by Kara Taylor
“Is that blood?” I say. Suddenly, I’m dizzy.
Anthony is quiet as he removes the second item from the box. A yellowed piece of paper, folded in half. He reads the note to me.
If you’re reading this, something happened to me and I couldn’t come back. I need you to do something very important. Please call the police and tell them there’s a body at 207 South Lake Drive, Brody. Behind the lake house. If her mother is still alive, please show her this note. I need her to know why I had to wait to tell where Sonia is. I had to get away from this place first, so I wouldn’t wind up just like her.
“Brody is almost an hour from here.” Anthony’s voice is low. “Really remote. Right on Lake Brighton.”
“Perfect place to hide a body.” My stomach is sick as I try to keep my eyes off of Sonia’s necklace, lying at the bottom of the box.
Anthony drags his hands down his face, leaving a streak of dirt beneath his eye. “We need to get as far away from this as possible. Let the cops find her body.”
I nod mechanically, not even realizing a tear has slipped down my cheek until Anthony wipes it away. “Hey. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “It’s just … she really is dead. And it’s stupid, because I don’t even know her, but I really didn’t want her to be. Why can’t these stories end differently for once?”
“Yeah, well, it’s not over yet,” Anthony says darkly. “But you really need to sleep first. Before you get so overtired you can’t.”
I’m about to tell Anthony that I know the feeling well, and I’ve already reached that point—then I remember the pills in my nightstand. The “emergency” supply of Ativan Dr. Rosenblum gave me when I admitted I was having trouble sleeping. Nightmares of Dr. Harrow. Dr. Rosenblum pretty much grilled me with questions designed to make sure I wasn’t planning on starting an underground prescription-drug ring at the Wheatley School before giving me a grand total of ten pills.
There are two left. I take them both and climb into bed. Anthony lies behind me, curling his body around mine protectively. The last thing I feel is his chin resting on the top of my head, before I give in to a sleep guaranteed free from dreams of Matt Weaver dressed as Adam, soundlessly mouthing the words Find me.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
Anthony is gone when I wake up. It’s still dark out, which makes me question how early he left. I should be worried about whether or not he remembered to pull the bookcase back over the tunnel entrance after he slipped through, but I’m too exhausted to get up and check.
The screen of my phone says it’s 5:15 A.M. I turn on my lamp and sit up, lifting up my shirt. When I brush the dried blood away from my cut, it doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did last night. But something else isn’t right.
Matt Weaver’s box. It’s not on the floor of my closet, where we left it.
I throw my comforter off of me. Panic, panic, panic. There’s a note on my desk, written on a piece of my computer paper.
Left around 2 so no one would see me dropping the box off at the Brody Police Dept. Going home after that. Call me when you wake up.
I’m going to. But first, I check the news app on my phone, even though I know nothing will be there. Yet.
Anthony answers his phone by yawning. “The box is safe.”
“No one saw you, right?” I ask.
“Nope. Had to resist driving by Two-oh-seven South Lake Drive, though.”
“That’s the last place you need to be seen,” I hiss. “God, Anthony.”
“Relax. You know I’d never put us in danger like that.” His voice is a step above a whisper now. “We need to lay low when word about Sonia’s body gets out. Our friend from last night probably works for whoever killed her and Matt.”
“Assuming we’re dealing with the same person.”
I think of what Matt did to Vanessa Reardon, with a sick feeling in my stomach. Had he done the same thing to Sonia? If so, had she fought back?
“Either way, whoever’s behind this is going to get spooked,” Anthony said. “It might be a couple days before the cops follow up on the tip about the body. Doesn’t give us much time to figure out who the fake electrician is, but I’ll call Dennis in a few hours.”
I remember something. “Thomas Petrocelli. That’s the name the guy used to sign in. And for him to get past the security gate, he had to have shown a legit ID.”
“I’ll have Dennis check it out,” Anthony says. “I’m going to try to sleep a bit until my dad wakes up. I had kind of a wild night.”
