“Do you know how many hours I’ve spent talking about this video? Watching this video? Analyzing every frame of this video? The FBI, the police, the school’s administration, and all of our parents have done the same. There’s nothing new to catch.”
“Of course I remember all of that. I especially remember those brainstorming sessions you and the rest of the girls held to figure out who recorded the footage. I can’t say I was jealous, because, hello? No one wanted to be part of that. But it took you away from me. Our senior year would have been so much different without this stupid video.”
“Those sessions?” I said. “They were pure torture. We always started so sure of ourselves. And then came up with nothing.”
“Where did you meet?” Hannah asked.
“Sylvie’s.” I pictured her basement, the thirteen of us crowded into the rec room as we tried to remember some detail about the person behind the video camera. Problem was, he was smart. Each video clip was recorded during a public event, making it a nearly impossible task. Kelsey “Shaved—’nuff Said” Hathaway’s dance team performing in front of a packed gymnasium at a regional competition, bikini-clad Carrie “Pants on Fire” Hixon soaping up cars during the fundraiser to resurface the school’s tennis courts, Becca “Hot for Teacher” Hillyer bathed in stage lights as she presented a monologue at the community center.
“Who led the discussions?” Hannah asked. “Who wrote down the clues you guys came up with?”
“Sylvie,” I said.
“Of course. Miss Type-A probably had a huge whiteboard propped somewhere in the room,” Hannah said. “A flowchart of locations and possible suspects for each.”
“There was a whiteboard,” I said, picturing the rainbow of color-coded details written in Sylvie’s looping handwriting. “It was on an easel.”
Hannah laughed. “So now that we saw her stealing the tiara, doesn’t that make you suspicious? Maybe she was directing those discussions away from the elusive videographer instead of toward him?”
I groaned, shoving Hannah over with my butt until we were sharing the computer chair. On the screen, Sylvie Warner looked up at us. She was sitting at a table in the atrium of the high school, her smile wide and convincing as she held out a round sticker that said I GAVE BLOOD. WILL YOU? with the American Red Cross logo centered beneath the text.
Hannah moved the cursor to the pause button and clicked. The video started again, and Sylvie began to move in slow motion, seemingly inspired by the sexy tone of Adele’s voice, as she tipped her head back with a laugh.
“This video was taken at the end of the summer, right?” Hannah asked. “At that health rally?”
“Yeah. It was the Kickstart-Your-Heart rally. The school was open to the public from nine to five, and the blood drive was set up for six hours, of which Sylvie worked three, so this video could have been taken by anyone, any time during that stretch.”
“But look at that smile,” Hannah said, pointing to the screen as Sylvie’s head tipped forward again. “Total flirty-girl. And her eyes. She’s practically undressing whoever’s behind the camera.”
I looked at the screen. Watched as Sylvie licked her lips and leaned forward, handing the sticker to a person smart enough to keep even his hand from entering the frame. Sylvie pushed her arms against the sides of her chest then, the movement was slight, but had a big result. Her chest practically popped out of the V-neck sweater she was wearing. And then came the text, fading onto the screen in small caps:
YOU GIVE TO HER CAUSE, AND SHE’LL GIVE TO YOURS.
SURPRISED? DON’T BE. THE WHOLE THING IS EASY.
JUST LIKE SYLVIE WARNER.
Sylvie gave a little wink, then, and her portion of the video faded to black. Adele’s voice rang through the room once more, “Rumor has it!” and then it was Leena’s turn.
The footage focused on a pair of dancing legs, tanned, moving fast, strappy wedges fastened to her feet. The camera slowly panned up, revealing a skimpy pair of cut-off jean shorts and a silky tank top with an open back. Leena was in the middle of a crowd gathered in Jonesy’s barn for a party that took place a week after the start of senior year. She was dancing to the beat of a song that had been edited out of the video’s soundtrack. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, wisps falling out and brushing against her shoulders. As she threw her hands in the air and twirled in a circle, she lost her balance, falling to the ground. She looked dazed for a moment, her unfocused eyes giving away that she’d had way too much to drink, and then she propped herself up on her elbows. Someone reached out a shadowed hand. Leena grabbed it. And then Adele’s voice faded to the background as Leena’s surfaced above the beat of the music.
