by Katie Nelson
They were both watching me. “Cool,” I said. Way to impress the old guys who held my future in their hands.
Stan leaned forward and put his cup down on the dean’s desk. “We had an incident this weekend that I’m sure you’ve heard about involving one of the school employees. Rick Gillis, your RA.” He waited. I nodded. And he continued on. “Rick made some rather serious allegations. Can you tell us about your interactions with him?”
“The normal stuff. Getting change for laundry, signing out when I went home for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and stuff. I got locked out of my room once. He let me in.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really.”
“Have any incriminating pictures of Mr. Gillis? Ones he wouldn’t want anyone to see?”
“No.”
“What about emails he’s sent?”
“No, nothing.”
“So there’s no reason that Mr. Gillis would give you special treatment?”
I forced myself to make eye contact with the lawyer. To keep my voice even. To sound clueless. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How then, do you explain this?” the dean asked. He set a translucent orange bottle on his desk. “We found it in Mr. Gillis’s room. It’s a prescription for your brother, Samuel McKay. Narcotics.”
I stared at the bottle for a second. It was empty. “I have no idea.”
“Did you sell them to Mr. Gillis?”
I shook my head. “No.”
I could tell that the dean didn’t believe me.
“Look, my mom must have left them here when she was moving me in. Or maybe they fell out of her purse. My brother got a bloody nose at the barbecue and she had to clean him up. I swear, I didn’t sell them to Rick. Or give them to Rick. Or anything. I don’t know how he got them.”
Stan sat forward in his chair. “You’re a bright kid. And from what I’ve heard, a damn good debater. We’re honored to have you here at Bannerman. We know that Mr. Gillis has some demons he’s fighting. I can’t go into detail, but considering his background, single-parent home, alcoholic father, this behavior is hardly surprising. We need to do our due diligence and figure out if there’s any truth to his allegations, okay?”
I sat there for a second, trying to understand what he was saying. I came from a single-parent home and had an alcoholic father. The dean knew it, too. Was this some trick to get me to incriminate myself?
“What about Mr. Tate? Your debate partner? Was he friends with Rick Gillis?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you ever see anything strange? Packages exchanged? Private conversations?”
“No.”
“But you spend a lot of time with Mr. Tate. You’ve never seen anything suspicious?”
My head was starting to ache, and I felt tired, but I had to get through this. I pictured Sam lying in that hospital bed, and I wondered if there’d been any change in his condition. I didn’t want to do this anymore, to play this game. But I didn’t want to hurt anyone else, either. So I decided to stick to the Duke’s script one more time. “We’re debate partners. You know what that’s like. When would we have time to do anything else?”
Stan chuckled, then took another sip of his drink. “That’s the truth. I remember those days. Of course, once you hit law school, you’ll be wishing you could get these days back.” He winked at me as he set his drink back on the desk. “You’re planning on law school, right?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I mean, I hope so.”
“The Bannerman name is well known and very prestigious,” Stan said. “It will open all kinds of doors for you. We know you wouldn’t want to tarnish that reputation.”
I waited for more, but he didn’t say anything else. The dean had a tablet open, and was studying the screen. Outside, students were walking across the quad, and when I looked at the clock on the wall, I was surprised to see that it was only the passing period between classes. It felt like I’d been in that office for hours.
“Is that it, then? Am I done?” I stood to leave.
The dean looked up. “That’s all. For now. We will get to the bottom of this. And we expect your full cooperation.”
I grabbed my backpack and threw it over my shoulder. As my hand touched the doorknob, the dean spoke again. “And Mr. McKay?”
I turned.
“We’ve invested quite a bit of money in you. Do you know how many scholarship applications we get each year?”
I waited. I had no idea.
“Over two hundred. But we chose you. We expect great things, at the state tournament, in your academics, and beyond.”
I understood.
I walked out of the office, letting the heavy door swing closed behind me.
I needed a minute to get it together. I didn’t want any of the other guys to see me stressing out, so I went back to my room, bought a Snickers and a Rockstar from the vending machine, and collapsed onto my bed. Since I was already on the administration’s most-wanted list, though, I knew I couldn’t skip class. As the tardy bell was ringing, I slipped into debate. Watterson was on the phone in his office, and I didn’t even make it to my seat before I was accosted by Garrett and Tomas.
“Well?”
“What happened?”
I glanced around the room, but nobody else seemed interested in our conversation. “Nothing yet. They asked a bunch of questions.”
“They?” Garrett looked pale.
“The dean. And some lawyer, Stan something or other.”
Tomas nodded, like he was golfing buddies with the two of them. “What did they want to know?”
“How well I knew Rick. Nothing serious. I think the Duke was right. They want to pin this all on Rick. That way, we can go back to making the school look good.”
“Did he tell you that?” Garrett asked. “After they talked to him?”
“No. He said that last night.” I looked around the room, realizing for the first time that I hadn’t seen the Duke all day. “When did they call him in?”
Garrett and Tomas looked at each other. “Don’t know. He wasn’t in French.”
“Or at breakfast. Or lunch.” Tomas added.