I blush. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Nah. You’re a cover hog. And you mumble a lot.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ll call you in a few hours.” His voice becomes serious. “Try to stay out of trouble until then, okay?”
“Aye, aye, captain,” I say around a yawn of my own. We hang up, and I settle in to try to sleep for a few more hours. But not before making sure my door is bolted and my pepper spray is next to my pillow.
* * *
I’m starving when I wake up for real; I haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday. The only problem is that I might see my friends in the dining hall, and two-thirds if not more of them hate me at the moment.
I need to apologize to Remy. I circle the dining hall searching for her and scarfing down a banana as I go. I spot Kelsey and April sitting alone at a small table by the window. They don’t smile when they see me. At least they’re not with the guys.
“Hey.” I tread carefully, trying to gauge how much Remy told them about last night. To my surprise, Kelsey actually pulls out a chair for me. Neither of them looks pissed, which they would definitely be if they knew the awful things I’d said. They just seem … worried.
“Where is Rem?” I peel the top off my coffee cup, letting some steam out. April and Kelsey look at each other.
“In the bathroom,” April says.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
“It’s Casey,” Kelsey whispers. “He and Bea broke up.”
“What does that have to do with Remy?”
Kelsey looks like she’s going to be sick. “Casey didn’t realize we were behind him on the omelet line. He said something horrible to Justin and Erik.”
“What did he say?” I demand.
“I don’t want to repeat it,” Kelsey whispers, like a little kid who heard her parents curse for the first time. April is staring at me in a way that makes it totally obvious whatever Casey said is really going to make me angry.
“Kelsey.” I set my coffee cup down. “Come on.” I don’t have time for this bullshit, I want to scream in her face.
“Casey said, ‘Bea still thinks I’m fucking Remy Adams. I’m not, but how much you want to bet by the end of the year I’ll have nailed her and her new best friend, Anne, now that she dumped Conroy?’” Kelsey hunches over her own coffee cup, as if she’s done something wrong. “Sorry.”
I don’t blink. “Where is he?”
“Casey?”
“Yes.”
April chimes in. “I think he’s in the atrium.…”
I look out the pane of glass separating the main dining hall from the atrium. It’s warm today, so there aren’t any free tables out there. Casey is sitting at the biggest table, spinning the umbrella stuck through its center and telling a story to his friends. Bea, Vera, and the other girls are not with them.
“Anne, wait!” Kelsey calls, but I’m already at the atrium door. I don’t stop until I’m standing in front of Casey Shepherd, who gives me a smile as if he can’t believe his luck.
“Anne.” He stands up to give me his chair. How chivalrous. “We were just talking about you.”
“I’ll bet you were.” I return his smile. Then I punch him in the nose.
* * *
Dean Snaggletooth pulls a bottle of Tylenol from her desk and pops two before she says a word to me. I almost ask if her I can have some, but I don’t want to give her more inappropriate behavior to put in my file.
“I didn’t ‘attack’ him.” Crap. There’s one sentence. I gnaw my bottom lip. “He made an extremely lewd comment about me and one of my friends.”
Dean Snaggletooth stares at me. The morning light trickling in through her office window exposes the stray gray hairs in her red bun. “And you think that is an acceptable reason to resort to violence?”
Anger at her needles me. “Look, Casey isn’t the sweet little boy he pretends to be. I could tell you things. Lots of things.”
Dean Tierney’s mouth pinches into an Oh really? smile. I think she’s about to put the nail in my coffin, tell me I’m expelled, when her desk phone rings. She sighs and answers with, “I’m dealing with something.”
Tierney is quiet for a moment. “Tell him he’ll have to take a seat until I’m finished here.”
She stares right at me as she listens to the voice on the other end of the phone. I break her gaze and glance around her office, finding mundane objects to focus on. The framed photo of a horse on Tierney’s bookshelf. Her degree from Smith College.
