“That’s different,” he snapped.
“How?”
“You don’t understand.”
Kitty didn’t appreciate the double standard. “So I’m supposed to blindly trust you when you say that there’s nothing wrong with our relationship, but when I ask you to trust me with this ’Maine Men thing, you get all bent?”
Donté jabbed his finger at the packaged shirt. “They stand for everything I hate about this school.”
“Me too!” Kitty blurted out.
“Then why did you join them?”
Kitty clamped her jaw shut. She’d already asked him once to trust her. That should have been enough. It had been when he asked the same of her.
“I have to go,” she said, and turned back to her locker.
“Yeah,” he said. “You do.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kitty watched as Donté stormed down the hallway, and she fought back the tears as she wondered if those were the last words they’d ever speak to each other.
TWENTY-FOUR
KITTY SQUEEZED HER ARMS TO THE SIDES OF HER BODY AND hunched her shoulders, trying to make herself as thin as possible as she sat sandwiched between Kyle and Tyler in the front of Kyle’s pickup truck. “Are you sure the Cavanaughs won’t mind if I barge into their house?”
“Nah,” Kyle said. He took a corner so fast, Kitty smooshed into Tyler. “They’re usually not home so it doesn’t really matter.”
“I texted Rex that we were bringing you,” Tyler added. “So it’s cool.”
Kitty couldn’t imagine that Rex would be thrilled about a girl joining up with the ’Maine Men, and certainly not about her being inducted into his inner circle as Kyle and Tyler had so readily done. “Did he ask why?”
“Nope,” Tyler said.
“Oh.”
“But I told him that you had an awesome idea about this new DGM,” Kyle added. “Which he had to hear.” He glanced at her and smiled. “Rex is gonna be so pumped.”
Kitty had mixed feelings about this field trip to Rex’s house. She’d protested when Kyle and Tyler insisted on bringing her along to visit their de facto leader. They wanted to show her off, share her plan with Rex, and though the visit gave her the opportunity to perv around for the Rolex Amber had supposedly given Ronny DeStefano, the idea of being in his house was almost as nauseating as donning the ’Maine Men shirt in the first place. And that, paired with Kyle’s questionable driving skills, was giving her a raging case of motion sickness.
The brakes screeched and Kitty’s head whiplashed as the truck lurched to a stop in front of a two-story colonnaded McMansion.
Tyler and Kyle opened their doors in choreographed symmetry and jumped to the sidewalk while Kitty eased herself across the bench seat, head still spinning from the drive, and heaved a sigh of relief as her feet hit the solid mass of concrete. Her legs felt wobbly as she followed Kyle and Tyler up the front walk.
Kyle leaned on the doorbell. From inside the house, Kitty heard Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” ring out in electronic bells. They waited for several seconds before Tyler leaned across and rang the bell again.
“Hurry up, dude,” he said over the Beethoven, as if Rex could hear him.
Again they waited. Again nothing.
Kitty felt a gurgling sensation in her stomach. Try as she might to blame it on car sickness, she couldn’t ignore the fact that something felt eerily wrong.
Kyle took a step off the porch and tilted his head back. “Rex!” he yelled up to the second floor of the house. “It’s us. Open the door.”
“Maybe he’s embarrassed,” Kitty offered. “About the video.”
Tyler snapped his fingers. “Good point.” He reached out and depressed the door latch. It clicked and he swung the door open.
“Sweet,” Kyle said. He took the two steps up to the porch in a single bound and barreled past Tyler into the foyer. “Rex! What the fuck, dude? Are you sleeping?”
“Put your pants back on,” Tyler said as he followed his bromantic partner into the house. “And stop playing with yourself.”
Kyle turned to him, fist extended. “Nice one, dude.”
“Thanks.” Tyler returned the bump, then headed up the stairs. “Let’s check his room.”
Kitty stood on the doorstep as the guys raced upstairs. Front door unlocked, the house silent. Something about it made her uneasy, as if she’d just stepped into a scene from a horror movie.
