“We have a major problem,” Bree said. “The other DGM has been arrested for the murder of Rex Cavanaugh.”
“What?” Olivia felt her chest seize up. “All of them?”
“All of them.”
“Oh God . . .” Peanut would be absolutely freaking out.
“Sergeant Callahan must have done all of this. It’s the only explanation.”
Olivia swallowed. “Now what do we do?”
“John and Ed the Head are on their way to school.”
“I’ll meet them there.”
“Okay,” Bree said. “And, Olivia?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
Olivia had just shoved her phone back into her pocket when it vibrated. A text. She whipped it out again and saw that it was from Margot’s phone. Oh, thank God! she thought. They’re okay.
But as soon as she saw the message, Olivia’s stomach dropped. It was a photo of Margot and Logan, bound and gagged in what looked like an industrial basement. Margot’s eyes were pleading, Logan’s defiant and angry. And there was a caption below the photo.
Where it all began. Come alone or they die.
Tears welled up in Olivia’s eyes. Donté, Mika, Theo, and Peanut had been arrested, and now Sergeant Callahan had Margot and Logan, and would use them to lure the rest of the girls to the school, where he’d exact his ultimate revenge.
Part of Olivia wanted to flee, to grab her mom and Fitzgerald’s check and take off running. They could change their names, find a new home, and start over.
Olivia wiped heavy tears from her cheeks. No, she couldn’t do that. Wouldn’t do that. She wasn’t going to abandon her friends when they needed her most.
It was time to end this, once and for all.
She hurried down the hall to her mom’s room. She’d just leave a note, and with any luck, by the time her mom woke up the nightmare of the last month would be over.
She rounded the doorway into the room and found her mom awake. “Mom!” she cried.
Olivia’s mom smiled. She sat upright in the mechanized bed, with her cell phone in her hand. “Oh, Livvie, I’m so sorry.”
Tears erupted afresh from Olivia’s eyes as she threw herself into her mom’s arms. Her chest heaved with body-racking sobs and the croaking moans that accompanied them sounded unnatural and beastlike as they filled the silence of the room. She realized in a moment that she hadn’t allowed herself to cry since she’d found her mom splayed out on their living room couch. Now, the weight of her sorrow combined with the joy of relief came crashing down on her at once.
“There, there,” her mom said, running her hand over Olivia’s short curls. “It’s okay, baby girl. It’s going to be okay.”
“Why would you leave me?” Olivia managed through the tears. “Why would you leave me all alone?”
Her mom was amazingly calm, the crippling depression of the other night evaporated. “I thought you’d be better off without me.”
Olivia pulled away. “I’d never be better off without my mom.”
Her mom swept a stray curl from Olivia’s forehead, then wiped the tears from both of her cheeks. “I know. But in that moment . . .”
In that moment her mom had believed it. Olivia knew that reality all too well. It was one of the greatest trials she’d struggled with through her mom’s bipolar episodes. No matter what she said, no matter how rational or passionate or upset Olivia got, she knew she couldn’t combat the perceived reality in her mom’s head. All she could do was wait until the episode passed and hope her mom didn’t do anything to harm herself in the meantime.
A tactic that had worked . . . right up until it didn’t.
Olivia wasn’t sure how long she lay there with her head on her mom’s shoulder before she realized there was some kind of music playing in the room. It was tinny and weak, but Olivia recognized the sound right away. It was Bangers and Mosh from the finale of Twelfth Precinct.
She sat up and looked at her mom’s phone. There was a video playing on the screen.
“Where did you get that?” Olivia asked.
“I know we weren’t supposed to film it,” her mom said sheepishly. “But I figured since my daughter was the star of the show, I was entitled.”
Olivia stared in silence. Her mom had zoomed in on her and Logan as they executed part of the final dance number together, then separated to opposite sides of the stage. The camera stayed on Olivia, now doing some cutesy pantomime with Donté. Oh my God! This was exactly what Olivia had been looking for. Peanut and the new DGM had erased the original, which meant Olivia was looking at the only video footage of that night. Possibly the only proof of what had happened to Margot.