I squint to get a better look at it. When I read the name on the degree, it feels as if the room is collapsing around me.
Jacqueline Annette Reardon
“Reardon,” I say.
Tierney’s eyes snap to me. “Excuse me?”
“Your maiden name is Reardon. Are you related to Vanessa?”
Tierney’s hand quivers just enough so I can hear the voice at the other end of the phone: “Hello? What should I tell him?”
“I said tell him to wait, damn it.” Tierney’s face is red as she hangs up. I squirm in my chair. I’ve never seen her like this before. Even when the FBI agent monitoring Professor Andreev showed up at school looking for me, Tierney maintained her ridiculously punishing composure.
“Is there a reason you’re so interested in my sister, Anne? Because my patience with you is wearing dangerously thin.”
The look on Tierney’s face is dangerous in itself. I’m too floored to be scared. Sister. Vanessa Reardon is Tierney’s sister.
“I know what they did to her,” I blurt. “Matt Weaver and Pierce Conroy. They hurt her and no one did anything about it. You know that, right? It’s why you didn’t go to school here?”
Tierney looks as if she wants to leap across her desk and choke me. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, Miss Dowling, but those are some serious accusations you’re making.”
“How could you?” The words tumble out of my mouth. “How could you let Lee Andersen off with a slap on the wrist for stalking Isabella? He could have hurt her, just like Matt Weaver and Pierce Conroy hurt Vanessa—”
“Get out of my office.” Tierney’s voice is calm. So calm I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
“What?” I say.
“Get. Out. Of my office. Now.”
I stand up and back toward her door. I don’t know what the hell just happened. Tierney’s secretary is arguing with a man in the waiting area. I almost trip over the carpet when I see that it’s Travis Shepherd.
He does not look amused to see me, but he smiles and extends a hand. “You must be Miss Dowling. Tell me, did Casey deserve it?”
I stare at his hand. His nails are rounded, his palms callous-free. I don’t accept the handshake. Never trust an older man who gets manicures.
“I apologize, Mr. Shepherd.” I put on my best sheepish smile. “I got carried away at something Casey said, but boys will be boys, I guess.”
Travis Shepherd smiles again. He never smiles with his teeth, I notice. “Well, hopefully we can clear this up and put it behind us.”
I don’t know what to say, so I settle for a polite “Thank you” as Tierney’s office door opens. When she sees Travis Shepherd, anger flashes across her stiff poker face. In that moment I realize that however much Dean Snaggletooth hates me, she hates Travis Shepherd more.
“Mr. Shepherd.” She gives him an icy nod. No handshake. “I believe I left you a message that Casey is doing fine and already preparing for his race this afternoon.”
“You can’t blame a father for wanting to see for himself.” Shepherd gestures to Tierney’s office. “May we speak in private?”
Tierney glances at me, telling me with her eyes to get as far away from the administration building as possible. Is she actually going to let me off the hook? She turns and opens the door to her office, leaving me stunned.
As I turn to get the hell out of there, Travis Shepherd grabs my arm. He leans in close to my ear—so close I can smell cologne and coffee and what I think might be nicotine gum. “Stay away from my family, Anne Dowling,” he whispers. “Or it’ll be the last thing you do.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
Anthony warned me to stay out of trouble for a few hours, yet somehow I managed to punch Casey Shepherd in the face, piss off Dean Tierney, and get threatened by Travis Shepherd. I hold this little piece of irony back when I call Anthony, because I don’t think he’ll appreciate it.
“Did you get ahold of Dennis?” I’m on a bench behind the library. I know no one is listening to me; they’re either playing Frisbee on the quad or getting ready to see the Wheatley vs. Downington race this afternoon. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the dorm. All of the evidence related to Matt Weaver—his letters to Cynthia, my notebook, the box key, the crew team photo—are in my bag. Lesson learned from last night: There’s no such thing as a safe hiding place at the Wheatley School.
