Secrets, Lies, and Scandals

by Amanda K. Morgan

“What wasn’t?” She dipped her straw back into the shake.

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  She hesitated. “I—I could have moved, Tyler. I saw him falling and I could have moved. But I just let him stumble back and trip over my shoe. I didn’t move.” She swallowed hard. “Why wouldn’t I move?”

  “It all happened really fast, Kinley. You didn’t mean to kill him. But he was a jerk to you, right? So yeah, you let him trip over your shoe. But that wasn’t you trying to murder him, was it?”

  She shook her head, and her eyes were a little wet. “I’d never hurt anyone.”

  He put his hand, cold from the milk shake, on hers and gave it a squeeze. “I know, Kinley. And that’s why you and me . . . that’s why we’re going to get out of this.”

  “How?” she asked. She rubbed her eyes, smearing her mascara.

  “Your little recording devices gave me an idea of how we can actually fix this. For real.”

  “I’m listening.” Kinley paused. Strawberry ice cream glopped from her straw back into her shake.

  “We’re going to get everyone together. And we’ll record them. Bait them, if we have to. And then we get their confessions. Their spoken, no-bullshit confessions.”

  “And, what? We just send it in to the cops and that’s it?” she asked. “You don’t think that’ll put us into the spotlight too?”

  “We can get them on tape confessing and send it in anonymously. But we won’t be the ones saying we did it. We’ll know the recording is on. They won’t.”

  Kinley shifted uneasily. “So we’re just being silent during the whole thing? Is that it? Don’t you think they’ll just accuse us, too?”

  “Kinley, do you want to be the ones associated with the crime or the ones on a tape confessing to actually killing him? We’ll have their voices on tape saying they killed him. Don’t you think that’ll stand for something?”

  Kinley was quiet. A drip of melting shake landed on her tank top, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “So . . . what? We do this? And if the heat gets turned up on either one of us, we use it?”

  Tyler nodded. “Exactly. It’s insurance. If we get pushed too far—if it all seems too close—that’s when we turn it in.”

  Kinley sucked on her straw. He could guess what she was thinking: Hadn’t she already done that, to Tyler and the others? But he was counting on one thing: the fact that maybe, just maybe, she would want to save him, too.

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’m in.”

  Cade

  Sunday, June 28

  It had taken Cade a long time to find it.

  A pay phone.

  One that actually worked.

  One that was far away from everything. It was on a corner, near a gas station that had long been shut down. The station’s glass windows had been broken and replaced with plywood, which was now covered with graffiti. The Dumpsters out back were never emptied, and on days with a breeze, the smell was so strong it carried for blocks.

  The phone booth itself was narrow and tall, the kind that Cade hardly ever saw anymore, outside of vintage photographs. There were remnants of hard pink bubble gum on the earpiece, and fingerprints all over the glass sides, like people had been trapped inside, trying to get out.

  Cade was wearing gloves.

  Gloves, and a long coat, and boots. Boots he’d throw away after he made the call, somewhere far from his house. It was an old pair he had found deep in the back of his closet, boots no one would have seen him wear in ages, so they couldn’t be traced back to him if anyone were to try. He was dressed like it was winter, but somehow, he wasn’t hot.

  His body was a cold, hard block of ice.

  He missed Bekah. He missed her more than he’d ever missed anyone, ever. He missed the way she cuddled up tight to him when they watched movies together, and the way she talked to fill the silence, and the way she just knew how much he missed Jeni without ever having to say it. He missed the sound of her laugh—low and husky and full of feeling—and he missed the curve of her hips under his hands and the way she kissed.

  He was going to get her back, when he was done with this. With everything that was happening. He was going to get her back and take her away for the remainder of the summer. They were going to do Route 66 just like they’d planned. No more manipulating.

  They were going to be happy. And he was going to visit his sister. For real this time. His father wasn’t going to stop him.

