“Guys,” Kitty said, stepping between them. She kept her eye on the phone, wondering if the third time was the charm. “No fighting. We’ve got enough problems.”
“Have you heard the rumors?” Olivia asked, switching gears. “Rex said Ronny had ‘DGM’ carved into his chest.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “How can you take anything Rex Cavanaugh says seriously? The guy has a set of gonads for a brain.”
“I thought maybe he’d heard it from Father Uberti?” Olivia pouted.
“Even if Uberti knows,” Kitty said, trying to keep everyone calm, “which I doubt, there’s no way he’d be allowed to share that information with anyone, especially not a student who might be a suspect.”
Olivia’s blue eyes grew wide. “Rex is a suspect?”
“Wake up, Princess,” Bree said. “We’re all suspects.”
Kitty held up her hands. “We don’t know that yet. Ronny’s death could have been an accident. Or suicide.”
Margot glanced up but didn’t say a word.
“Come off it, Kitty.” Bree kicked her feet off the table. “The police wouldn’t show up at school for an accidental death. Ronny was killed, plain and simple. They must suspect someone at school is involved or they wouldn’t be here.”
“Poor Ronny,” Olivia whimpered.
Bree snorted. “Poor Ronny? The guy’s a sexual predator. I’d say he got what he deserved.”
Olivia sucked in a sharp breath. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.”
“I think what Bree means,” Kitty said, with a cutting look in her direction, “is that maybe it’s not a surprise Ronny was murdered?”
“Murdered . . .” Olivia jumped to her feet. “We have to get out of here. Right now. What if they find us? We’ll get sent to juvie. Oh my God, do you know what happens to girls like me in prison?”
“They become someone’s wife?” Bree suggested.
Olivia started for the door. “I have to go.”
Kitty intercepted her. “Olivia, we are not going to juvie, okay?” If Olivia panicked, Margot melted down, or Bree went rogue, they’d all be screwed. “We need to go about our lives like nothing’s happened.”
“Like nothing’s happened?” Olivia’s eyes were glassy, a clear indication tears were on the way. “I have an audition after school for the fall play. How am I supposed to focus on Shakespeare when Ronny is . . . is . . .” Her eyes faltered as she wiped stray droplets from her cheeks.
“It’s just one more role, Olivia,” Kitty said. “Consider it an acting challenge.”
“I’m glad you’ve got your priorities straight,” Bree said. “Audition over murder. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Olivia whirled on her, her eyes wet. “What about you? You don’t seem to care at all that Ronny’s dead.”
Bree stuck out her chin. “I don’t.” Only Kitty could see that her lower lip trembled.
“Where were you last night?” Margot said from out of nowhere. Her voice was calm. Too calm.
Olivia caught her breath. “Me?”
“All of you.”
Turning on each other wasn’t going to help. “Hold up,” Kitty said. “We can’t go pointing fingers.”
“One of our targets is dead,” Margot said. Her lips flattened as she pressed them together, and she looked more angry than scared. “No one else knew we were going after Ronny. That makes us the most likely suspects.”
“Maybe we should go to the police?” Olivia said. “Tell them we didn’t do it?”
Kitty nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. It’s not like they have proof DGM was involved.”
Margot stared at her. “Don’t they?” She wrenched her spy-caliber laptop out of her bag, entered a password on the screen, and pulled up a browser window. Within seconds, she was reading from a newspaper article. “‘Authorities are searching for suspects involved in the fatal bludgeoning of a seventeen-year-old Bishop DuMaine high school student. Officers responded to an anonymous 911 call in the early hours of Wednesday morning near the Menlo Park neighborhood of North Fair Oaks. The victim sustained multiple blunt force trauma injuries to the head and was pronounced dead at the scene. He is believed to have been in bed at the time of the attack. No signs of forced entry. The entire household appears to have been asleep at the time and heard no sign of a struggle.’”
Olivia bit her lip. “Anonymous call?”
“It means identity unknown,” Bree said with a smirk.
