Secrets, Lies, and Scandals

by Amanda K. Morgan

  It had not been Mattie’s scene.

  Jayla, a girl he halfway knew from his history class, got him a shot called “Panty Dropper” that was a pale red and tasted like fruit punch. He took two. He hated the party already.

  And then Jayla had started doing this weird dance, out of nowhere. Like she was trying to distract him.

  So he’d turned around. And he saw Derrick, his shoulders hunched, tiptoeing through the crowd like he was trying not to be seen.

  “Derrick!” Mattie shouted. “Hey!”

  But Jayla had grabbed on to him and spun him back to face her. “Space!” she had said, waving her hand in front of his face like she was trying to hypnotize him. “Give the boy some space!”

  Mattie’s heart had crumbled into a million pieces.

  She poured two more shots, spilling the liquid all over the counter. She clicked her glass against his, and they took them together. It left a burning trail down Mattie’s throat, like a race car in a movie that left flames in its tread marks.

  “What’s in these?” Derrick asked. He frowned at the orange cooler someone had probably jacked from the football field.

  “Kool-Aid and Everclear!” She pulled an empty glass bottle from the counter and shook it at him. “Do you want another?”

  He had needed another.

  (And another after that.)

  His memory got fuzzy about the whole thing then, but somehow, he’d ended up in the backyard with Jayla and there had been some sort of tree house and there had definitely been kissing and probably, if he was honest with himself, something else.

  And that was the first time he cheated on Derrick.

  He had tried to rationalize it. Tried to say that Derrick had lied to him. Derrick was hiding from him. But what was wrong with a little space? And why hadn’t Mattie just given it to him? But no. He’d gotten trashed . . . and Mattie never got trashed.

  And instead of talking their problems out and trying to fix stuff, Mattie had cheated.

  It was why he deserved to be punished.

  And now he was. Whoever was in that truck—whoever was driving—had gotten awfully close to killing him. Maybe someone actually was trying to kill him. Maybe the truck had just missed.

  His eyes burned, and before he realized it, tears were falling down his cheeks. Everything was coming apart and it was all some sort of giant karmic paycheck that the universe was cashing, all at once.

  The door opened, and his aunt bustled back in. She slipped her cell phone into her front pocket before she noticed Mattie’s face, which he hastily wiped.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Are you in pain? Should I get the nurse?” She turned back to the door and Mattie reached out a hand. “No,” he said. “Please. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it?” she asked. “Mattie, what’s wrong? Are you unhappy? Or are you shaken up from your bike accident?”

  “I just fell,” Mattie said. It was the story he’d repeated, over and over. He just fell. There was no truck. There wasn’t someone following him.

  No one was trying to murder him.

  He just fell.

  He hadn’t killed anyone.

  Dr. Stratford had just fallen too.

  More tears escaped. They rolled down his cheeks and onto his faintly blue hospital gown.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I’m a terrible person,” Mattie told his aunt. “I’m a terrible, terrible person. And I need to tell someone.”

  “Mattie . . .” his aunt said. “You’re talking crazy. I should have never bought you that new bike.”

  Something clicked in Mattie’s head.

  “What? My dad bought me that bike, right before I came here.”

  His aunt ducked her head, and her tiny pin curls fell in her face. “I noticed that you didn’t like the car very much, so I found a bike exactly like your old one. I was going to surprise you with it, but the day I had it delivered, you were just leaving—so I stashed it, and you . . . well, you found it.” She shrugged. “Did you think some Good Samaritan had returned it?”

  Mattie shrugged. “Something like that.” His mind spun. Had he been—wrong? Had his bike really just been stolen that night?

  Did it really not have anything to do with Stratford?

  “Did something go wrong with the bike?” his aunt asked.

  Mattie shook his head. “Uh, no. I think I just hit a rock, and the tire skidded. It was just one of those things, you know?”

  His aunt reached forward and patted his hand. “Listen, Mattie. I know we haven’t spent a lot of time together this summer, but I know you’re a good boy. A good person. But you’re like your mother, aren’t you? You’re probably thinking this accident is some sort of punishment.”