Watterson walked out of his office, and we all had to sit down. “He’s probably in his room, sleeping. Doesn’t want anyone to see him until his face looks better,” Garrett said, walking back to his seat.
I thought about that as Watterson passed out our comment cards and ballots from Saturday’s tournament. Was it only two days ago that we were on that stage, accepting our awards, celebrating that we’d qualified for State? It felt like so much had happened since then.
When he got to my seat, Watterson held out the ballots and asked, “Where’s your partner in crime?”
For a second, I wondered what he knew. Watterson didn’t make flippant comments. Did he know where the Duke was? Did he know what we’d done? I met his gaze, but I couldn’t read his expression. I shrugged. “Who knows? Sleeping off his hangover? Getting his highlights touched up? Driving into the city because the sushi is better there?”
Watterson dropped the ballots and moved on. I picked up the one on top, checking my speaker points, trying to read the reason for decision, but none of it registered. My whole body was jittery, the papers shook in my hand, and though I wanted to blame it all on the caffeine, I couldn’t.
The Duke wasn’t answering his texts. When Garrett, and then Kelsey, tried calling, it went straight to voice mail. We all took turns banging on his door, but he didn’t answer, and his room was quiet. His car was still in the parking lot in his usual spot under the solar panels closest to the boys’ dorm.
That night, after dinner, we all sat around our table, laughing about the crazy things he’d done, imagining the amazing story he’d have for us when we saw him tomorrow.
Tomorrow. We were all sure we’d see him tomorrow.
We didn’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WHEN THE DUKE DIDN’T APPEAR by dinner the next d
ay, I went to the RA’s office and asked what was going on. Mike told me the Duke checked out of school Monday morning. Something about a family emergency. That was all anybody would say. Nobody acted like it was a big deal.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.
I texted Kelsey and asked her to meet me outside.
“What’s up?” She jogged across the quad, her hair in a ponytail, her face a little shiny, still dressed in her workout clothes.
“I need your help. For five, ten minutes?”
“I just got back from my run, so I desperately need a shower, but I guess so. What do you need?”
“A distraction. I need Mike’s keys so I can get into the Duke’s room.”
She put her hands on her hips. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? The Duke’ll be furious if he finds out.”
“I know. But I have to check. What if he’s in there? Really sick or something? His car is in the parking lot. He couldn’t have just left.”
Kelsey sighed. “Then, at the very least, you’d smell something. I think he’s fine. Probably skipping school. But since you obviously aren’t going to let this go, what’s the plan?”
“Mike’s a math major. Ask him for help with your pre-calc. Pretend you don’t get it, flirt a little. I’ll grab the master key and run upstairs to check the room. Then, when I bring it back, you can suddenly understand it all and leave.”
She rolled her eyes. “Really? How Barbie is that? I’m going to play dumb girl? Why don’t you get Tomas to do it? He is failing pre-calc.”
“Yeah, but I’ve seen Mike checking you out. He’ll be way more distracted this way. Please?”
“Fine. Five minutes. You’d better run up those stairs. And you owe me. Dinner.”
I hugged her, lifting her off the ground for a second. “Thank you. I am in your debt. But I’m not sure if this will work. You weren’t kidding. You stink.”
She punched me in the arm, not all that playfully, and I tried to act like it didn’t hurt. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my pre-calc book, a notebook, and a pencil. As I held open the door and walked with her to the RA’s office, my pulse began to thump. She was right, wasn’t she? I wasn’t going to open his door and find his body lying on the floor, was I?
It took a few minutes for Mike to bite, but I had to hand it to Kelsey. She could flirt like nobody’s business. Mike eventually invited her into the office so he wasn’t looking sideways at the book. While he was distracted, I grabbed the master keycard off the hook.
“I’ve got to get something from my room,” I said, but Mike seemed to have forgotten I was there. Stuffing the keycard in my back pocket, I walked as quickly as I could to the stairwell, then bolted up the three flights. The Duke’s room was at the end of the hall, and I half jogged down to his door, passing a couple of guys. When I got there, I knocked, waiting for a minute until the hall cleared. My chest was heaving and my heart felt like a medicine ball, ricocheting against my ribs. I took a quick breath, and when I didn’t smell anything worse than normal, I swiped the key in the lock and pushed it open.
He wasn’t there.
I walked inside and shut the door behind me, but didn’t move from the threshold. I don’t know what I thought I would see. I was relieved not to find the Duke in a pile of puke or blood, but seeing his empty room didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it made me more convinced than ever that something was wrong. I walked over to his desk, though I had no idea what I was looking for. It seemed the same. A little messy, but nothing was broken. Nothing seemed to be missing. His TV, his Xbox, and his laptop were all there. So where was he?
I knew I was out of time. Kelsey couldn’t stall much longer. I walked out of the room, heard the door click shut behind me, and hustled down the stairs. When I made it back to the office, Kelsey didn’t even look up, but she stuck her foot out and gave me a gentle kick. I snuck the master key back onto the hook, watching Kelsey twirl her ponytail around her finger as Mike solved the equation.
“Does that make sense?” he asked.