“I know what it means,” Olivia snapped.
“‘The apparent murder weapon was found at the scene,’” Margot continued. “‘Along with a moniker for a local organization. No suspects are being held at this time. Anyone with information about the incident is asked to call detectives at the Menlo Park Police Department.’”
Kitty shrugged. “I don’t see how any of that points to DGM.”
Margot swung around in her chair. “The moniker for a local organization? That would be us.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
FIFTEEN
“WE CAN’T BE SURE OF THAT,” KITTY SAID QUICKLY. WHY WAS Margot so intent on placing the blame on a member of DGM?
Margot sighed, clearly frustrated. She spun back to her laptop, fingers blazing over the keyboard, then pulled away to reveal a photo on the screen.
It was a long metal baseball bat, the bottom third of which was thickly coated in a dark red substance. It stood leaning against a dresser, and the same red liquid had seeped into the beige carpeting, staining it.
Kitty’s brain refused to process what she was seeing. It dawned on her slowly, painfully.
“You hacked into the police database?” she asked.
Margot didn’t answer.
“Oh my God,” Olivia gasped. “Isn’t that illegal? Can’t they find you and track you down and send us all to . . .” Her voice choked off.
“Juvie,” Bree said. “We get it. You’re obsessed with juvie.”
“I’ve randomized the IP address,” Margot said simply. “Even if they could trace us through the satellite modem, the search won’t lead them here.”
Bree arched an eyebrow. “Not gonna lie, Margot. You’re freaking me out a little bit.”
Margot ignored her. She clicked the mouse rapidly, scrolling through several photos of the crime scene, then stopped. This time, all three of them gasped at the picture on the screen.
The photo was of a male hand, palm down on a bed. Blood splatter coated the gray-and-white striped bedspread like a Jackson Pollack, redder and more violently eye-catching than it had been on the bat or the carpet. Tucked beneath the hand, a white note card with three letters printed in a neat black font, reminiscent of an old typewriter: DGM.
“So much for going to the po-po,” Bree said, slumping against the wall. “They’d never believe us.”
“They have to,” Olivia squeaked.
“Who has the rest of the DGM cards?” Kitty asked.
Bree slowly raised her hand. “But I didn’t kill Ronny.”
Kitty sighed. “Of course not. I’m wondering who might have had access to your room.” She stared at the photo on Margot’s computer. The DGM moniker might be the key to finding the killer. “It must have been stolen. How many people have actually seen one of those cards up close long enough to have been able to create an exact replica?”
Margot looked right at her. “You mean besides the four of us?”
“Stop it!” Kitty cried. “We’ve got to stick together if we’re going to figure out who killed Ronny and why.”
Margot turned her steely gaze on Kitty, so implacable it made her uncomfortable. “Is that what we’re going to do?” she said softly.
“I . . .” Kitty’s voice trailed off. Twelve hours ago, Don’t Get Mad had been a united front. Suddenly, in the wake of Ronny’s death, Kitty could see the cracks forming. Blame, guilt, distrust, fear. She couldn’t
let that happen.
“Look,” she said. “If we want to avoid getting blamed, we need to find out who actually killed him.”
“Fine,” Margot said. She clasped her hands in front of her. “If we assume that one of us didn’t do it, then there are two logical possibilities: either someone wanted to kill Ronny and used DGM as a scapegoat, or someone wanted to frame us for murder, and killed Ronny to do so.”
“But why Ronny?” Olivia asked. “And who would want to frame us for murder?”
“You mean other than Coach Creed?” Bree asked.
Bree had a point. After DGM’s public humiliation of Coach Creed, he’d definitely be a suspect. Kitty nodded. “Creed runs first-period leadership. I can keep an eye on him.”
“Rex,” Olivia added. “He said at lunch the other day that he’d do whatever it took to bring down DGM.”
“Good,” Kitty said. “Then he’s your assignment.”
“I think Rex and Ronny knew each other,” Bree said. “Or had a mutual friend. They had a weird conversation in phys ed on Friday that made Rex twitchy.”