“I fell,” she said. “Hard.” And then she giggled, pressing her palm to her forehead and looking directly at the camera. “Don’t tell,” she said with a whisper-shout, “but, I like it hard.”
The video stuttered, then did this jerky motion thing that rewound the admission, and then played it back on a loop, Leena’s words—“I like it hard”—repeating exactly seven times.
“Sick,” I said, trying to push away from the computer. But Hannah planted her feet on the ground so the wheely chair remained in place.
“She didn’t remember any part of that, I assume,” Hannah said.
“No. We asked her a thousand times, but she’d apparently downed a record number of shots that night. She insisted that was what she must have been referring to when she said her infamous line—‘Liquor, not man parts.’”
“Well the most important segment is next. You can’t stop watching now.”
I sucked in a deep breath as the image of Leena faded to black. And then I watched myself flash into view, a montage of Jude and I flitting across the screen—the two of us standing in front of my locker at school, sitting on swings at the park in my neighborhood, walking through the parking lot at the mall, sitting in the dark at a movie theater. In all of them, we looked sweet—innocent—holding hands, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm slung around my waist. There was no passion. Not a single second of the heat that had permeated Leena’s dance scene. Or Sylvie’s cleavage-baring shot. As a finale, my section cut to a close-up of Jude’s hand holding mine, and then the text scrolled across our intertwined fingers.
WASTE OF TIME.
THERE’S NO NEED TO BOTHER.
THIS ONE’S LIKE A VIRGIN.
Which was actually kind of funny if I thought about it. Jude and I had created lots of heat. We were full of passion. Just not in public. The whole virgin thing, that part was wrong, too. Which was proof that whoever was behind the video wasn’t as smart as he thought.
Hannah paused the video and looked at me. “Nothing?”
I shook my head. “What are you expecting? For me to suddenly remember seeing the person sitting behind us during that movie? Or to get a flash of who was trailing us in the mall parking lot?”
“I don’t know,” Hannah said. “But there’s got to be something in there.”
“There’s nothing. Trust me.”
Hannah looked back to the screen, clicking play again. Suze “I’m Sexy and I Know it” Moore was next.
“Bailey?” my mother’s voice called from upstairs, her footsteps clicking across the kitchen floor.
“Yeah.” My voice echoed around the basement. I was glad that Hannah had muted the sound. The last thing my mom needed was to hear that song. “I’m down here.”
My mother padded down the stairs, stopping three steps from the bottom. She was wearing a black dress with spaghetti straps, and had on her favorite, open-toed silver sandals.
“Your father and I have decided to go out to dinner tonight. You need to be ready in fifteen minutes.”
“Mom,” I said. “I’m not ten years old.”
“That may be true, but you’re still not allowed to be home alone with everything that’s going on.”
“I’m not alone,” I said, tipping my head toward Hannah.
“Hi, Mrs. H.” Hannah waved.
I slung an arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “You can see her, right?” I asked. “I’m not imagining things.”
My mom cracked a smile. “Hannah is quite visible,” my mother said. “And audible. But Hannah isn’t equipped to deal with a kidnapper.”
“Wanna bet?” I asked, smiling.
“I know you’re worried, too.” My mother tipped her chin toward the computer screen. “You’re still analyzing that video.”
I looked over my shoulder, feigning surprise when I saw Suze “I’m Sexy and I Know It” Moore showcasing a creation from her clothing line. Her long brown hair was twisted into a braid that hung down her back, swinging with each confident step as she walked the runway last fall in the economics club’s annual Homecoming fashion show.
“You have fifteen minutes,” my mother said, turning and walking back up the stairs. “Your father and I are dropping you off at Sylvie’s on our way to dinner.”
“Holy crap,” Hannah said, looking at me with wide eyes. “They’re actually taking you to her house?”