You’re being ridiculous. Kitty stomped her foot against the doormat and forced the fear from her mind. Kyle and Tyler knew Rex better than anyone and they didn’t seem apprehensive. Kitty was just tainted by the last few weeks. With shoulders squared, she stepped into the Cavanaughs’ foyer.
She recognized the decor immediately. Apparently, not much had changed since Rex’s thirteenth birthday party. The foyer was a massive space of gilt paint and marble, with a twenty-foot ceiling and a double-wide staircase that curved up one side. In front of her, an arched doorway led to the living room. She could see the fireplace flanked by floral vases and just a peek of sparkling chandelier above. It was the site of Rex’s humiliation.
“His cell phone’s here,” Tyler shouted.
“Seriously?” Footsteps pounded above her.
“Yeah. See for yourself.”
“Check the spare bedroom,” Kyle said after a pause. “I’ll hit his parents’ room.”
“’Kay.” Tyler darted by the upstairs balcony. “Rex! This isn’t funny. Come on, we need to talk.”
There was an urgency in their voices that hadn’t existed a minute ago. As normal as it had been for Rex not to answer the door, apparently this was the exact opposite. The gurgling in Kitty’s stomach returned, only now it was more of a thundering wave. She wanted to flee the house, to wait outside and let Kyle and Tyler search for their friend, but she just kept staring into the living room.
It took her several minutes before she realized why. There was something on the floor behind the piano. Something that shouldn’t be there.
Kitty blinked, her eyes focused on the object. It was a shoe, a brown Oxford worn by a fair number of Bishop DuMaine’s male population. No, not just one shoe. There were two. Kitty took a few steps farther into the living room, rounding the piano, and froze in her tracks.
Not just shoes; there were legs attached. And a torso.
Kitty’s mind screamed at her to stop, to look away, but her body had a mind of its own. Before she even realized what she was doing, she’d approached the figure on the floor and was hovering over it.
It was the motionless body of Rex Cavanaugh with a belt pulled tightly around his neck.
TWENTY-FIVE
SOMEONE POUNDED ON BREE’S BEDROOM DOOR, JARRING her from her nap.
“We go now,” Olaf barked from the hallway. “You get in car. Olaf drive.”
She slid out of bed, shoving her feet into her black biker boots as she pulled a striped sweater over her rumpled vintage dress. She felt almost as enthusiastic about her first group therapy session as she would be about a trip to the dentist. Except maybe the dentist would be less painful than listening to whiny girls bitch about their lives while trying to pretend like she was “participating in her rehabilitation.”
Now, Bree, how do you feel about the choices you’ve made?
How do I feel about punishing bullies and asshats? Pretty darn good, actually.
She found Olaf waiting for her downstairs, holding the front door wide open.
“Won’t the alarm go off the second I walk outside?” she asked.
“Olaf disabled alarm.”
Of course he did.
Bree climbed into the backseat of the Escalade, so bleary-eyed she almost didn’t see the manila envelope on the seat.
She wasn’t surprised, really. In fact, she’d been expecting to find one of the hateful envelopes ever since she was sprung from juvie. It had been a pipe dream to think the killer would really leave them alone, and Bree couldn’t help but think that the near accident and
warehouse fire were merely preludes to what he had in store for them next.
With gritted teeth Bree broke the seal and slid a piece of paper from its sheath. Just a simple message: I will destroy everything you love.
Dammit.
She was still staring at the note as Olaf backed the car out of the driveway. Without thinking, she pulled the seat belt across her lap and shoved it into the buckle.
It clicked into place.
“Did you fix the seat belt?” she asked, eyeing Olaf’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Was it broken?” he asked.
Bree twisted in her seat and squinted at the buckle. The scratches she’d seen two days before when they’d almost been run off the road were gone: the unit had been entirely replaced.
So the killer wanted to remove all evidence of attempted murder. Bree dug her fingers into the envelope. That could only mean one thing.
He was going to try again.
Dr. Walters’s office was less ominous than juvie, and without the security bells and whistles Bree was half-expecting to see as she climbed the exterior staircase to the second floor, Olaf close behind in case she got any ideas about fleeing on foot.
