheekbones and fair, freckle-free complexion as Matthew Weaver’s Eve.
Another picture captures my attention, even though Cynthia isn’t in it. A man in a suit with his back to the camera holds the hand of a little blond girl. She can’t be more than five, and she’s wearing a black velvet dress. A stuffed dog with floppy ears is tucked under her arm.
Steven Westbrook attends funeral of wife and son with daughter, Alexis
I have to look away. It’s a picture capable of making an emotionally castrated person cry. Anger ignites in me, despite the fact that the little girl in the photo is nothing like the wench I know. How could Steven Westbrook hurt Alexis by having an affair with her friend’s mother? The man in the photo is holding his daughter’s hand as if she’s all he has in the world and he would do anything to protect her. I want to know what happened to that man—and if he’s capable of murdering a classmate.
“What’s the matter?” Anthony asks.
I close the tab with the photo. “Nothing.”
“Is it her?”
“I think so.”
“This sort of complicates things,” Anthony says. “Matt Weaver had the hots for the senator’s future wife. Could be the crew-team angle is completely off.”
“You’re thinking maybe this was a jealousy thing?” Disbelief creeps into my voice.
“Don’t you watch 48 Hours? Love triangles end in murder all the time.”
“But we don’t even know if there was a Matt Weaver–Cynthia–Steve Westbrook love triangle,” I say.
Anthony shrugs. “Guess we’ll have to find out. Who’s up next out of the guys in the photo?”
“Coach Tretter is right under my nose. And I can probably get to Travis Shepherd through his son, Casey.”
“Anyone else?”
I notice the hardness to the way he says it first. Then I move my gaze to his hands, tapping out an annoyed beat on the steering wheel. I straighten in my seat. “Did I do something?”
Anthony’s jawline hardens. “Depends. Did you not tell me your boyfriend’s dad is in the picture on purpose?”
“How did you—”
“Joan Weaver. Said some guy named Conroy was one of the people who donated money for Matt’s memorial. Said he has a son at Wheatley who’s probably our age.”
Crap. Anthony must have seen the name BRENT CONROY pop up on my phone when he texted me earlier. “I was going to tell you.”
Anthony finally looks at me. I search his expression frantically for a sign he’s not mad. “Is that what this is all about? You want to make sure you can bring this guy home to daddy?”
“That’s not what this is about.” It’s a lie, of course. As much as I want to know the truth because I’m convinced the crew team had something to do with it, I need to know Brent’s dad didn’t.
“Don’t lie to me,” Anthony says. “The Weaver case—this case—it means something to me. I grew up watching and reading everything I could on it, thinkin’ that someday maybe I’d be an FBI agent and maybe reopen the case. I know it sounds stupid coming from me, since I couldn’t even get hired as a traffic cop now. But I used to want to be something.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m surprised he’s sharing something so personal with me, in spite of all the weirdness between us. Brent has never told me anything like that. I have no idea what his dreams are or what he really wants, besides being able to eat an entire sleeve of Oreos without going into diabetic shock.
It’s perilous territory—comparing Brent and Anthony like this. Especially since I can’t picture a version of my life without Brent in it. Anthony has been missing for long enough that I know I can be happy without him. Better off, even.
But he’s the only person who understands why I can’t let the Matt Weaver thing go. Why I can’t let anything go, really.
If this is going to work—us seeing each other again, poking around into the case—I have to let Anthony go. Or at least the version of him—feverish, kissing me, wanting me—that I’ve been hanging on to all this time.
* * *
Brent and the guys are hiking when I get back to the dorms, so I spend the rest of the afternoon doing homework. I want to find out if Sonia Russo was a student at Wheatley, but Student Records and Registration isn’t open until Monday anyway. After dinner, I agree to watch TV with Remy, Kelsey, and April in the Amherst common room. I guess the only mystery I’ll be attempting to solve tonight is why otherwise intelligent girls are obsessed with re-runs of The Bachelor.
When April brings up the subject of spring formal after-parties, Kelsey mumbles something about being cold and going to get a sweatshirt from their room.
“She thinks I’m mad at her.” Remy pulls her knees up to her chest, as if she wants her corner of the couch to swallow her whole.
“You weren’t exactly enthusiastic when she told you Cole asked her to the formal,” April says.
“I said ‘Great!’” Remy’s voice slides up an octave. “What did you guys want, balloons and a dance?”
“She obviously wants you to tell her that it’s okay, Rem.” April rolls her eyes.
They bicker some more, with me sitting between them, cracking open pistachio nuts. Occasionally, they try to get me involved, but I keep my mouth shut, because I can’t keep listening to this shit and giving my opinions without charging eighty dollars an hour.
“Hey,” I cut in. “Where are we going for the after-party, anyway?”
Remy’s lips fold together. “We have a few options.”
She says it in a way that makes me think we’re going to wind up in the boys’ dorm, sipping wine coolers Sebastian smuggled in.
“Usually Cole has a party at his family’s condo on Beacon Hill,” April says. “But his dad is living there now, so…”
“Sebastian said we can use his family’s boat,” Remy says.