“Even better,” Kitty said. “Olivia, look into it.”
“I’ll go through Ronny’s hard drive,” Margot said. “Maybe I’ll find a clue.”
Bree sat up. “I saw something in Ronny’s room.”
“Yeah?” Kitty prompted.
Bree tilted her head to the side as if suddenly confused; then she rushed over to Margot’s laptop. “Scroll back,” she ordered. “Through the crime scene photos. I want to see something.”
Everyone’s eyes were locked on the screen as Margot clicked back through the photos. Most of them were mundane, photos of a messy room meant to document its exact condition when the body was discovered. After two dozen or so photos, Bree straightened up.
“Stop!” she shouted, then tapped the screen. “It’s not there,” she said. “Someone took it.”
Kitty peered at the photo. It showed Ronny’s bedroom door, half-open, with dirty laundry shoved into the corner behind it. “What’s not there?”
“A list,” Bree said quickly. “There was a list on his door with three names: Coach Creed, Rex Cavanaugh, and Theo Baranski.”
“Removing evidence from a crime scene is against the law,” Margot said.
Bree clicked her tongue. “So is murder.”
“You think the killer took the list,” Margot said. It wasn’t a question.
“It’s the only thing that makes sense,” Bree said.
“Any idea what those names have in common with Ronny?” Kitty asked.
Bree shook her head. “Nada.”
“Okay,” Kitty glanced around the room. “Everyone keep their eyes open on that one. If they’re all connected to Ronny, it might point us toward his killer.” Kitty smiled. They were thinking like a team again.
“Anything else?” Bree asked, checking the time on her phone.
“You can make a list of who had access to the DGM cards,” Kitty said, her voice stern.
“And keep an eye on John Baggott,” Margot added.
Bree whirled on her. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
Margot remained unnervingly calm. “He’s your best friend, he has access to the DGM cards, and he’s Father Uberti’s number-one suspect. I’d say that makes him very much involved.”
“I’m sure he’s got nothing to do with Ronny’s death,” Kitty said, trying to pacify Bree. “But if Uberti’s on his case, it might not be such a bad idea if you kept an eye on him. For his own safety.”
Bree turned her back. “Fine.”
“We’ll lie low,” Kitty continued. “No contact at all unless there’s an emergency, okay? And let’s meet at the warehouse one week from tonight to see what we’ve come up with. If we can’t trust F.U. or the police to give us the benefit of the doubt, then we’ll have to find Ronny’s killer ourselves.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
SIXTEEN
MARGOT HASTENED DOWN THE HALLWAY WITHOUT A BACKWARD glance. The last to leave the computer lab, she waited a full two minutes after Kitty’s exit before she slipped out of the room, and she was halfway across campus before she slowed her pace.
As cool and collected as she’d tried to appear in front of the girls, Margot was freaking out on the inside. Ronny had been murdered, and even if she hadn’t been the one to take a baseball bat to his head, what if by choosing him as the next DGM target, she’d unwittingly signed his death warrant? Wouldn’t she be just as guilty as the murderer himself?
Margot kept her eyes glued to the floor as she hurried to her locker. The hallways were filled with students eating lunch, but the usually boisterous mood was significantly subdued. Cliques huddled closer than usual and spoke in hushed tones, and Margot couldn’t help but think that everyone was staring at her with suspicion in their eyes.
You’re being ridiculous.
There were exactly six students at Bishop DuMaine who even knew her name. She was invisible at school, a ghost who moved through the hallways with anonymity, and she estimated her chances of being a named suspect in the investigation at approximately 572:1. No one even gave her a second thought, let alone suspected her of being involved with DGM.
She rounded the corner to her locker and stopped short at the sight of someone leaning against it. No, she was wrong. There was one person who suspected her.
Ed the Head.
“Dude,” he said, eyes wide. “I can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?” Margot elbowed him aside and dialed in her locker combo without looking at him.
“Are you mental?”