“Don’t be mad, Livvie,” her mom said, misinterpreting her silence. “I only filmed a few scenes.”
“Which ones?” Olivia asked anxiously.
“Your scene with Amber at the end of act one. The monologue in act two. The duel with Sir Andrew. Finale and bows. That’s it, I swear!”
The music crescendoed, then applause roared from the tiny speakers on her mom’s phone. Olivia turned back and saw the lights on the stage go out. That was the final tableau, where she and Logan embraced, with all the characters in their respective pairings. When the lights came back up, everyone broke their poses and moved into a straight line at the back of the stage to begin the curtain calls.
Her mom had zoomed out as far as the camera would go, then panned from left to right across the stage as the minor characters took their bows. The camera lingered for a moment on Olivia, dead center between Logan and Amber, then continued to pan. When the camera reached the far end of the stage, Olivia held her breath. Just beyond that curtain stood Margot’s prompter’s stand. Had she already been attacked at this point? Or was she still sitting there, clapping along with the band, enjoying a successful opening night? She strained her eyes as the shaky video reached the end of the cast line, desperate to see something, anything, that would help to put a face on their anonymous stalker. No such luck.
The picture went haywire, sideways then black, though the sound continued.
“Sorry,” her mom said. “Mr. Cunningham got up to go backstage and I tried to hide the camera. It comes back in a minute.”
“Oh.”
Sure enough, her mom had retrieved the camera from her lap, following Mr. Cunningham’s pinstripe jacket as he edged out of the row to the side aisle near the stage door.
That’s when she saw it.
Just a split second, a blurred image of someone hurrying up the aisle past Mr. Cunningham as the camera zipped away, back to the stage. But there was something familiar about the fuzzy profile.
Olivia grabbed the phone out of her mom’s hand and paused the video.
“What are you doing?” her mom asked. “Your curtain call is next!”
But Olivia didn’t care about her curtain call. She didn’t care about the standing ovation, or about Amber’s upcoming hissy fit. All she wanted to see was that blurry figure in the aisle. She walked the video back frame by frame, then paused.
“What is it?” her mom asked. She sounded alarmed. “Livvie, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
Even though the image was dark and out of focus, Olivia knew right away who had been in the theater that night. Someone who couldn’t have been there. Shouldn’t have been there.
She was staring at Ed the Head.
FORTY-FIVE
BREE FELT UTTERLY HELPLESS AS SHE STARED AT THE PHOTO of Margot and Logan. That son of a bitch had them, and here she was, trapped at home, waiting for John to check in. He shouldn’t be there. He should be home, safe and sound, not facing a maniac in Bree’s place. She felt like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest: totally and completely useless.
“Darling, you’re going to walk a hole through the carpet.” Her mom stood in the doorway of Bree’s room, a small plastic water bottle in hand.
“Sorry,” Bree said. “I’m just anxious.”
“Oh!” her mom cooed, pe
rking up. “Why didn’t you say so?” Without another word, her mom hurried to her room and returned a moment later with a plastic pill organizer. “Let’s see . . . How about a Klonopin? That’s always a good start. Or maybe a Xanax? No, that will make you sleepy.” She glanced up at Bree. “Do you want to be sleepy?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” She returned her focus to the medication cornucopia. “I find a Celexa-Cymbalta cocktail has a nice one-two punch, or if you want to cut to the chase, I can give you a Haldol and be done with it.”
Should she be concerned that her mom was apparently a one-stop shop for mood-enhancing prescription drugs? “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing you need?”
Bree thought about asking for her mom’s help. Maybe if she sent Olaf down to the gym, they’d stand a chance? She opened her mouth, but before she could get a word out, her cell phone rang. She grabbed it from the table and answered it without looking.
“You’re late,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“What?” Olivia asked.
“Oh!” Bree said. “Sorry. I thought you were—”
“It’s Ed!” Olivia yelled into the phone.