  She was his true reason for doing this. Most everyone had forgotten about her. Almost everyone had moved on to new juicy topics of conversation and let her rest. Now she was something that people whispered about behind their hands at fancy dinners, when there was nothing else to talk about. She had all but disappeared into urban legend—the Sano Daughter Who Fell.

  If Stratford’s murder was pinned on Cade, he’d be in the spotlight. Online. On the front page of newspapers. On TV. Maybe in magazines. “Millionaire’s Son Convicted of Murder.” Because of his father, he had the most potential for clicks and purchases, meaning news outlets would focus on him to get the most hits.

  And then, by proxy, Jeni would be back in the spotlight too. They’d figure out where she was and ruin her all over again, because she’d be a perfect addition to the story. They could tear Cade apart, and then Jeni, and then his father, because there was nothing the American public loved more than seeing a powerful empire collapse. As long as it wasn’t the empire of American Imperialism, of course.

  Cade couldn’t let them do that. He couldn’t let them have Jeni again, to pull her to pieces the way they had when she’d fallen from grace. She was there to get better, away from their father and everything it meant to be a Sano. He could deny that he was doing this for himself, because he was really doing this for her.

  And that meant taking the pressure off of the Sano family and putting it on someone else.

  He picked up the phone and held it two inches away from his ear, because ear-print impression science was supposedly an actual investigation technique. Then he typed in a number he knew by heart from the countless television commercials and news stories.

  A robotic female voice picked up.

  “Thank you for calling Crime Stoppers. Please wait while you are transferred to the appropriate location. Have the details of the crime you are calling to report ready. Remember, if your crime leads to an arrest, you could be eligible for a prize of up to a thousand dollars.”

  The line went silent. Cade wanted to laugh. A thousand dollars. Like that would fix his problems. While he waited, his eyes strayed to the traffic light on the corner, flashing from yellow to red. A lone car—a beat-up yellow pickup with the bumper barely clinging on—chugged to a stop.

  Did the traffic light have a camera? And if it did—could the lens capture him? Could the Crime Stoppers line track where the call came in from? Could they track the line and pull the film? He should have checked into traffic cameras.

  Cade pulled the phone a little farther from his ear, ready to hang up, but a bored female voice answered. “Thank you for calling the Crime Stoppers anonymous tip line. Would you like to leave your name or remain anonymous?”

  “Anonymous.” He pitched his voice just a little lower than usual and forced himself to speak slowly, to adjust his normal rhythm to a more relaxed pace. He was going to do this. It was for Jeni. He forced himself to calm down.

  The line buzzed with static, and then cleared. “And to what does this call pertain?”

  “Dr. Anthony Stratford. I know who killed him. His name is Tyler Green. He murdered Professor Stratford. I saw him dragging the body out of the school. He wrapped him in plastic and put him in the trunk of his car.”

  “What—sir—please stay on the line while I transfer this call to our lead detective—”

  Cade dropped the phone, letting it dangle at the end of its metal cord.

  He walked away, shedding his coat as he went. He hadn’t wanted his DNA in the booth, but he didn’t want
to draw attention to himself, either.

  The police would come later. They would have to investigate further. And if the operator was a local, she would probably know Tyler’s name . . . or one of the detectives would. They would know Tyler’s background, and look into it because his story sounded plausible.

  There was a chance that when they picked up Tyler, he’d give them all up. But between Tyler and Cade, Cade felt pretty sure that the cops would be eager to pin it all on Tyler.

  Exactly as Cade had planned.

  Ivy

  Monday, June 29

  Ivy hated her brother in a whole new way. Not like she had thought she hated him when he used to pinch her and tease her when she was little. Or the time when he’d ruined her new stereo by putting Cheez Whiz in the headphones slot. Not even like the time when he’d dumped tampons all over her during a sleepover.

  This was a new kind of hate. It was fueled by fear. And truth.

