It had been taken from outside her house four years ago, long after sunset, when the light from her bedroom window cast an orangey glow on the large sycamore tree. Her bedroom, less austere and more childlike, her stuffed animals and toy shelves not yet replaced by bookcases packed to the brim with academic texts. Her bedspread of bright flowers instead of plain gray, and the walls covered with teen idol photos instead of framed certificates of merit.
Even the girl in the photo was a different Margot. She stood in the middle of her room, dressed only in a training bra and panties. A roll of fat blossomed from either side of her belly button, her lumpy thighs looked like overstuffed sausages, and her bubble butt was so enormous and out of place, it looked as if it was artificially enhanced.
Twelve-year-old Margot held something in her hand, a roll of plastic wrap, which she was twisting around her midsection.
That photo had made Margot the laughingstock of junior high. It had almost killed her.
So why had someone left it in her locker?
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SEVENTEEN
BREE PLUGGED HER IPOD INTO THE CENTER CONSOLE OF Mrs. Baggott’s minivan and scrolled through her playlists. It was safer to focus on picking out a song than to just sit there, trying to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary had happened when in reality, all she could think about was a douchey seventeen-year-old bludgeoned to death in his bedroom. Bree had been in that room just hours before. It was as if she’d ventured too close to death and now it haunted her, tainting every moment of her day.
“Would you play something already?” John sprawled on the middle bench seat, head propped up on his backpack, munching on Smartfood while he perused his newest comic book. “The silence is oppressive.”
“I’m looking for the perfect hiding-in-your-mom’s-minivan-while-we-ditch-sixth-period-gym soundtrack.”
“We’re not hiding,” John said, flipping a page. “That new kid is dead and Uberti and the cops think DGM is involved, which means the ’Maine Men will be on the lookout for the two of us.” He lowered his comic book. “I don’t know about you, but Baggott the Faggot is simply not in the mood for his adoring fans this afternoon.”
“I don’t blame you.” Bree landed on her favorite Bangers and Mosh song—“Bangin’ Love”—and cranked the volume.
John groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“What?” Bree smiled innocently. “It’s a great song.”
“A great song I played until my fingers bled last night.”
At the mention of rehearsal, Bree perked up. “You going again tonight?”
“Yep,” he said. Then, as if he could read her mind, “But Shane won’t be there. He’s got an audition for the school play.”
“Oh.” Play auditions? She pictured Shane surrounded by a bunch of pain-in-the-ass girls like Amber and Olivia. He’d be trapped in that theater for fourth period every day, sitting all by himself in rehearsals, bored and snarky.
This was an opportunity. Maybe if Bree joined the drama class, he could get to know her and realize how freaking perfect they were for each other . . .
“Stop daydreaming about Shane and change the damn song already.”
Bree started, irritated by the fact that he could read her so well. “Fine.” She paused “Bangin’ Love” and searched for something else that would needle him, pausing at a new wave playlist she’d recently created for just such an occasion.
John arched an eyebrow at the opening synth line, stark and lonely. “Seriously?”
“Relax and let it happen,” Bree said as the drum track kicked in, so utterly eighties it made Bree want to wear an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt and leg warmers.
“Why are we listening to this?” John asked.
“Cuz it’s awesome.” Bree sang along with the vocals. “And if I had to walk the world, I’d make you fall for me.”
“This blows.”
“Come on. You’re supposed to be the open-minded musical genius. How do you know you don’t like it if you don’t try it?”
“You think I don’t know this song?” John cleared his throat. “‘The Promise’ by When in Rome. A one-hit wonder from the British new wave scene of the eighties. ‘The Promise’ was their biggest hit in the U.S., charting in 1988.”
Bree stared at him. “You’re like a music savant or something.”
“It’s what I do.” John cracked open an energy drink.
“It’s a little—” Out of the corner of her eye, Bree saw a pack of blue-shirted ’Maine Men turn the corner of the gym and wander into the faculty parking lot. “We’ve got bogies, ten o’clock.”
John flattened himself against the bench seat while Bree crouched behind the headrest. Looking like a gaggle of overgrown Smurfs, four ’Maine Men strode purposefully into the parking lot as if hunting for something specific. They scanned the lines of cars; then, satisfied that there was no one to harass, they marched back inside.
John rolled onto his side to face her. “So where were you at lunch?”
Bree picked up her iPod and pretended to search through its contents. She’d known this question would be coming and she’d prepared an answer, gone over the delivery in her mind, trying to make is sound credible. But she didn’t want to look at John while she lied to him. “I had an appointment with Mr. Niemeyer.”
John snorted. “Since when do you actually show up for appointments with your guidance counselor?”
“Why would I lie about going to the guidance counselor?”
“Fine,” John said, sounding less than convinced. “I was worried you’d been hauled into Uberti’s office.”
Bree chuckled. “Yeah, right. F.U. won’t risk the wrath of Senator Deringer without proof.”
“Don’t be too sure,” John said. “This is a murder investigation. The rules have changed.”