“What do you mean?”
“Ed is the killer. He lied to us. It was him all along!”
“That’s impossible,” Bree said. She had no idea what Olivia was talking about, and yet she could feel the panic in her friend’s voice. “He has an alibi.”
“Fuck the alibi!” Olivia screamed. “My mom has video from opening night of Twelfth Precinct on her phone. I just saw the curtain calls and Ed was there, in the theater, leaving through the stage door.”
“Are you sure?” Bree asked.
“Positive.” From Olivia’s end of the phone, a horn blared. “I’m heading to school. You’ve got to warn everyone.”
Bree froze. Had it been Ed the Head all the time? But Sergeant Callahan had the watch. How was that possible? Her brain had difficulty processing it all. Ed’s alibi was a fake. He’d been at the theater that night. He’d murdered Ronny and Coach Creed and Rex. Not to mention the other DGM victims. Now Logan and Margot, and . . .
Oh God. John was meeting Ed at school.
“Hello?” Olivia cried. “Did you hear me?”
Bree forced her voice to work. “He’s with John. At school. Ed has him.”
Olivia was silent for a moment. “I’ll find Kitty.”
Bree wasn’t sure what Olivia and Kitty could do by themselves, but she was in no position to argue.
“Call the police,” Olivia said. “And don’t panic. I’m sure John is fine.”
Bree hung up and immediately dialed John’s number. Without even ringing, his voice mail picked up. She dialed again, hoping it was just a cross call, but again voice mail. Again. And again.
Bree dropped the phone to her bed and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the image of a dead or wounded John from her mind. No, she wasn’t going to picture it. John was smart, and John was tough. He’d figure some way out of this.
“Bree?” her mom asked, her voice firm. “What is wrong?”
“I . . .” It would take too long to explain. “Hold on.” She needed to try and convince the police that a serial killer was at the Bishop DuMaine gym. Yeah, that wouldn’t sound crazy at all.
“Santa Clara County 911, please state your emergency.”
“Um . . .” Bree swallowed. What was the fastest way to get the police to respond?
“Is this a prank call?” the operator said, clearly annoyed.
“I’m calling to report a . . . a suspicious package at the Bishop DuMaine gym.” Bomb threats always worked with the cops, didn’t they? “I’m here for a volleyball tournament and I saw a guy walk into the gym with a large bag, drop it by the door, and leave.”
“Mm-hm,” the operator said. “You said Bishop DuMaine, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting. This is the second call we’ve gotten today claiming that there’s a bomb at that school. Kind of convenient considering just yesterday we got a memo from Sergeant Callahan at Menlo PD.”
Bree groaned. She didn’t like the sound of this.
“And he warned us,” the operator continued, “to expect some prank calls from high school students in regard to Bishop DuMaine.”
“Ma’am,” Bree said, trying to communicate the appropriate amount of seriousness in her voice. “I promise, this is not a prank. This is—”
“Young lady,” the operator said, interrupting her. “Do you have any idea of the penalty for making false statements to emergency response? The list of offenses is—”
Bree didn’t wait for the rest of the lecture before ending the call.
“Bree Deringer,” her mom said, hands on hips. “You tell me what is going on this instant.”
“I think we screwed up. Bad.”
Her mom sighed. “Obviously. What can I do to help?”
Short of convincing her buddy Sergeant Callahan to send the entire Menlo Park police force down to Bishop DuMaine, she didn’t know . . .
Bree caught her breath. There was one way, one foolproof way to make sure the police went exactly where she wanted them to.
“What is it?” her mom asked.
Bree smiled at her. “I need to borrow the car.”
Her mom arched an eyebrow. “You want Olaf to disable the house alarm and take you somewhere?”
“Nope. I just want the car.”
“But the alarm will go off as soon as you leave the house. The police will trace your GPS signal.”
Bree smiled. “Exactly.”
FORTY-SIX
AS OLIVIA SCREECHED HER MOM’S CIVIC TO A HALT IN FRONT of the school, she was greeted by the sight of hundreds of people pouring out of the Bishop DuMaine gym.