The panic of Ronny’s murder washed over her afresh. “I heard the announcement.” Why couldn’t he leave her alone?
“How can you be so casual?”
Margot gazed at him coolly. “It has nothing to do with me.”
Ed the Head shoved his arm across her open locker, barring her from retrieving any books, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Margot, we’re talking about murder, and your friends in DGM are at the top of the suspect list.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Margot swallowed hard and tried to keep her breathing steady. She couldn’t let him see her fear.
“Look.” Ed’s voice softened. “Personally, I don’t give a shit about Ronny. Cruel? Maybe. But he’d only been at school for like a hot minute and he’d already stiffed me on a half-dozen Snickers bars, joined up with the ’Maine Men, and I caught him face raping Olivia Hayes outside the boys’ locker room. Kinda hard to mourn his loss.”
Margot had to appreciate his bluntness.
“But shit just got real. I mean, maybe you should tell them to just turn themselves in? Let the police figure it out?”
Margot looked up at him sharply. “I do not have any connection to DGM.” For some reason, she desperately needed him to believe her. “It was a guess about the assembly, based on their previous exploits. An educated guess. Don’t think I’m their secret keeper all of a sudden just because I predicted their last move.”
“Sorry.” Ed the Head dropped his eyes to the floor, suitably chastised. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Margot took a deep breath and tried to center herself. “I’m going to be late to class.”
Ed leaned forward and his usual mask of cocky glibness fell away for a second. “Be careful, okay? There’s something rotten in Denmark.”
Margot nodded. She’d never seen Ed the Head drop the clown act before, and she realized that despite their business arrangement, he actually cared about her. No one at Bishop DuMaine cared about her, and Ed’s moment of kindness touched her so deeply she wasn’t even tempted to correct his misuse of the Hamlet quote.
“Right.” Ed the Head straightened up, his old self again. “Watch your back. That’s all I’m saying. Because if anything happens to you, my earning potential at this scho
ol is going to take a serious nosedive. Speaking of, I’ve got new odds on the murder investigation. Three to one they never find out who did it. You in?”
“Am I ever?”
“Touché, mon frère. I am considerably . . .” He snapped and gave Margot two finger pistols. “Out of here.”
Margot pressed her head against the open door of her locker and closed her eyes. She’d been careless to let Ed the Head have a glimpse into her association with DGM. Unless he was significantly stupider than she gave him credit for, Ed didn’t buy her proclamations of innocence for a nanosecond. While he didn’t believe she was directly involved, Ed knew she had some connection to DGM. She just prayed he’d keep that hypothesis to himself.
It was so unlike her to trust anyone with anything. But she’d needed his help to dig up dirt on Amber Stevens, and she’d been blinded by hatred where that goal was concerned.
Margot sighed. There was nothing she could do about it now. The best way to protect herself was to find out who actually killed Ronny before the police and Father Uberti uncovered the truth about DGM. She pulled her calculus textbook out of her locker, grunting with the weight of the college-level tome, and froze.
A large manila envelope tumbled to the ground.
She stared down at the yellowish brown envelope on the tile floor. A white address label had been printed with her name, centered on the front. The print-and-peel label was the standard one inch by two and five-eighths, thirty to a sheet. The font was Times New Roman, also standard, and the envelope appeared to be the generic brand sold in every office supply store.
Margot gingerly picked up the envelope, handling it with care as if it were made of porcelain, and examined the back side. It had been sealed with a single piece of tape, meticulously positioned dead center on the flap.
Who would go through the trouble of leaving this envelope in her locker? And why?
There was only one way to know. Margot forced her finger under the flap and broke the seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Margot clenched her jaw so fiercely she thought she might crack a tooth. It had been years since she’d laid eyes that photo, years since the humiliating image of her twelve-year-old self had made life no longer worth living. And yet she remembered every nuance of the image, because she had seen it every single day of her life for the last four years, burned into her memory. Eyes open or closed, she saw that image, like the single dot of light branded into your retina after looking directly at the sun.
Get Even Page 8