“I’m screwed.”
“Maybe,” Hannah said with a tilt of her head. “Maybe not.”
I leaned back, the chair squealing in protest, and scraped my hands though my hair. “What the hell am I going to do?”
“Flip it.” Hannah snapped her fingers. “Use the opportunity to our advantage.”
“Brilliant idea,” I said. “But how?”
“You’re smart.” Hannah shrugged. “Look for clues.”
“Like these clues are just going to be lying around her house?’
“Nothing’s that easy,” Hannah said. “Just start by asking a few questions. No way Sylvie’s a killer, but she’s involved somehow and definitely knows something. Think of this as an opportunity to get information out of her.”
“Right,” I said. “That should be easy.”
“Just like Sylvie Warner,” Hannah said with a smile, her voice sing-song sweet and full of laughter.
CHAPTER 14
7:16 PM
“What are you doing here?” Sylvie’s eyes narrowed below her mass of white-blonde curls. She propped one hand on the waist of her faded denim miniskirt, blocking the entrance of the half-open front door as she stood in the foyer of her house.
“It’s complicated.” I held out a bag of tortilla chips and a container of gourmet guacamole, which I’d found during a three-minute search of the kitchen before we’d left. “But I brought chips and guac—your favorite.”
Sylvie eyed the guacamole, her lips tight with anger. “You can’t be serious.”
“I am,” I said, attempting nonchalance because I knew it would infuriate her.
“You expect me to just let you into my house? Do you think I forgot what you said to me after the Last Day Ceremony? No freaking way, Bailey.”
“Lighten up,” I said with a shrug. “It was a joke.”
Sylvie closed the door, or at least she tried to, but I stuck my foot in the narrow opening just in time, pressing the toe of my sneaker against the door’s brick-red paint.
“What the hell?” Sylvie swung the door open so quickly the brass knocker clanged against its base. “Why are you even here?”
“That’s not what matters right now. What matters is that you’re about to put a smile on your face, take this food out of my hands, and welcome me inside. Maybe even wave to my parents, who are sitting in the car parked out in the street, right behind the police cruiser.”
Sylvie snorted. “Tonight’s your big chance for all the normalcy you’ve been whining about. So why the hell are you standing on my front doorstep?”
“I need a cover story,” I said with a shrug. “And you’re it. My mom’s probably going to call later. All you have to do is tell her that I fell asleep watching a movie.”
“And why, exactly, would I do anything to help you?”
“Because,” I said, leaning in for the kill, my voice a low whisper, “I know about the tiara.”
Sylvie’s mouth dropped open and she stumbled two steps back into the foyer.
“If you don’t let me in, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
“You’re blackmailing me?” Sylvie asked.
I shrugged. “The way I see it, blackmail isn’t quite as immoral as theft.”
“Fine.” Sylvie stepped forward and grabbed the bag of chips and guacamole out of my hand. “You can come in.”
“Perfect.” I slipped past her. “I have a few questions.”
I turned and waved at my parents. They waved back, sad smiles on their faces as they pulled away, weaving around the cruiser. I watched the car slip down the street, taillights burning red as they braked for a stop sign, and then they disappeared with a right turn onto Main Street.
Sylvie closed the door, pausing before turning to face me. I wanted to start at the end and ask how the tiara she’d stolen ended up on Leena’s head. I wanted to find out if Sylvie had anything to do with the death of our friend. But it seemed so far-fetched, so totally off base, that I had to wonder if mentioning the fact that I’d found Leena might be a trap.
I decided to start from the beginning, instead. “Why did you steal the tiara from the display case?”
Sylvie shook her head, her shoulders slumping as she leaned back against the door. “I didn’t steal it.”
“Um. Yeah you did, Sylvie. I saw you.”
“You’re lying!” Sylvie shot away from the door, her body a tight coil of anger. “You weren’t there. No one was there.”
“I didn’t say I was there.” I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the foyer table. A vase of white daisies shuddered with the movement.