  Mattie ran his hands over the cotton sheets, not meeting her eyes. “What if it is?”

  “Mattie.” His aunt’s voice was gentle. “That isn’t how life works. You’re a good kid. Start acting like you deserve good things and they’ll come to you.” She squeezed his knee. “Now, do you want me to stay, or what?”

  “Yeah. If you would. It would make me feel better.”

  “Sure.”

  His aunt buzzed a nurse to bring her an extra blanket, and she was asleep in minutes, her head rolled back. She snored faintly.

  She was the good person.

  Not Mattie.

  Mattie hated that she was so wrong about him. She thought he deserved good things.

  Which was why, when he got out of here, he was going to the police.

  The only way to make things right was to save everyone else.

  Kinley

  Wednesday, July 1

  Kinley’s hand shook as she stretched out another piece of tape. She wrapped it around the bubble wrap. It had to be secure.

  “What are you doing?”

  Arms encircled her from behind. Tyler kissed her on the cheek.

  She did not want to be touched. She just wanted . . . she didn’t know. She didn’t know anymore.

  “I have it,” she said stiffly. “I have it all here. It’s the confession. It’s where Cade threatens us all and it’s clear that he is the one behind the killing.”

  “Whoa.” Tyler reached around and took both of her hands in his. “Slow your roll, baby. What’s going on?”

  “The confession. We have to do this.” She wrenched his hands free. “Do you have a manila envelope? Or, like, a bubble mailer? I think we need to drop by the police station with this today. Or maybe you could give it to your parole officer?”

  “You were lucky to get tape from me,” Tyler said. “You need to slow way down, Kin. Why are you in such a hurry to send that?”

  Kinley looked at her shoes and leaned back against the desk. “Tyler, I just want this to be over. I just want to be done and I want to wash my hands of it and I want to go to college really far away and—”

  Tyler grabbed Kinley and held her tight to his hard chest. “Calm down, Kin. Calm down. You’re freaking out, okay? You’re in a tough spot. We’re in a tough spot. But you need to breathe for a minute. Just breathe.”

  She felt herself relax against him, just a little bit. He guided her over to the bed. “Turn around.”

  “What?” she said.

  “Just do it, please.”

  Kinley turned away from Tyler, her pulse speeding up. She wondered if Tyler was going to play some sort of weird sex game. She wasn’t ready for that.

  She felt his hands grip her shoulders, and he began to rub in a slow, circular motion.

  “Lie down,” he whispered.

  She obeyed, and he slid up on the bed. His hands kneaded her back. She felt Tyler lift the hem of her shirt and slide his hands beneath the stiff cotton.

  It felt delicious.

  “You’re stressed, Kin. And we can’t rush into anything here, okay?”

  “Oh. Okay.” For a moment, she wanted to dissolve into the mattress. She wanted to fall into a deep, forever kind of sleep. And suddenly, she didn’t mind Tyle
r touching her.

  “We need to stop and think. Do we throw this at the police immediately? Or is this our ace-in-the-hole move?”

  If there was one thing Tyler knew more about, it was how to handle the police.

  “I just . . . I just . . .” She paused, swallowing hard. “I don’t feel right anymore. I feel like the outside frame of a person, and like inside there’s just this hollowness and I need to do something. I need to do something to make something happen. I can’t take much more of this.”

  Tyler moved his hands up, and rubbed the skin under her bra strap. “Yes, you can. You can because you deserve better. We both do. I am going to figure out what my parole officer knows. If it’s too much—we give him the flash drive, and then at least it’s clear that Cade instigated the situation. And if he doesn’t know as much as he says, then we’re not in a bad place. Okay?”

  She nodded, her head half buried in his pillow. Funny how he considered their current situation to be “not a bad place.” Because it was bad. It was horrible.

  Maybe he didn’t have as much of a life to ruin.