But like the day room at juvie, her waiting room was intentionally cheerful. The walls were painted a pale shade of tangerine, and the waiting area was decorated with a mix of IKEA sleek and kid-friendly savvy. A low table with Crayola-colored plastic chairs sat in the middle of the room, complete with a wooden train set and some Duplo blocks. The “adult” chairs that lined the wall on three sides were plush and comfy, upholstered in a sunny floral print that matched the walls, and each of the three end tables held a lamp shaped like a pineapple surrounded by a bevy of teen-centric magazines including Teen Vogue and J-14, both of which showcased smiling, airbrushed photos of the heartthrobs du jour.
It all made Bree want to puke.
“May I help you?” asked an overly cheerful receptionist.
“Bree Deringer,” Bree said, countering the receptionist’s abundance of enthusiasm with a total lack of her own.
“Ah!” she said, checking a clipboard. “You’re here for our group session.”
“Unfortunately,” Bree said under her breath.
The receptionist eyed Olaf, standing silently by the door, hands clasped behind his back so the defined muscles around his chest practically burst through his button-down shirt, and her body went slack. Her eyes traced the bodyguard from his face to his abs and back again. Slowly. Decadently, as if she wanted to make sure she absorbed every morsel of Olafiness. Then she touched her finger to her chin; Bree was relatively certain she was wiping away a line of drool.
“And how may I help you?” the receptionist said to him at last, her voice throaty.
Olaf merely nodded toward Bree, looking every bit like a caveman.
“He’s with me,” Bree said, smiling curtly. “Big Brother is watching.”
“Yes,” the receptionist said. “Your brother is . . . big.”
Gross.
The receptionist’s eyes never left Olaf’s face as she pointed absentmindedly at the office door. “Room B down the hall.”
And Olaf claims another victim.
Room B was three doors down on the left, and Bree could hear an undercurrent of movement from within as she approached. Chairs being positioned on a carpeted floor, bags being unzipped, jackets being stowed. Bree took a deep breath as she paused outside the room. Here goes nothing.
Seven or eight chairs had been circled up in the middle of a windowless conference room. Dr. Walters hadn’t arrived, but four other girls had already taken their seats, leaving an empty chair between each of them. Bree had been hoping to avoid a neighbor, but no such luck. Without making eye contact with anyone, she chose an empty seat on the far side of the room, between a tiny blond who was fiddling with a smartphone and a curvy Hispanic girl who sat with one leg tucked underneath her and her arms draped over the back of the chair. The body language was an unmistakable “You can’t break me!” and Bree hoped that sitting next to that kind of personality might take the spotlight off her.
Her immediate neighbors ignored her, and the other two girls, both brunettes, stared at the floor and the ceiling respectively, then switched almost simultaneously, as if they couldn’t be zoning out in the same direction at the same time.
“Good morning, ladies.” Dr. Walters breezed into the room wearing a gauzy floral skirt that billowed around her as she swirled into a chair. “And how is everyone this afternoon?”
Murmurs of “good” and “fine” filled the room, but since Bree felt neither, she remained silent.
Dr. Walters didn’t seem particularly interested in anyone’s response as she settled herself on the opposite side of the circle, notepad in hand, and smiled. “Bree, it’s good to see you.”
All eyes turned to Bree, as if the other girls had just now noticed that she was there.
“Welcome to your new therapy group, as mandated by the Juvenile Detention Department of Santa Clara County.” Dr. Walters gestured to the brunette on her right, then continued around the circle. “This is Kaylee, Emma, Heather, and Jacinta.”
Bree hoped she wouldn’t be tested later.
Dr. Walters glanced at her watch. “We’ll give our late bird just another minute,” she said, “before we start without—”
Just then, a tall girl with dark auburn hair rushed into the room. “Sorry I’m late, Dr. Walters,” she said breathlessly.
Dr. Walters turned to Bree. “And the last member of our group is Tamara.”
Only Bree didn’t need Dr. Walters to introduce the latecomer. She knew her face.
It was Tammi Barnes, DGM target number six.
TWENTY-SIX
BREE MISSED EVERYTHING DR. WALTERS SAID FOR THE NEXT ten minutes. All she could do was stare at Tammi Barnes.