“Yeah. He’s still on call for the next few hours, but he says he’ll see what he can do,” Anthony says. His voice is clipped. Annoyed.
“It sounds like there’s something more.”
Anthony lets out a stream of air. “He’s pissed, Anne. That I didn’t tell him what this is really about. If Den got caught pulling records for us, and someone figured out Sonia Russo’s connection to the Weaver case…”
“And that’s my fault?” I ask. “You didn’t want to tell Dennis the truth, either, Anthony.”
“Did I say it was your fault? Don’t give me an attitude ’cause you didn’t get your beauty rest.”
I breathe out my nose. Let my grip on my phone tighten. Convince myself to let it go. I’m not going to snipe back at him, let this conversation turn into some battle of the egos that leaves us not speaking to each other. That never ended well for us in the weeks after Isabella’s murder. And I’m not going to lose him again. Not when it feels like I just got him back.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I’m just scared, and I don’t know what to do.”
“I know,” Anthony says. “But we can trust Den. I’ve known him for most of my life. He’s not like those other cops who give themselves to the highest bidder. He’s going to get out of Wheatley, someday. At least I hope.”
I don’t say it, but I hope we all get out of Wheatley.
* * *
Remy doesn’t answer after my first knock. She does turn off her light and The Fray song playing on her laptop. I roll my eyes.
“I know you’re in there,” I say. “Please talk to me, Remy. I’m so, so sorry.”
The light flicks back on. More silence. I sigh and turn to walk away, when the door creaks open an inch. I push it open and find Remy lying facedown on her bed.
I sit by her feet. “I was such a bitch. It’s just, I wasn’t mad about you and Brent at first, but the more I thought about it, I convinced myself there was a reason you guys didn’t tell me. I felt so stupid, like the two people I trusted most were in on some joke I wasn’t.”
Remy just lies there. Unresponsive. I put a hand on her back to make sure she’s still breathing. She is.
Finally, a muffled sound comes out. She turns on her side and looks at me with red-tinged eyes. “Do you love Brent?”
My insides curl. What does that have to do with anything? “I don’t know, Rem. I was really falling for him. But he’s
not who I thought he was.”
Remy wipes her eyes. “None of those stupid guys are. That’s the problem. They tell you you’re the smartest, prettiest girl in school, and the next day they’re back to their girlfriends and you’re just a home-wrecking slut.”
“Do not call yourself that ever again,” I say. “It’s just their word to make us hate one another. And we can’t.”
Remy’s voice is far off. She stares at the opposite side of the room, as if she sees something I can’t. “Alexis was my best friend growing up, but she was so controlling and manipulative. We had to play at her house. I had to be the ugly stepsister when we acted out Cinderella. Cole was the only thing she wanted and couldn’t get.”
I’ve never heard Remy like this—not bubbly or excitable but monotone, sad. Real.
“You probably think I’m horrible,” she says.
“No. I think you’re more like me than I realized before.”
Remy smiles. “I’ve never had, like, a real girl best friend. Alexis doesn’t count, and Apes and Kelsey are closer to each other. You’re the first person I could see, you know, making a toast at my wedding. It sounds dumb.”
I lie down on the bed next to her. We stare at the black decal of the Eiffel Tower on the ceiling. How did she get it up there?
“So you don’t hate me?” I ask.
Remy links her pinky through mine. “Nope. You really punched Shep for me?”
“And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
* * *
When Anthony said we were meeting Dennis somewhere “discreet,” I didn’t imagine the back of his police cruiser, pulled up to a scenic overlook. The Wheatley School is visible in the distance. From far away, it looks much less grand. Like a toy village a kid would play with.
Beside us is a sign that reads DANGER! NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED UNDER MASSACHUSETTS PENAL CODE.
Anthony was right about Dennis being pissed; he hasn’t said a word to us the entire drive up here. He puts the car in park, reaches under the seat, and emerges with a brown paper bag. I half expect him to take a swig out of it, but instead, he hands it back to me.