  “It’s not a perfect confession, Kin. We give that to them and there’s going to be questions. And some of those are going to be about us. It’s a good card to play, but it’s not exactly the get-out-of-jail-free card, you know?”

  “Yeah.” Kinley sighed. “Yeah, I know.” She paused. “Hey, Tyler?”

  “Mm-hmm?” Her fingers pressed into her skin, smoothing the deep tension from her muscles.

  “Why haven’t they found him yet?”

  His hands paused on her back, and then resumed, a little more stiffly. “I don’t know, Kin. They should have had him by now, I would think. Someone should have happened upon it. Or something.”

  Kinley found it funny how him had become it. Like murder was easier to deal with if the victim was dehumanized.

  “Do you think they will?”

  “Yeah.” Tyler didn’t hesitate. “It’s just a matter of time.”

  “And do you think they’ll find out that Kip didn’t really see him that night?” Kinley asked. Kip was their safety. And as soon as he went away . . . everything would blow up.

  “I don’t know, Kin.”

  Kinley stayed very still on the bed, letting Tyler knead her body.

  “So,” Tyler said. “I needed to ask you a favor.”

  Kinley felt herself tense, and she knew that Tyler felt it too. “What kind of favor?”

  “I need to borrow your recording system for, like, a day.”

  Kinley rolled out from under his hands and sat up on the bed. “What for, Tyler? I can’t just lend it out. What happens if someone finds it? What if it’s traced back to me and my dad?”

  Tyler bent his knees and straightened them, shoving his hands in his pockets. Kinley tilted her head. He looked so awkward. Not Tyler-like at all. “Is it that big of a deal, Kinley?” he asked. He removed his hands and rubbed them on his jeans.

  Kinley almost felt for him. But she also realized, watching him moving shiftily around his room, that maybe she didn’t trust him.

  And he hadn’t found the flash drive yet. So maybe . . . maybe he didn’t trust her, either.

  “Why do you need it, Tyler?” She patted the bed beside him, wanting him to stop pacing.

  He sat down awkwardly, his back ramrod straight. “Honestly?”

  She turned toward him on the bed, one leg pulled up and tucked beneath her. “I think we’re at that level with each other, don’t you?”

  Tyler looked at Kinley for a long moment, as if searching her face for something.

  “I’m being threatened, okay? And I need to make it clear to someone that I’m not exactly going down for something he’s blackmailing me for.”

  Kinley touched his leg. “Does this have to do with Stratford?”

  Tyler shook his head. “You know from time to time I get involved with other shit.”

  She knew.

  Everyone knew.

  He turned to her and ran his fingers along her chin. “I understand if you can’t part with it.”

  Her mind raced, but she kept her face neutral. He had the other flash drive. She had to keep him on her side. She needed it back. If it was with Tyler, it was like one million percent more likely to be discovered by the police. Or at least his parole officer.

  “Sure,” she said finally. “But you have two days. And then you give that back to me . . . along with the other flash drive.”

  Tyler fidgeted for a moment. And then he held out a hand. “Deal?”

  She ignored his hand and kissed him. Hard. “Deal,” she agreed.

  They sat together on the bed, staring at the wall.

  “Psych class starts in twenty minutes,” Kinley volunteered after a long pause. “Do you want to go?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. Me neither.”

  Tyler

  Thursday, July 2

  The flash drive was almost weightless—practically nonexistent, like a stick of gum. It was smaller than the last one he’d used.

  “It’s more than a flash drive,” Kinley had explained. “It’s more advanced than that. Just have it on your person when you’re going to record, and press this button here. It will activate the microphone, which is actually going to be taped to the inside of your collar.”

  That’s where it was now. The tape scraped at his skin. He watched his brother root through the freezer and come out with a large vat of strawberry ice cream.

  “You’re so lucky,” their mother said, tweaking her son’s nose. “I wish I could eat like you.”

  “It’s all that swimming,” Mr. Green said. “I heard that Michael Phelps eats, like, twelve thousand calories every single day.” He chuckles. “Tyler, you should take up swimming.”