A chill passed over Bree. Murder. Someone had deliberately and intentionally killed Ronny. She remembered the creak of the door and the faint patter of footsteps outside his bedroom. Had she been in the presence of a killer without knowing it? And if so, would he come after her next?
“I’ve been thinking,” John said, pushing himself upright with sudden energy. “If it’s not us perpetrating these crimes on douchebag humanity, then who is it?”
“If it’s not us?” Bree smiled. “You mean since it’s not us.”
John shrugged. “Sure.”
Bree didn’t like John’s body language. Sure? Could he possibly believe, even for a second, that Bree was involved?
“Whoever it is,” John said, staring out the window, “they’re smart.”
Thank you. “So that rules out Rex’s brain trust.”
“Not necessarily.” John leaned forward. “What better way to gain insider information? I mean, think about it. Those before-and-after nose-job photos of Tami Barnes last year? You and I wouldn’t have known anything about them. But someone from Tami’s inner circle might have.”
Like Olivia. “Okay,” Bree said, playing along. “Let’s say it is one of them. I know the rich bitches aren’t the sharpest arrows in the quiver, but don’t you think someone would have figured it out by now?”
The right side of John’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “If there was only one person involved, sure. But my guess is that DGM is a group. Three, maybe four members. That way, no one person would be the source of all their information, or responsible for every aspect of their pranks.”
“You’ve thought way too much about this.”
“If you’re accused of a crime you didn’t commit, you get curious about who’s really to blame.”
A wave of guilt passed through her. It was, after all, partially her fault that John was a suspect.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, and Bree stretched her arms over her head. “If Uberti had you working for the ’Maine Men,” she sa
id with a yawn, “this case would be solved by now. Maybe we should get you one of those polo shirts and you can crash their next meeting?”
“Hell no,” John said, sliding open the van door. “If I did know who was involved with DGM, Uberti would be the last person I’d tell. I’d want to give them a hug, that’s all.”
John locked the minivan with the key fob as he walked toward the school. Students were already pouring out of the side door as Bree fell into step beside him. “Or join them.”
“Nah,” John said. “They don’t need Prime Suspect Number One hanging around. I’m pretty sure F.U. thinks I’m a killer at this point.”
Bree laughed. John couldn’t hurt a fly.
“I’ve gotta hit my locker,” he said. “Meet you at the bus stop?”
“Okay,” she said to no one. John had already bounded off down the hall.
Bree couldn’t help but sigh as she wove through the crowded hallway toward her locker. She’d known for a while that John had a man crush on DGM and their antics, but she hadn’t realized exactly how much energy he’d spent contemplating their identities.
Bree shook her head as she dialed in her locker combination. If John really started to dig around, would all of DGM’s carefully planned subterfuge hold up to his scrutiny? Maybe Kitty and Margot were right. Maybe she did need to keep a close eye on him, in case he decided to ramp up his investigation.
The idea of spying on her friend made her nauseous: not only would she be betraying his trust, but in doing so, she was implicitly admitting that he was some kind of threat to DGM. But the idea that both of them could be implicated in a crime of which they were totally innocent was even worse than jeopardizing their friendship.
Bree reached into her locker to grab some homework. If spying on John was a way to keep him safe, it was a risk she had to take.
As she stood on her tiptoes to grab a binder in the back, she saw something that wiped all thoughts of John from her mind: a manila envelope with her name on it, carefully placed on top of her history textbook.
Bree was damn sure the envelope hadn’t been there before lunch.
Which meant someone had been in her locker.
With a trembling hand, Bree picked up the envelope and broke the seal.
A crumpled piece of notebook paper fluttered out into her open palm. It was soft and wrinkled, as if someone had balled it up and thrown it away, then changed their mind and reclaimed it from the trash, and it was covered in frantic, almost manic handwriting.
Bree scanned the scrawled words and her heart nearly stopped.
DGM
Dare Go ’Maine
Dare God and ’Maine
Damn God and ’Maine
Damn Good Men
Do Good Men
Do Good and Mad
Do Get Mad
Don’t Get Mad!!!!!!
The last was punctuated with a half-dozen exclamation points, underlined several times, and circled, just in case the writer didn’t remember which version he liked the best.
Worst of all, it was a handwriting Bree recognized only too well.
It was John’s.
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EIGHTEEN
KITTY FELT A PANG OF DISAPPOINTMENT WHEN THE ALARM ON Donté’s phone went off. “Damn,” he said, silencing it. “I can’t believe it’s already six o’clock.”
“I know.” It had been a fantastic date, the kind that Kitty had believed existed only in romantic comedies and chick-lit novels. Two hours of conversation over burgers and sodas had never flown by so quickly, and she didn’t want it to end. They’d talked about everything, and found out they had a ridiculous amount in common. They both had two younger sisters, two working parents, and had been playing team sports all their lives. Two hours flew by without any awkward pauses or weird faux pas, and she was sorry to see it end.