It was a mission Bree remembered well, one of the most satisfying DGM had ever pulled off. Tammi was captain of the cheerleading squad, a model student, friendly and outgoing with teachers and faculty, the center of a large and inclusive group of friends—and an unholy she-bitch to the young cheer wannabes who crossed her path. DGM discovered that Tammi was behind a hazing ritual for all the incoming JV cheerleaders, which involved forcing freshman hopefuls to give blow jobs to the varsity football team in order to make the squad. Football players filled out scorecards, which were circulated throughout the student body, and every guy at Bishop DuMaine knew which girls got an A, and which got an F.
The revenge mission was a tough nut to crack. Tammi lived a seemingly perfect life with her mom, stepdad, and two sisters. She never got into trouble, never stepped out of line, and as far as everyone knew, never kept any secrets. She was, however, very proud of her dance skills. Tammi grew up in Beverly Hills before her mom remarried and moved the family to Palo Alto. She claimed that while in LA, she’d been some kind of dance prodigy, studying with top teachers and in demand for music videos, television, and film. Tammi would readily tell you that the only reason she wasn’t a professional dancer already was because her strict mom wouldn’t let her go to a single audition until she turned eighteen.
And that self-mythology remained unchallenged until DGM dug up proof to the contrary. The Tiny Dancer Hip Hop Academy in Hollywood, California, maintained an online database of their students, past and present, including a thirteen-year-old Tamara Barnes. Margot had managed to hack into the site and download a video of Tammi dancing in the academy recital. DGM submitted the video to a website called “Dance or Dud?” where viewers rate and share dance videos. The truly awful video of Tammi Barnes doing her interpretation of Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” routine quickly became one of the most watched, and lowest rated, hits on the site.
And DGM made sure that everyone at Bishop DuMaine knew it.
But Tammi Barnes deserved the shame. She was a ruthless bitch, even more dangerous than Amber because she had a decent brain to go along with her power, and a chameleonlike ability to hide it. But no
w, here she sat in Bree’s juvie-mandated group therapy session. What the hell had happened to her?
“Shall we get started?” Dr. Walters said. “Remember, anything shared in this session is one hundred percent confidential. If you are caught trying to use any of the information you learn here outside of group therapy, you will be in violation of your parole and/or probation. Do you understand the parameters of this agreement?”
“Yes,” everyone mumbled. This time Dr. Walters was paying attention, and looked right at Bree.
“Yes,” Bree said quickly, realizing her silence wouldn’t cut it.
“Good.” Dr. Walters flipped a few pages into her notepad, and took up her pen.
“Tamara, we made some excellent progress at the end of the last session, so I’d like to pick up where we left off.”
“Okay,” Tammi said with an affable smile.
“We’d been talking about your stepfather, and the verbal and physical abuse you’d witnessed in your home. Can you tell us about that?”
Tammi sat very still. “I think I mentioned my stepdad had a gambling problem?”
Dr. Walters nodded.
“Right,” Tammi said. “Well, by last summer he’d lost all of our savings, and was about to lose the house. So he bet a load on game seven of the NBA finals.” She shook her head and laughed quietly to herself. “He swore he could make up for the losses. He just needed one big score to break even and then he’d quit.” Tammi dropped her eyes to her lap and fell silent.
“And what happened?” Dr. Walters prompted.
Tammi shrugged without looking up. “He lost.”
The story only got worse from there and Bree found herself cringing as Tammi related in dispassionate detail how her stepfather had come home hours later, drunk and angry. Tammi had corralled her sisters in their bedroom, hoping he’d just pass out. No such luck. She could hear the argument escalate from the kitchen, listening as her mother tried in vain to calm him down. Then the telltale thump, as her mother hit either the ground or the wall from the impact of his fist.
“My sisters started to cry,” Tammi said, staring into the middle of the circle. “I tried to soothe them, keep them quiet, because I didn’t want him to hear and come after us. More banging from the kitchen. My mom was pleading with him to stop and suddenly, something snapped in me. Who was this asshole? What gave him the right to hit my mom?”
Get Dirty (Don't Get Mad Book 2) Page 13