She grinned. “Totally. I get it now. You’re the best.” Kelsey put her hand on Mike’s knee, squeezed, then stood and gathered her stuff. “I’m going to go jump in the shower. Tanner, meet me in the parking lot in a half hour? I feel like Thai tonight.”
Kelsey left and I went up to my room. Before I made it to the third floor, I had a text from her: Assuming no dead body? Tell me about it at dinner.
No dead body. At least none that I’d found. So where was he? And what did this mean? Was he waiting for the Rick thing to blow over? Was he coming back? Even though I’d sent him at least a dozen texts, I sent one more: Are you dead? Call me. Or somebody. Let us know what’s up.
By the time I plugged my phone in before bed, sometime around midnight, there was still no reply.
The sun was high in a cloudless blue sky and I had to squint as I looked down the highway for the turnoff that would lead to the Duke’s house. My sunglasses were back in the dorm somewhere on my desk, useless. I’d left as soon as the last bell rang, climbing into my truck before anyone could stop and ask where I was going, before I could think about it myself.
I’d been sitting in history class when the idea came to me. Confined in that classroom, staring at Mr. Yosh’s PowerPoint slides, it had seemed like a brilliant plan. Now, with my gas tank almost empty and the air conditioner blasting my face, I wasn’t quite sure.
It had been over forty-eight hours since anyone had seen the Duke—more than enough time to file a missing person’s report or hire a private investigator or something. And as easy as it was for me to imagine that something terrible had happened to him, the likelihood was that he was just hanging out somewhere. In physics, they called it Occam’s razor: the idea that when presented with two possible solutions to a problem, the simplest was probably correct. So I was driving to his house, expecting to find him by the pool, sipping some fruity drink, or asleep on the sofa after a long night of partying.
As my Bronco slowed and climbed up the bluff, I could feel the rage building inside me. I’d thought of the things I’d say when I saw him. As I stood on his front porch, my hands balled into fists, I even thought about hitting him. Not hard enough to knock him out or anything. Just enough to wake him up. Knock some sense into him. Make him realize that he couldn’t treat his friends like this. We wouldn’t take it.
I rang the doorbell, then a few seconds later, pounded on the door with my fist.
It swung open and, for a moment, I just stared.
“Yes?”
A short, Middle Eastern man, probably in his fifties, wearing a navy blue nylon tracksuit stood in the doorway. In the background, the TV was on, some show in a language I didn’t understand. The house and his breath smelled like curry, so strong that it burned my nostrils while I stood there, mute and confused.
“Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want any.” The man went to close the door.
“Wait,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m looking for the Du—I mean, Andrew. Can I talk to him?”
The man shook his head. “You have the wrong house.”
I looked past him, at the giant chandelier in the foyer, the oversized white couches in the living room—nothing had changed since the last time I’d been here, four days ago. “No, he lives here. Andrew Tate. Is he upstairs or out back or something? I need to talk to him.”
“I live here.”
I was afraid the man didn’t understand, so I pulled out my phone and found a picture of him. I held it up. “This guy. Andrew. I’m looking for him.”
“This is my house,” the man said, his voice rising. “Andrew is a student at Stanford. I hired him to set up my network and connect my security system. That was almost two years ago. He doesn’t live here. If you’re trying to find him, go back to Stanford.”
The door shut before I could ask any more questions, but I couldn’t move off that porch. I pulled my phone out and searched the address. A bunch of outdated r
eal estate listings came up, a property tax record, but nothing specific. I scrolled to the bottom of the list and saw a link to a lifestyle magazine article. I clicked on it and read.
… the house was purchased by Abi Marei, a Dubai developer, as a secondary residence.
It went on to talk about the landscaping and the imported tile mosaic used to line the bottom of the pool. Nothing else. My mind was spinning, remembering each room of that house and suddenly, I realized why there weren’t any family photos on the walls. No clothes hanging in the closet. No yearbooks on the shelf or grease-spattered cookbooks in the kitchen or favorite mugs in the cabinets. And I remembered how the Duke never had a key to the house or a garage door opener in his car. He could operate the security system and the surround sound, even the pool equipment, from his phone. But none of it was his.
Through the leaded glass window in the door, Mr. Marei shouted at me, “You go home or I’ll call the police.”
I walked back to my car and drove away, but I couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not until I knew something. At the first gas station, I gathered every quarter and nickel I could find in my ashtray and under the seats. Combined with the few dollars I had in my pocket, it bought me a little under six gallons of gas, but it would have to do.
Traffic was crazy, but my Bronco was bigger, and I didn’t care if anyone rear-ended me. I wove through the freeways and bridges until I was back in the tightly packed Oakland hills, searching for the house that I’d been to before Christmas.
This time, my knock was loud, insistent, and I didn’t flinch when Jimmy opened the door. If she recognized me, she didn’t let on, but I didn’t give her much of a chance before I started blabbing, talking as fast as I would in a rebuttal.
“I’m looking for the Duke. Or Andrew Tate. Whatever you call him. I don’t really care. I need to talk to him.”
She looked me up and down, glancing over my shoulder to see if I was alone, then shook her head. “I don’t know anything.”