Spectators and volleyball players alike exited through the two exterior doors, moving onto the lawn in a leisurely, unhurried kind of way. What had happened?
She sprinted across the grass toward a group of blue Bishop DuMaine athletic uniforms. The girls’ volleyball team. She spotted Kitty behind the team, talking to two girls.
“Stay here,” Kitty was saying to the girls as Olivia raced up to her, “with Coach Miles until Mom arrives. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Kitty,” the girls said in unison. Kitty’s twin sisters.
She caught sight of Olivia and her eyes grew wide. “Good,” she said to her sisters. “I’ll be right back.” Then she grabbed Olivia by the arm and moved them out of earshot.
“What’s going on?” Olivia asked, panting. “Why are you all outside?”
“Someone pulled the fire alarm,” Kitty said.
Ed was trying to clear the Bishop DuMaine gym. Why?
“You won’t believe it,” Olivia said, panting. “But I know who the killer is.”
Kitty eyed her. “Um, yeah. Sergeant Callahan, remember?”
Olivia’s stomach clenched as she slowly shook her head.
The words tumbled out of her mouth as she quickly and calmly explained Ed’s betrayal. She watched the same series of emotions pass across Kitty’s face that she’d felt when she realized what had happened: confusion, surprise, anger, and finally, fear.
“I saw John with Ed about ten minutes ago,” Kitty said, her face instantly pale. “They went into the maintenance corridor behind the gym.”
“There you are!” Bree sprinted up to them. “You heard?”
Kitty nodded.
Olivia grabbed Bree’s arm. “Are the police coming?”
Bree smiled wickedly and pointed to her anklet. “Oh, they’re coming. They’ll follow this baby to the ends of the earth.”
Olivia heaved a sigh of relief. “Good.” She looked from Kitty to Bree and smiled, trying to appear significantly braver than she felt. “Shall we go save Margot?”
Kitty had never been in the gym when it was totally empty. The flashing lights and blaring sirens filled the cavernous space, accentuating the loneliness. It felt li
ke she was alone in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and there was no one left on earth to silence the fire alarm.
No, not alone. Bree and Olivia stood by her side.
None of them said a word, but Kitty reached out and found their hands—Olivia’s on one side, Bree’s on the other—and grasped them firmly in her own. They’d started this journey together. They’d understood the risks, and they’d carried out their DGM missions faithfully, each for her own reasons. They’d weathered long-kept secrets, betrayals, lies, and jealousy. They’d bent but they hadn’t broken, and, together, they were going to face the enemy who’d been so close to them all along, and now held the lives of their friends in his hands.
And this is how it would end.
There was a part of her that was almost relieved. Ed the Head had deceived them all, and though he was a murderer and a sociopath, he was also their peer, not an adult, not a cop like Sergeant Callahan. Somehow, that made it seem easier, more feasible. Like they had a chance this time. Ed didn’t know they were coming for him. For once, they had the upper hand.
Kitty took a deep breath, then in one unified motion, they all walked toward the door marked “Access Restricted” that led to the maintenance corridor.
No one was surprised to find the door unlocked.
Once inside the short hallway with the door closed behind them, the pulsating blare of the fire alarm was muted, and Kitty could finally hear herself think. The so-called maintenance corridor was about ten feet long, with two closets and a door at the far end.
“Any idea where that goes?” she asked.
“Basement,” Bree said. “I was down there during the prank on Melissa Barndorfer. It’s a mix of pipes and ducts, some storage, electrical, water, gas, air-conditioning. And the boiler room tucked away downstairs in the back.”
“How big?” Kitty asked.
Bree scrunched up her face, thinking. “Spans the whole area beneath the gym and locker rooms, I think. But I haven’t seen all of it.”
“Where it all began,” Olivia mused, quoting Ed’s last message. “What do you think he means?”
“It all began with Christopher Beeman,” Bree said.
Get Dirty (Don't Get Mad Book 2) Page 24