Rival (Briarcliff Secret Society Series Book 1)

by Ketley Allison

  My phone’s where I left it—tangled in my bed covers, and I send Ivy a text to let her know I’m headed into town for breakfast, exploration, and groceries, and I’d love a buddy. She responds immediately, and we agree to meet in front of the school in an hour.

  I’m early, but it’s never relaxing hanging out in my dorm room, so I swing my tote onto my shoulder and step out.

  The hall is quiet, girls taking advantage of no classes and sleeping in. The usual “guard” from the local university is at the front desk, glasses perched on her nose and typing on her laptop. She grunts a greeting as I walk by.

  Outside, the cool air brushing against my cheeks brings the promise of fall as my feet tread on the path. I’m looking forward to all these trees turning sunburnt orange, bright reds, and chocolate browns—all the colors social media posts promise. Living in Manhattan, I didn’t get much fall, New York City basically leveling out into two seasons—winter and construction work. Trees don’t change from green to anything. Instead, they turn into skeletons reaching their bare branches toward gray skies. If I ever wanted to immerse myself in autumn, I suppose I could’ve strolled through Central Park, but it’s so overloaded with tourists, cyclists, and joggers, I could never find a moment’s peace.

  Here, though, at Briarcliff, I could appreciate fall in the quiet.

  My head tilts to the left, and I picture my mom walking beside me, as excited about the changing season as me, since her hikes were planned around September and October for this reason.

  Picture it, Calla-baby, the colors of painters’ dreams. Peek through the fog with me. Go on, look. See, baby.

  My throat goes thick, and I pinch the skin of my forearm to drive the sudden pain somewhere else. But my daydream has pointed out how foggy it’s become, like the clouds have dropped from the sky to lay their tired forms on Briarcliff’s bed of grass.

  And … I’m somewhere unfamiliar.

  In my daze, I’ve gone in the opposite direction of the school, towards the cliffs. My nightmare clung to my subconscious with such tangible firmness that it propelled me in the direction of Lover’s Leap.

  Alert curiosity propels me farther into the trees, following the sounds of crashing waves until I reach a metal gate with a piece of yellow police tape flapping in the salted breeze.

  The jagged end of the large rock is obvious from this distance, even in the fog. It looms majestically, promising a beautiful view but a horrific death, and I can’t bring myself to try and get around the fencing.

  I step back, the gray mist clinging to the roots at my feet, obscuring the forest floor.

  A flash of movement brings my gaze up.

  It’s a foot, disappearing under a flap of fabric as whatever—whoever—it is, runs back into the forest.

  A tightness fills my chest, and the rising nausea tastes a lot like fear.

  I’m alone, in the woods, near the cliff where Piper died. Daylight doesn’t change that.

  “Nope. Not doing this,” I mutter, and wheel around to march back to campus.

  I power-walk so fast, the tops of Briarcliff’s pointed roofs come into view within minutes, but not much else.

  A flicker of movement brings me to a stop.

  “Hey!” I call into the closest canopy of trees. “I see you!”

  Nothing but the faded chirps of birds respond. Gritting my teeth, I dare myself to say, “How about you go back to your boiling cauldron and leave me the hell—”

  A figure steps out from behind the thick oaks, clad in a dark cloak, the hood so large, it obscures this person’s face.

  The fabric falls back from the figure’s arm as they lift a finger to their shadowed profile, then whisper, “Shhh…”

  My brows slam down, but before I can retort, the figure melts back into the fog, and I’m left with the birds.

  A low-key buzz emits from my phone in my bag. I dig for it as I continue my trek to the main building. Lifting it, I read:

  Unknown Number: WATCH YOUR BACK.

  Unknown Number:

  The GIF loads automatically and shows one scene where I’m pushing Piper to the dining hall’s floor, in full-on Carrie mode with my face and hair soaked with pasta sauce. Then, it switches to a scene of me elbowing Piper in the nose, smiling as blood drips from between her fingers when she clutches her face. Same cafeteria background. Different day.

  Importantly, the day she died, and showing evidence that I was angry enough to retaliate.