Sylvie’s eyes glinted with anger. “Then how did you—”
“Ever seen the cameras they have mounted around the building? There are a ton of them. And they catch almost everything.” I took a deep breath, letting the truth sink in. “I’m going to ask you one more time, why did you take Leena’s tiara?”
The color drained from Sylvie’s cheeks. She looked like she might be sick. And I was certain she was about to break. But a rumbling of footsteps shook the floor beneath me, a high-pitched squeal shattering the moment.
“Bailey!” Brittany “Likes to Blow” Sanford shouted, pulling me into a hug. “You showed!”
Carrie “Pants on Fire” Hixon clapped her hands. “I thought you were ditching us tonight.”
“I’m just making a quick appearance,” I said, “so you all know I love you.”
“But you can’t leave.” Amy “Anything Goes” Linta said, pouting.
“Yeah,” Kelsey “Shaved—’nuff Said” Hathaway added. “We’ve got brownies. They’re not the magic kind, but they’re so delish they almost qualify.”
“I smuggled in some rum,” whispered Beth “Squeaks, Squeals, Shrieks” Klein. “I was just coming up to grab a few cans of soda for rum and Cokes.”
“She said it’s just an appearance.” Sylvie’s voice was hard. Cold.
“You’re not going to Jonesy’s, are you?” asked Summer “Spicy” Jameson. “The police are right outside. We’ll be safe here. At Jonesy’s you’re—”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “There’ll be people everywhere watching for anything suspicious. Besides, I’ll have Jude by my side the entire night.”
“If that’s not a Cutest Couple statement, I don’t know what is.” JJ “Juicy Fruit” Hamilton rolled her eyes, but she smiled at the same time. “I still don’t think it’s worth the risk, B.”
“I wouldn’t mind taking the risk if I had Jude standing by my side,” Beth said with a giggle. I looked at her and wondered for the hundredth time if the video’s claim about her being so . . . loud was true. But then I shook that thought away, hating the way The Bakersville Dozen had made people see only one thing about each of us, erasing all other aspects of our personalities.
“Anyway,” Sylvie said, stepping up to my side and putting her hand on my arm, “thanks for stopping by, Bailey. I hope you have a bl
ast tonight.”
“You sure you don’t want to join me?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“Yes,” Sylvie said. “Totally. But I’ll walk you out. The cops aren’t staked out in back yet.”
Leading the way down the hall and into the kitchen, Sylvie slid the chips and guacamole onto the island that was already crowded with chips and dips, fruit and veggies, and a menu for the Flying Pizza, before making her way out the sliding glass door that led to her back deck.
“Bye, guys,” I said, waving at the other girls, who were crowding around the snacks. I took a deep breath before stepping through the doorway and sliding it closed.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to prove with this little stunt. But the game’s over, Bailey.” Sylvie leaned her elbows on the deck’s railing and looked out over her flat, grassy backyard.
“I’m not trying to prove anything.” I stepped beside her, as a breeze washed over us. “I just want answers.”
“Well, you’re not going to get them.” Sylvie pushed off the railing, her icy blue eyes boring into me. “So you might as well stop asking.”
“Not likely. Tell me. Why did you do it?”
“Stop, Bailey!” Sylvie’s voice cracked. “Just stop, or else—”
“Or else what? Help me understand.” I stood there, watching the breeze tug through Sylvie’s tight curls, going over everything I knew. “You took the tiara at the end of the day, after everyone had left the atrium, and the school was pretty much empty except for the people heading out to the parking lot. And then what? You went straight to the girl’s locker room to get info on Emily, right? For your graduation speech?”
“How do you know about that?” Sylvie asked, her voice a whisper.
“I’m best friends with the chick who pulled you out of there. Which means I know that Roger Turley was standing right outside the locker room doors, stalking you.”
I pictured the scene, Hannah swinging through the doors, Turley waiting just outside, his feet pacing the linoleum floor. Hannah’s hair streaming behind her as she raced toward the back exit, her heart beating fast when she realized she wasn’t alone, that she had someone to save. And then it hit me—Sylvie had more to hide than a stolen tiara.
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