by Jillian Dodd
The assistant comes back on the line and says, "Judge Waters just arrived and will speak to you now."
I'm put on hold, classical music playing in the background for a few moments until the deep voice says, "This is Judge Waters. Tell me the rest of it."
"The rest of the oath?"
"Yes."
"All who pass through Stockton's door, take an oath of silence swore. In this place of legend and lore, party on, friends, evermore."
"How can I help you, Keatyn?"
"I need a search warrant."
"Are you an attorney?"
"No, sir. I'll try to keep this brief. I'm a current Eastbrooke student. My mom is Abby Johnston, and I was sent to Eastbrooke this fall because a man tried to kidnap me. That man was questioned by the police on August twentieth and released for lack of evidence. Later, I remembered that during the kidnaping, he said he was taking me to a van out back. They found the van--a rental with millions of fingerprints--with duct tape and drugs in it, but nothing leading back to the man. The man is rich and good-looking."
"Who is it?"
"His name is Vincent Sharpe. He's been obsessed with my mom for years and owns a production company."
"Is he the guy doing the nationwide search for the next Abby Johnston?"
"Yes. He was trying to find me."
"I see. What's the search warrant for?"
"He kidnapped my boyfriend, Brooklyn Wright--well, ex-boyfriend, but Vincent doesn't know that. I pissed him off."
"How?"
"On Monday, at his board meeting, I announced that I was the new majority owner of his company and fired him. He threatened me. Told me that no one I loved was safe. Our family dog was taken yesterday morning and Brooklyn has been missing since around eight last night. Vincent video chatted with me on Brooklyn's computer. I made him prove that he'd taken Brooklyn; he turned the laptop around and showed me Brooklyn, tied up and lying motionless on a mattress. I have a screenshot of that, but nothing else. No proof that I spoke to him. We need to search his properties, but the judge turned us down for the warrant because we don't have any proof and, according to him, I'm not credible."
"Was the board meeting recorded?"
"Yes."
"I'd say you go at the warrant from that angle. Submit a copy of the recording of the board minutes along with written statements from at least two of the board members stating they heard him threaten you. State that Brooklyn has been missing and is presumed to have been kidnapped. Include the screenshot. Then, have the warrant request sent to me. Do you have a pen? I'll give you the fax number. We'll be waiting for it."
"Yes, sir," I say, taking down the number. "Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome. Anything else I can do for you?"
"Um, actually, there is. If they don't find Brooklyn soon, I'm going against the wishes of my security counselor."
"Who's that?"
"Smith Security."
"Garrett Smith is the best in the business."
"I know. But he wants me to hide, and I'm afraid one of my little sisters will be next. Vincent told me to come home. If they haven't found him by Saturday, I'm going home. If things don't go well--like, if I don't survive and he does . . . Please contact my family and help them put Vincent away for a very long time."
"You have my word." He gives me his private cell phone number. "If you come back to California, call me before you do anything."
"Okay."
I give Riley a high five. "You are brilliant!"
He grins. "That was too easy. I'm totally looking up everyone on the walls now. You never know when something like that could come in handy."
"Obviously."
I call Cooper.
"Where are you?" he asks. "Aiden was looking for you."
"I'm at the, uh, chapel with Riley."
"I'm on my way," he says.
"Wait a couple minutes. I need to call Garrett. I know how he can get the search warrant."
I call Garrett and give him all the info from the judge.
Then Riley and I rush back through the tunnel, into Stockton's, and upstairs.
Aiden and Cooper are waiting for us in the back of the chapel.
Cooper hands me a printout of a story about Vincent. Apparently, he's spoken to the press about the takeover. The article goes on to mention that he's seriously concerned about the company he founded in the hands of a seventeen-year-old. About how it's a disgrace to the industry.
I shake my head. "We need something that will bury this story. I don't want it to get legs."
"What kind of story would do that?"
Aiden smiles at me and points to my finger. I look at the four-leaf clover on it. "Ohmigawd, Aiden. You are brilliant!"
I call Mom, get her permission, and have her email me what I need.
A short time later, the news is out.
HOLY SHIT!! STOP THE PRESSES!!!!!
THIS JUST IN!
HELL HAS OFFICIALLY FROZEN OVER.
Keatyn Douglas, our new obsession, just emailed us.
One.
Single.
Beautiful.
Precious.
Photo.
(Okay, so her publicist probably sent it to every media outlet at the same time, but whatever.)