  Three dancing dots appear, then are replaced by a video. The freeze screen shows me enough, but I press play, cringing before Piper’s accusations sound out.

  “…so, you think hurling insults at me was nothing? Refusing to do your half of our history essay? Vowing to ruin my GPA and my life? What about vandalizing my bedroom? Smearing my lipstick all over our bathroom mirror? You’re fucking nuts, Callie! Fucking certified!”

  I lower the phone, scanning my surroundings for a glimpse of that hooded man, but my mind’s severed between the figure and what was sent to my phone.

  Someone filmed proof of my possible motive to kill Piper hours before she toppled off Lover’s Leap. Enough to reopen the case.

  My phone buzzes again.

  Unknown Number: STAY QUIET.

  32

  I’m being threatened.

  Or blackmailed. How do they know what I’ve found? What I’ve read in Piper’s diary? Is this about the existence of Mr. S?

  This video … it could go to Haskins with a simple ‘send,’ and whoever gave me this wants me to know they have the power.

  I can’t walk the rest of the way back to campus alone without fear of the Cloak coming back, despite the relative safety of the school nearby, so I do the next best thing.

  I phone Ahmar. He’s familiar. Safe.

  He picks up after one ring. “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Hey. Am I interrupting you?”

  “Nah … well, sorta. I’m at a crime scene, but I could take five.”

  The lightness of his tone lets me know that the scene is more violent than he’s letting on. Even in a different state, he tries to protect me from the worst—despite me already seeing the worst humanity has to offer.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “I kinda … have news.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  My pressing need to call Ahmar dissipates. I have to tell him about Piper. It’s the type of billionairess death to go national, and Marron already put out a release to the parents and guardians.

  Ahmar wouldn’t receive that kind of head’s-up, and I have no idea if my dad would care to fill him in. I haven’t heard from Dad or Lynda since the tragedy happened.

  I aim to get it over with in one fell swoop. “So, my roommate died.”

  “What?”

  “She—she fell off a cliff. The police are saying it was an accident.”

  “Jesus Christ, Calla. Are you okay?”

  “Fine. I mean, shaken up, but I’m doing all right.”

  “Should I come visit?”

  “No, I’m handling myself. But I can’t help but think there’s something I’m missing.”

  Ahmar predicts where I’m going. “Hun…”

  “What if there’s suspicious evidence being overlooked, Ahmar?

  “Sweetheart, the last time you thought this—”

  I dismiss his argument before it starts. “This is completely different. Piper’s death doesn’t make sense. Kids don’t go to this cliff alone in the dark to meditate. They go to hook up, or do drugs, or whatever they can while teachers pretend nothing’s going on. There was a party that night. Why did she stay there when everyone else left?”

  “If the police are saying it was an accident…”

  “Sure, her fall might’ve been, but what is the reason she stayed?” I ask before I chicken out, “Can you look into it? Maybe find out her blood alcohol level and see if she was so drunk that she…”

  “Calla,” Ahmar asks. “Is this about your roommate or your moth
er?”

  “It’s about something fishy in this school,” I say, in as calm a manner as I can. “This isn’t some sort of crutch about my mom. If you could just call the precinct—his name is Haskins. You’re a cop. He’s a cop. Maybe he’ll be candid with you.”

  “Hun, it sounds like the case is closed.”

  “Please?”

  Ahmar sighs. “I’ll talk to this Haskins guy. I’m not gonna promise anything. He’s in a different jurisdiction. He doesn’t owe me anything.”

  “I know,” I say. “But I’d like to understand why he called it an accident.”

  “Okay. But please, Calla, try to focus on your studies and making friends. Getting involved in all this … it’s not healthy for you. Briarcliff was meant to be your escape.”

  “Now that you’re on it, I’ll back off, Ahmar. I swear.”

  Ahmar knows me well enough not to be convinced. But I know that he’s at an active crime scene and doesn’t have time to lecture me. “I love you, kiddo. I gotta go.”

  “Thanks, Ahmar,” I say, and click off as I’m approaching Briarcliff’s buildings.