“I’m sorry I had to bail on the movie tonight,” Donté said after he flagged down the waitress. “But play auditions are mandatory for drama class, and I kinda need the easy A.”
“It’s okay,” Kitty said.
“Kinda weird, us going on a date today, isn’t it?” Donté said.
Weird? Had their date been weird and Kitty hadn’t even realized it?
“After what happened at school,” Donté continued.
Kitty bit her lip. Ronny. That’s right. In the midst of her amazing date with Donté, Kitty had completely forgotten that a murder had been committed which may or may not be partially her fault. “Yeah,” she managed to say, her throat dry. “Awful.”
Adele’s “One and Only” came on the PA system, and Kitty jumped at the opportunity to change the subject.
“I love this song,” she said awkwardly.
Donté stared out the window, his eyes far away. “It was our song. Olivia’s and mine.”
“Oh.” Was he trying to tell her that he was still hung up on Olivia? Was this his way of telling her they were just friends? “I guess she was pretty special?” She couldn’t hide the question mark at the end of the sentence.
Donté sucked in a breath. “Crap, I’m sorry! I totally didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I wasn’t trying to bring up my ex.”
Kitty sat utterly still. Was she supposed to say something? Ask him to explain it to her? Dammit, why was she so indecisive all of a sudden?
Donté reached across the table and touched her hand. “I wasn’t thinking about Olivia at all. I promise. We broke up. It’s over.”
Kitty snorted. “Please, everyone knows she dropped you like third-period French.”
As soon as she blurted out the words, Kitty’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!” she squeaked, her voice muffled by her palm. What did she just do? If Donté hadn’t lost interest before, he’d hit the eject button now for sure.
But instead of getting defensive, Donté tossed his head back and laughed. “I know, I know,” he said. “That was the rumor and I didn’t correct it. I think Livvie’s friends were putting pressure on her to dump me.” He stopped laughing and leaned back against the booth, smiling. “The truth is I broke up with her.”
“But you guys were the perfect couple.”
Donté shrugged. “I guess that’s what people thought, but Olivia and I never really gelled. We were always going to parties or out with her friends. It was never just the two of us, and I felt like I was always acting, pretending to be the kind of boyfriend she wanted.”
“Oh.” Kitty couldn’t think of anything else to say. The most beautiful girl at school getting dumped by the boy who just took her on the best date of her life was a difficult concept to wrap her head around.
“But it’s not like that with you.” Donté passed his hand over his closely shaved head and leaned toward her. “I had an awesome time today.”
“Me too.” She’d half-thought she was imagining that the date was going well, especially since she jabbered away like lunatic most of the time, and it was a relief to know that despite her lack of social experience, she wasn’t the only one who’d had a good time.
“And you won’t get in trouble with Coach Miles?” he asked, his eyebrows raised.
Kitty shook her head. “We get to miss one practice each semester, no questions asked.”
Donté laughed again. “Me too! This was the best use of my free pass ever.”
The check came and Donté slapped some bills on the table, then stood up and offered Kitty his hand. “Can I walk you to your car?”
Neither of them said a word as they approached Kitty’s hand-me-down Corolla, the first time that day there had been silence between them. Kitty wasn’t sure what it meant. Was Donté bored with her? Or was he debating whether or not to ask her out again?
Please ask me out again. Please, please, please.
They reached the door, and Donté turned to face her. “So, how would you feel about doing it again? Maybe this
weekend?”
“I’d like that,” she said, trying not to sound relieved.
“Good.” Donté cupped her chin with his hand and tilted her face upward to meet his. Simply gazing into his enormous brown eyes made her legs turn to jelly. He traced her lips with his thumb and they buzzed beneath his touch; then he leaned down and kissed her.
Donté touched Kitty as if she were fragile, but not frail. One hand held her firmly at the small of her back, the other was behind her neck—his fingers laced into her thick hair. The effect was electric, charged like a thunderstorm rolling across her body. Her mind turned to putty and her heart skipped a beat as if it too was having a hard time keeping its mind on what it was supposed to be doing.
Donté was the first boy to kiss her since Marty Heffernan in sixth grade, who had to stand on a stepstool to reach her face, and who’d mistakenly thought that “slipping her the tongue” meant licking Kitty’s cheek. The Donté version was less sloppy and significantly sexier.
He pulled his lips away. “Damn,” he whispered.
Damn? “Is that good?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said softly.
“Oh. Okay.”
“You’re cute.”
Kitty sighed. Well, if she was going to act like a total spaz on their first date, at least he found it adorable.
Donté leaned toward her. “I wish I didn’t have to leave.”
“But you do.” Kitty unlocked her car door and swung it open. “Good luck at the audition.”
“Break a leg,” Donté corrected. “That’s what the actors say.”
Kitty headed straight to her room the second she got home and flopped down on her bed, her head spinning. Donté Greene had kissed her! She’d dreamed about that moment for months, but he seemed so out of her league. Homecoming court, captain of the basketball team, member of the ’Maine Men.
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