  She glared at him from the other side of his messy desk. He had an office about the size of a closet, and it was a disaster. Folders spewed papers everywhere. Wrinkled files. Documents covered in 3 Musketeers wrappers. Papers that had slid off the packed desk and onto the floor. A tall bookshelf, empty except for a copy of Helter Skelter and a lone metal bookend, hunched in the corner and half covered a tiny square of a window that looked out onto the sparse grass of the lawn in front of the police station.

  Ivy sat in the chair across from him. Her knees hit the desk and the back of the chair was already shoved against the brick wall.

  “We need to talk, Ivy. Really talk.”

  Her phone buzzed. It was her father, wondering if she’d pick up milk on her way home.

  Milk. What an odd, normal thing to think about.

  At the police station. Be back soon.

  Her phone buzzed again, but she ignored it.

  “I need you to really talk to me, Ivy. I feel like you know something you’re not saying. Something that might be important. And obviously, Mrs. Stratford thinks so too.”

  Daniel rested his elbows on his desk and folded his hands, like he was praying for something. And for a moment, she wanted to give him exactly what he was looking for.

  Who would miss her, anyway? She had no friends. She’d turned Garrett away. Her parents were annoyed with her constantly—they liked Fun, Popular Party Ivy, the girl they’d raised. They didn’t know what to do with the Sulky, Homebody Ivy who spent most of her time at home, underfoot. They were constantly bugging her to get out of the house, to get away.

  She supposed that prison would qualify as “out of the house.”

  And it would feel good to finally tell someone. To get it off of her chest and just let everything sort itself out. The right way. The way it should have been from the beginning. She should never have let the others bully her into keeping the secret.

  Ivy leaned forward too, and looked to her left and right. “Can we close the door, Daniel?”

  Daniel barely had to stand up to swing the door closed. It nipped Ivy’s sleeve as it shut.

  “Do the other officers know why I’m here?”

  Daniel shook his head. “I wanted to talk to you first. I want to know why Mrs. Stratford thinks you know something.”

  Ivy swallowed hard. Here was one question she could answer. “I don’t know, Daniel. I was driving Mattie home after class, and—”

  “Who?”

  “Mattie Byrne. He’s living next door with his aunt in that crazy-big mansion.”

  “Really?” Daniel raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never seen anyone come in or out of that place besides the help.”

  “Well, he’s there now. He’s nice.” For some reason, she wanted to defend Mattie and his aunt. Mattie felt almost like a friend to her now. Maybe even something a little more. And he was definitely the only one who understood her, even a little.

  “Is there something going on between you two?”

  “He has a boyfriend, Daniel.”

  “Uh-huh.” He considered her. “Now—what can you tell me about Mrs. Stratford’s initial contact with you?”

  Ivy rested her hands on her knees. Her movements felt purposeful. Uncomfortable. Wrong.

  “Well, I was giving Mattie a ride home, and she stopped us to ask questions. She seemed—really . . . upset. Or maybe she wasn’t. She said she and Professor Stratford had been in a fight and he’d taken off.”

  “Uh-huh. Did she expand on that?”

  “Um. Well, we told her to call him. And she said he wouldn’t answer anyway. It almost sounded like maybe they get in these sorts of fights a lot.”

  Daniel began rolling a pencil across his desk. Back and forth, between two stacks of papers, on the only tiny bit of wood that was actually visible. “Did she seem concerned?”

  Ivy tried to remember. Had she? “She must have been, I guess, since she was actually looking for him. But no, she didn’t seem really worried. At all. Like I said, she mentioned that if he had his phone, he wouldn’t be answering her calls anyway.”

  Daniel paused.

  “So why did she zero in on you, then? Why isn’t she at Mattie’s?”

  “Uh, maybe because she’d have to get in the front gate? Can you really imagine Janice Byrne letting that car into her drive?”

  Daniel chuckled. “No.” But then he squared his shoulders, and the smile dropped off his face. He looked at her sternly.

  “What?” Ivy asked.

  Daniel hesitated. “Look, Ivy. I don’t want to waste time here. Are you going to tell me if you know something, or not? Because if you do, if Mrs. Stratford’s little hunch is right, I’d rather you tell me now than have it come out later. The hard way.”