  That last message told me to be quiet. I’ll do as they warn, but that doesn’t mean I can’t coax others to be louder.

  And that begins with Piper’s diary.

  Ivy’s sitting on the steps to the main building, absently scrolling through her phone when I arrive.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say, breathless as I plop down beside her.

  “No worries.” Ivy gives me a second look. “Did you run here?”

  “Not exactly,” I say after a huff of breath. “Did you call a car?”

  Ivy pats my shoulder affectionately. “Don’t have to. Remember? Briarcliff Academy has a chauffeur service going into town and back.”

  I raise my brows. “Oh, right.”

  A town car pulls up the circular driveway, and Ivy and I stand. “See? All I had to do was request it on the app.”

  “The app,” I repeat. “Just when I thought I was an expert on the Briarcliff handbook…”

  Ivy laughs as I slide into the backseat. I nod hello to Yael, the driver, when he glances at us in the rearview mirror.

  We chat about light topics like course loads and what it was like to rely on a subway in the city and not a car on the way to Briarcliff Village. My phone burns a hole in my pocket, and in the back of my mind I’m desperate to solve the riddle of who could’ve sent those texts.

  Someone who filmed both instances, obviously.

  But the second time Piper and I faced off, the dining hall was almost deserted. I didn’t notice anyone holding up their phone, but then again, I wasn’t too focused on my periphery. A determined filmmaker could’ve hidden behind the heavy drapery on each of the dining hall’s floor-to-ceiling windows, or crouched in a corner, and I would’ve been none the wiser.

  Especially if they donned a cloak.

  “Hey, I have a question,” I say to Ivy. The car slows with its arrival into the village.

  “Shoot,” Ivy says. She props her purse on her lap as Yael parallel parks on Main Street.

  “How many students know about the Nobles?”

  Ivy hisses, then latches onto my wrist once we stop and all but drags me out. I stutter out a thank you to Yael, and he salutes in response, unperturbed by whatever he happens to hear in the backseat.

  “I told you not to talk about that!” Ivy says as I stumble to a stand on the sidewalk.

  “Correction, you told me not to talk about it to Chase.”

  An annoyed growl comes from Ivy's throat. “Leave it to you to find a loophole.”

  “I’m sorry, but I need your help,” I say, then take a deep breath. “You’re the one person I can trust.”

  “When we talked yesterday, I thought we came to an agreement. Stay away from them—that’s the warning I needed you to walk away with.”

  “Ivy, I … I think they’re watching me.”

  Ivy takes a moment to search my face before she lets out an exasperated puff of air.

  “God,” Ivy says, massaging the creases in her forehead. “I need espresso for this. Come on.”

  Ivy latches onto my wrist again and pulls me in the direction of the lobster shack I noticed during my drive through Briarcliff Village … with Piper.

  “I’m known to walk all by myself, you know,” I say as I trail behind her.

  “And right off a damn cliff,” I swear I hear her say, but a passing car’s large motor drowns out her words.

  Armed with our lattes and lobster omelets, Ivy and I find a secluded seat near the back wall of the shack, which Ivy chose in hopes of nobody eavesdropping.

  “Ironically, chatting about this in public is safer than on Briarcliff campus,” she says as we sit down. She cups her hands around her mug. “So. Tell me what’s been going on.”

  “Can you start first? And explain how this group works?”

  Ivy stares at me, unblinking. I can’t shake the unease as she and I silently war to be the winner of this information duel.

  But Ivy was my friend and confidant during my first weeks at Briarcliff. It was her who brought the name to my attention. She has answers, even if she doesn’t think she does. More than I could ever figure out on my own.

  So, I give in.

  “Okay,” I say, and hunch over my coffee so she can hear my low words better. I confess about the roses, the first one black, the second one white. I hold back on my possession of Piper’s diary, but I show her the text messages I received this morning.

  “Shit,” Ivy says as she holds my phone. She drops it face-down on the table. “I’m an idiot, Callie. I’m sorry. This whole time I thought you were stupidly curious about something no normal person should concern themselves over. But now … jeez, now you’re being gag-ordered. For what, though?” Her eyes turn to slits. “What have you been up to that’s caused this kind of message?”