“Ugh.” April makes a face. “It’ll be too cold for that.”
I’m fairly certain Sebastian’s boat is heated, because when rich people say boat they really mean big-ass yacht. “What are our other options?”
April shrugs. “Casey Shepherd is having a party.”
This gets my attention: Being inside Casey’s house could mean collecting valuable intel on Travis Shepherd. “Why don’t we go to that?”
“We never really hang out with Casey. The guys think he’s a tool,” April says.
I catch Kelsey look over at Remy, who is silent as she twirls a lock of hair around her finger.
“Come on,” I plead. “We always hang out with just us and the guys. It’s like we’re hobbits or something.”
“You’ve been spending way too much time with Brent,” Remy grumbles.
“Also,” April says, “I don’t know if we’re invited.”
“That won’t be a problem,” I say. Because I’m going to get us invited.
They should really know how I operate by now.
* * *
The guy at Student Records and Registration doesn’t seem happy to see me. He barely looks up from his computer as he says, “What can I help you with?”
“I was wondering if you could tell me the year a former student graduated,” I say. “But she would have gone here thirty years ago.”
“She should still be in the system.” The guy’s eyebrows knit together. He looks as if he wants to ask me what the hell I need this info
rmation for at eight on a Monday morning.
“Great. Her name is Sonia Russo,” I say.
I apply some lip salve as he types the name into his computer. “Are you sure she was a student here?” He asks. “I can’t find her.”
“Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.”
I’m out of there before he can ask any more questions. I text Anthony on my way to class:
Sonia Russo never went to Wheatley.… Think you can pull a few strings?
I have to do deep breathing exercises before British literature. It’s the first time Brent and I will be alone since Thursday night. We won’t really be able to talk or anything, but still. I need to make things right with him, even though he doesn’t know something is wrong.
When Fowler isn’t looking, Brent puts his hand my knee. He traces up my leg, far enough to make me blush and nearly choke when I’m called on to read a verse from the anthology.
“I miss you,” I say when class is over. He pulls me in so our hips are touching.
“Now you see why I hate boarding school so much. No time to be alone.”
“Guess we’ll have to get creative. What are you doing Saturday night?”
Brent’s eyes move to my hands, which are playing with his tie. “We have this thing for crew. But I’m all yours after that.”
“What type of thing?” I try to keep my voice innocent.
Brent shrugs. “Just a bonding thing we do every year.”
Frustration pulls at me. Why can’t he tell me? “Brent. You guys aren’t doing anything dangerous, right?”
“Of course not. What makes you think that?”
That awful photo. The way Tretter talked about The Drop. Everything. “You guys are always so secretive.”
Brent traces the space between my thumb and forefinger. It would feel amazing if he wasn’t avoiding my eyes. “It’s just this tradition. The secrecy is part of it.”
“I just don’t want you to get in trouble. Or worse.”
Brent looks at me as if he finally hears what I’ve been dancing around. “Worse? It’s all harmless.”
I wish I could tell him why I can’t believe him, and that I’m not being a paranoid girlfriend. That his team is hiding something. His father could be hiding something.
And worse, I have to consider that Brent could be hiding something, too.
* * *
It’s not hard to find Casey Shepherd after classes: Practically the whole school is on the quad, soaking up as much afternoon sun as possible before club meetings and sports practices begin. Casey is sitting under the giant oak tree—prime hanging-out real estate— with Bea, Vera, and a dark-skinned guy with a closely shaved head.
They’re immersed in conversation as I pass them. I hang by a bike rack off the main path, pretending I’m waiting for someone. From the corner of my eye, I see Casey look up and notice me. Across the quad, I spot Ms. C leaving the humanities building. She’s not alone—Dr. Muller walks with her, carrying a stack of textbooks. Ms. C leans in and says something in his ear. They laugh, and he touches her arm. Good for Ms. C—I appreciate a girl who moves fast when she sees something she wants.
I look back over at the group under the oak tree. I casually head for the dorms, but I make sure to lock eyes with Casey.
He smiles and waves me over. “Hey. How’s it going?”
Casey makes room for me to sit. I kneel on the grass next to him.
“Guys, you know Anne, right?”
Bea gives me a stiff smile. “You live on the third floor.”
Vera waves to me. The guy nods. “I’m Erik.”
“So you’re from New York,” Casey says.
“Yup. Manhattan.”
“That’s pretty sweet,” Casey says. “Columbia tried to recruit me to row, but I’m still holding out for the naval academy.”
I have to press my fingers to my mouth as I nod politely, because I’m not sure what’s funnier: the thought of Casey trying to find his way around Harlem, or picturing him being forced to shave his Calvin Klein locks.
“The naval academy is watching him row next week,” Bea informs me. “There’s no way he’s not getting in.”
Casey gives Bea an Oh, stop it nudge with his shoulder, and I have to swallow the urge to vomit everywhere. I force a smile instead. “Do you know where you’re going to college, Bea?”