  Tyler wasn’t totally sure how to take that. Yeah, he ate like crazy too, but he was fit as hell. Maybe he wasn’t as buff as his brother, but he had muscles.

  “Running from the police is enough of a workout.” His brother looked at him pointedly.

  “That’s not very nice, Jacob,” Mrs. Green said, but she gave his shoulder an affectionate little pat all the same. “Now, your father and I have an art show downtown. We’ll be back in time for supper. All right?” Her mother tucked her hair behind her ears and checked her reflection in the mirror that hung in the entranceway leading to the kitchen. She was an art consultant for some of the more affluent dealers in town, and she was obsessed with looking fashionable.

  Jacob dug into the carton and came out with a huge spoonful of pink ice cream. “Have fun.”

  His parents kissed Jacob on the head. His mother kissed Tyler, too, and his father gave him a quick cuff on the shoulder.

  “We’ll bring home pizza!” his mother called as she shut the door behind her.

  And then it was just Jacob and Tyler in the kitchen. Jacob hopped up onto the counter and took another sloppy spoonful of ice cream.

  “No one’s going to want to eat that when you’re done with it,” Tyler said. He was sweating. He could feel it on the back of his neck, creeping down into the collar of his shirt. He hoped it didn’t make the tape unstick. He should have asked Kinley how it worked for her.

  Maybe she didn’t get nervous. Other than yesterday, she was nearly unshakeable. It was a little creepy.

  Jacob hopped down off the counter and peered out of the kitchen window, toward the driveway.

  “Checking to see if they’re really gone?” Tyler asked.

  “Well, I can’t talk about your drug dealing in front of them, can I?” Jacob smiled and put a tiny smidge of ice cream on the tip of his spoon and shoved it in his mouth. With the handle of the utensil hanging out, he opened the freezer and jammed the carton back in amid frozen tater tots and Lean Cuisines.

  “I told you,” Tyler said, gritting his teeth. “I don’t do that anymore. I don’t want to do that anymore.” He loosened his jaw. He needed to speak clearly.

  His brother removed the spoon with a pop. He tossed it in
to the stainless-steel sink, where it clattered against the plates waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. “I think you’ve missed something.”

  “And that is what?”

  His brother smiled. It was a victorious one, like he knew he had Tyler already. “You don’t exactly have an option. Remember, I’ll tell your parole officer.”

  Tyler felt the muscles in his shoulders tense. “Then why haven’t you yet?”

  “Maybe I have.” He moved away from the freezer. “Or maybe I will.”

  “And why would they believe a piece-of-shit drug addict?” Tyler asked. “Are you that anxious to ruin your career?”

  Jacob shook his head. “A champion drug addict who was unknowingly poisoned by his well-meaning brother and eventually grew addicted. It’s a sad, sad story, you know. But I’ll get the help I need, I think. And so will you.”

  “You’re evil.” Tyler’s voice was too quiet. He repeated it, loudly. “You’re evil. And I’m done with this. I’m done with you. Tell whoever you need to tell.”

  “No. I’m smart.” Jacob laughed. “It’s always been this way. I’m smart—and you’re the asshole.” Jacob turned away.

  “Jacob, can’t you just stop?”

  Jacob looked over his shoulder. “Why would I?”

  Tyler flew forward, and before he realized what was happening, his fist collided with his brother’s jaw.

  Jacob stumbled back a few steps, and his hand flew to his cheek. He stared at Tyler. “You . . . you hit me.”

  Tyler’s chest seized. He had never, in his entire life, hurt his brother. Not until now. He’d just hit Jacob. The good brother. The brother he’d sworn to protect.

  “Jake, listen, I’m sorry. I just—”

  Jacob made a noise, deep in his throat, and drove at Tyler, knocking him out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Tyler fell into the chairs, a sharp bolt of pain rupturing through his back where the wood collided with his spine. “Jacob! Calm down!” he said, but Jacob pulled back his arm and threw a wild punch at Tyler, hitting him hard in the eye.