  “I’ve been doing some digging on Piper,” I admit. “Her death may not have been an accident.”

  Ivy’s expression freezes.

  “…And someone thinks they have the clout to frame me for Piper’s murder if I don’t leave it alone. This video is enough to cast suspicion on me,” I say, then lick my lips. “There’s one other thing.”

  Ivy leans back after a long swig of her coffee. “I’m a little afraid of what you’re going to say next.”

  “I’m researching Rose Briar and her jump from Lover’s Leap.”

  Ivy’s forehead relaxes. “Okay. That sounds fine.”

  “It ties into Piper’s death. Kind of. Chase and I both think—”

  “Wait, Chase?”

  “Yes,” I confess, somewhat chagrined. “Piper’s death is too similar to Rose’s to be ignored, even if the police want to dismiss it.”

  “I … what am I supposed to say to that?”

  “We think there’s more to it than what the police have concluded. Piper died on the same night Rose did, Ivy. September tenth.”

  “So now you and Chase are a we.”

  I’m quick to defend myself. “It’s a lonely place, you know, when you’re one of two people who think Piper’s death is related to a scandal the academy doesn’t want revealed.”

  “Hang on, now you think Briarcliff’s involved? Like, Headmaster Marron? Come on, Callie.”

  “I don’t have specific proof, but Piper was convinced she had evidence…” I trail off at how this must sound, now that I’m giving voice to it.

  “Isn’t your uncle a cop? Trust the investigation.”

  I give a nod, but switch tactics. “Doesn’t this school stink of something sinister to you? Like there’s something being protected behind the scenes, or hidden under the floorboards, or…”

  “Callie.” Ivy reaches for my hands. “You’ve had it tough. Piper zeroed in on you the day you arrived here. Then you got Chase's attention. And through them, the rumor mill. Aside from being a drama-magnet, you’re going through a lot. For most of us, Briarcliff Academy is just that. An elite school
that drives us into the Ivy Leagues, if we’re lucky. Have you ever thought that maybe Piper’s death is an outlet for you to release all this angst and frustration at being an unfair target?”

  I shake my head. “It’s not all in my head, Ivy. I got a text telling me to shut up and a Cloak’s been haunting me ever since I started looking into Piper’s death.”

  A flutter of confusion crosses Ivy's face. “A Cloak?”

  “It’s what I call this dude who I keep running into, for lack of being allowed to associate him with the Nobles, lest lightning strike me where I sit.”

  “Like I said, drama-magnet,” Ivy jokes, totally unconcerned over my confession of the obvious stranger-danger on campus.

  Now I’m positive she knows more than she’s saying. I fold my arms onto the table. “I told you mine, Ivy. Your turn.”

  Ivy nibbles on her lower lip. “Do you need a refill?”

  “Ivy.”

  “Fine. Okay.” Ivy finds a spot on her shirt to pick at. “So, pretty much the whole country wants to send their kids to Briarcliff. You’re practically guaranteed a spot at a top university. What’s difficult is getting into Briarcliff.”

  I reach for patience.

  “Thousands apply for a scholarship here,” she continues. “But if you’re a legacy, you basically have instant access to these halls.”

  “Legacy?”

  “You know, if your parents or grandparents are alumni. The academy will give you preference, but you still have to prove your worthiness in grades, or sports, or some extra-curricular.”

  “Okay…” I say, staring harder at my untouched coffee. “But I’ve seen no mention of the Nobles anywhere on campus. No clues, either. So, how do you know about them?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m telling you. The Nobles are the legacies.” Ivy smiles, but it seems forced and untrue. “I … I haven’t been upfront with you, but now that you’re being singled out … I can tell you what I know. Which isn’t much.”

  I urge her to continue with a nod.

  “It’s a kind of preferential treatment that no one talks about. The Nobles are guaranteed a spot in the Ivy Leagues, for example. Through not-so-obvious means, if you get what I’m saying.”