She lights up. Clearly I’ve touched on her favorite topic. “Well, Princeton is my first choice, but Wellesley offered me a full scholarship—”
“Wellesley is a lesbian school,” Casey cuts in. “You’re not going there.”
Bea’s lips fold into a line, but she doesn’t argue. I stare at Casey, suppressing the urge to blurt Controlling douche says what?
His misinterprets my blank stare as me checking him out. Casey smiles and nods to the Brit-lit textbook by my knees. “Do you have Fowler?”
“Yep. Does he ever … lighten up?”
Erik shakes his head as Casey says, “Not really.”
Bea stares us down. “Actually, he’s a really great teacher if you pay attention to his lectures.”
And if Bea paid attention to anything, she’d know that it’s impossible to start a sentence with the word actually and not sound like an obnoxious bitch. I return her frosty smile. “Guess I should quit snorting coke and running Ponzi schemes from my laptop during class.”
I think I’ve sufficiently horrified her and Vera, but Casey is laughing beside me. “Trust me, the only thing that matters is his final. Half of it’s on Paradise Lost.”
“Wonderful.”
“Little secret: Get The Satanic Epic by Neil Forsyth. I read it and I slew his final.”
As strong as his jerk vibes are, I have to respect a guy who uses the proper past tense for the word slay. “Thanks for the tip,” I say.
As I say I have to meet my friends and I get up, I think I hear Casey whisper to Erik something disgusting about giving me a tip anytime I want.
Great. At least I know what I’m dealing with now.
* * *
In the mailroom that afternoon, there’s a slip of paper waiting for me. I have a package. I already got a few for my birthday a couple of weeks ago: a tea infuser from Chelsea, boots from my mother, and an SAT-prep book from my dad. So I wonder who would be sending me something now.
There’s no return address on the small brown parcel. Somehow, I don’t think there’s a birthday gift inside. I wait until I get to my room to open it.
I slide my finger beneath the wrapping and feel plastic ridges. A cassette tape? I peel the rest of the paper away, revealing an unlabeled VHS tape. I turn it over in my hands, looking for some sort of note.
I find myself wandering to Remy’s room. Her door is open and she’s standing in front of her mirror, fixing her hair for the SGA meeting.
“Where can I find a VCR?” I say from the doorway.
Remy blinks at me. “Um, the nineties?”
“No, really.”
“I think the first-floor common room has one,” she says around the bobby pin between her lips.
I take two steps down the hall before convincing myself to turn back. The first-floor common room is practically Amherst Command Central: There are always meetings in there, or stupid “social events” where underclassmen can make their own ice cream sundaes while listening to people like Bea Hartley convince them to volunteer for her senior service project.
The only way I can watch this video is after everyone goes to bed. But that’s okay, because I’m no stranger to the night.
* * *
I’m lying on my stomach, Spark-Notes-ing The Faerie Queene when Darlene starts knocking on doors down the hall. “Lights out,” she says each time. Technically, we’re allowed to stay up as late as we want, as long as we turn our room lights and music off by eleven on weeknights.
Finally, there’s a soft knock on my door. “Anne. Light’s out.”
“’Night, Darlene.” I turn my lamp off and listen to her footsteps fade down the
hall. I watch the minutes tick by on my phone until Darlene’s door closes. I can barely keep my eyes open, but at the same time, I can’t stop thinking about the video.
I finish up my homework and wait until twelve-thirty before slipping the video in the front of my NYU sweatshirt and heading downstairs. The only light in the hall is coming from the bathroom. It’s quiet enough that I can hear a toilet flush. I use the stairwell to go directly down to the lounge so I won’t get caught roaming the halls in the middle of the night.
The only sound in the first-floor lounge is the whir of the refrigerator. The full moon outside creates a small circle of light in the middle of the room. I use it to find my way to the television.
There are a million different devices plugged into the TV. With one hand, I hold my phone up for light, and with the other, I switch around a few wires to get the VCR to work. It swallows my cassette, the clicking sounds inside matching my heartbeat as the tape settles into place.
White lines flick across the screen. I quickly turn the volume down so Emma can’t hear anything from the RA desk down the hall in the lobby. I kneel on the carpet, tucking my feet under my legs, as the image on the screen loads mid-shot, as if the first few moments of the program got cut off.
A man walks toward the camera. The woods behind him could be the woods anywhere.
“Join us tonight, as Dateline investigates a decades-old mystery.”
On the bottom of the screen, a title flashes: INTO THIN AIR: THE MATTHEW WEAVER STORY.
The muscles in the small of my back constrict. Who sent me this?
The shot on the screen cuts to a view of downtown Wheatley. The camera quality isn’t very good, and there’s no Dunkin’ Donuts on Main Street, so I figure this episode has to be at least five or ten years old.
The camera zooms in on a dumpy-looking diner on the corner of Main Street. In the window, there’s a newspaper article with Matt Weaver’s picture next to it. The headline says VIGIL HELD FOR MISSING WHEATLEY STUDENT. The still image fades into a shot of a river, as the host explains Matt’s background: the only son of local business owners, the first in his family to attend high school, crew-team champion. I curl onto the lounge couch.