  Ivy tilted her head. Was her brother actually trying to Bad Cop her? She’d almost been ready to spill her guts, and now he was practically threatening her? She was his sister. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m saying that Mrs. Stratford has her eyes on you. And I’ve known you long enough, Ivy, to know when you’re not telling the whole truth. And frankly, I don’t think you are.”

  “Are you kidding me right now? I think this detective bullshit is going to your head, Daniel. I told you I don’t know anything and I don’t. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve been having a rough few months, okay? Things haven’t exactly been easy. And you dragging me down here like . . . like some sort of criminal isn’t exactly helping.”

  Her phone buzzed in her pocket again, but she didn’t reach for it. She leaned forward and looked hard at her brother.

  “What, exactly, do you think I’m guilty of here, Daniel? Because I’d really, really like to know.”

  Daniel pushed back in his chair, which banged into the bookshelf behind him. “I—I think—”

  But before he finished his sentence, the door crashed open and Mr. McWhellen stormed in. He slammed it shut behind him and stared at his son. His face was bloodred and a vein in his forehead was pulsing.

  “What,” he said, his teeth gritted, “in the ever-loving hell are you doing to my daughter?”

  “I—I’m questioning her.”

  “Your own sister?” her father roared. “I thought you had morals and values, son. Are you so desperate to solve your first case that you’re willing to consider your own sister as a suspect?”

  Daniel opened and closed his mouth, his eyes wide. Sweat dribbled down his forehead. “She’s not a suspect, Dad.”

  “Good,” her father shouted. “Then we’re going. He grabbed the door and ripped it open. It slammed into the wall, and her brother’s degree from the local university fell off the wall and shattered on the floor.

  “Don’t bother coming home for dinner,” Mr. McWhellen added. “Come on, Ivy.”

  Ivy had thought she was too old to be rescued by her father, but she was wrong.

  And while the whole police station watched, she followed Mr. McWhellen out of her brother’s office and into the sunlight.

  But her relief was mixed with pain. Because her brother’s instincts were good. Leaving w
ith her dad . . . well, she knew she was choosing herself over Daniel.

  She was selfish like that.

  Sometimes, at night, she felt like she had changed from the Evil Queen Bee who ruined others for her own gain. She felt the way the things she said hurt in her chest and turned her stomach. She felt like she could never be that horrible again.

  But in moments like these, she knew she was the same evil bitch that she always had been.

  And she never hated herself more.

  Mattie

  Monday, June 29

  It was the first time he’d ridden the bike since it had appeared back at the house.

  It still felt new. Whoever had taken it clearly hadn’t ridden it much. He tried not to think of where it had been. Who it had been with.

  Who was watching him.

  Even so, the bike felt better to him than the new car. It was weird, but he knew he didn’t deserve the car. Every time he got behind the wheel, he felt worse. The guilt was everywhere. On the fancy navigation screen. In the leather-wrapped steering wheel. In the engine.

  He didn’t deserve it. He deserved nothing.

  No, that wasn’t it.

  He deserved to be in prison.

  And he was going to confess. (He really was.) He just needed to figure out how. What he was going to say. When he was going to say it.

  And for now . . . now, he was heading over to Kinley’s, on the other side of town. It was a half-hour bike ride. She’d called him, and she’d sounded nervous. Scared.

  He remembered how calm she’d been that night. How utterly in control of the situation.

  Something had her bothered now. She was really, truly scared. And he didn’t like that.

  It had to be something big.

  He wasn’t friends with Kinley, or anyone else involved besides Ivy, really. She wouldn’t just call him and ask him to come over for fun. He’d never been that guy—the one people wanted to hang out with.

  He pedaled hard. His leg muscles were tight, and they screamed at him to slow down. He didn’t. He couldn’t.

  What if someone had been messing with Kinley, too? Maybe he wasn’t the only one.