And what a photo it is.
Keatyn, dressed in an adorable strapless pink Sherri Hill high-low dress and cowboy boots, standing up for her mother, Abby Johnston, wearing Versace at her wedding to one of the sexiest men alive, Tommy Stevens.
We'll give the ladies of the world a moment to mourn their loss.
Okay, we're back.
Here is the official press release:
Abby Johnston and Tommy Stevens were married over the holiday in a small, surprise ceremony attended by the couple's family and closest friends.
And the real story:
Long-time friend and multi-mega-hit director, Matthew Moran, loaded up a plane full of guests and took them to his mansion in the Italian countryside. Tommy proposed on Christmas Eve with a stunning sparkler hidden amongst his gifts to Abby, and the couple was married the following day in a lavish outdoor wedding. Guests later noshed on a Christmas Day feast where they toasted the happy couple.
P.S. Guess that sort of kills off the rumors of their imminent split.
P.P.S. Rumor has it Keatyn danced the night away with none other than Damian Moran, who has been writing love songs about her for years.
Hoping.
Night
I'm lying in bed, trying to go to sleep. But I can't.
So, I do what I've been considering doing all day. I grab my computer and take it into the stairwell.
I hit the video conference icon and call Brooklyn, hoping that Vincent will answer.
I need to know that Brooklyn's still okay.
And to let Vincent know that I'm coming home.
He doesn't answer.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 6TH
They'll find him.
1pm
Friday is the longest day of my life.
I go through the motions, slogging from one class to the next.
I skip lunch, going to Cooper's office, instead.
"You look as tired as I feel," I tell him, noting his bleary eyes and the scruff he always shaves.
"So do you. I just got off the phone with Garrett. Still nothing."
"He's been planning this for a while. Are they checking basements and closets? For secret rooms, trap doors? On my birthday, he had to have somewhere he was taking me. He planned everything else out. Think about it. He wants to make a movie. There has to be a set somewhere."
"Garrett has brought in some of his top men to help with the search, Keatyn. These guys are all ex-special forces. They know how to find people who don't want to be found, if you know what I mean. And they're utilizing technology to scan the buildings for heat sources and using search and rescue dogs."
"Heat sources? Is that like in the movies? Where they can find people who are hiding by tracking their body tem
perature?"
"Exactly."
"And what do the dogs do?"
Cooper just looks at me.
And it hits me.
The dogs find people who don't have any body heat.
Isn't normal.
2am
I wake up because I hear a noise.
The kind of noise I know isn't normal.
I reach out for Aiden and remember he wasn't coming over tonight. Something about hearing there was going to be some sort of late-night dorm check.
Just as I open my eyes, a hood is thrown over my head and I'm being pulled out of bed and down the hall.
It takes me a few moments to get my wits about me.
This is it.
Vincent has found me.
I think about fighting him here in the dorm, but decide against it. The noise would wake people up and then they would all be in danger.
As soon as we get outside, I attack.
I use my elbow to give him a shot to the ribs, then pull his arm down hard, knocking him off balance. When I feel him start to fall, I push my shoulder into him, knocking him down the stairs.
I quickly pull off the hood.
"What the fuck are you doing, Monroe?" Jake yells at me.
My insides stop shaking.
"Jake!? What the hell are you doing?!"
"I'm trying to kidnap you."
"Why?" I say, suddenly looking around in every direction. Did Jake out me to Vincent?
"Because I'm taking you somewhere special. I'm sorry, I've just been excited to do this since I got kidnapped last year."
"Jake, what the fuck are you talking about? When did you get kidnapped?"
He sits up and rubs his back. "I just told you I got kidnapped last year. It's an honor."
"Getting kidnapped is an honor? Are you serious? You know why I'm here, right?"
"Oh my god. I didn't even think of that. I'm sorry. I'm not supposed to tell you. But maybe, under the circumstances, I'd better."
"Ya think?"
"You are about to be kidnapped, teased, and then inducted into Eastbrooke fame."
"Fame?"
"Yes. You, Monroe, are about to become a prefect."
"But, I . . ."
"No buts."
"I don't know if I'll even be here next year."
"Whatever. If you don't come back, we'll deal with that later. Enjoy tonight. It's kinda corny, but it's kind of special too. And I'm not telling you anything else. I don't want to ruin the surprise. Now, will you let me put the hood back on you without kicking the shit out of me?"
"Sure."
He puts the hood back over my head and leads me down the sidewalk.
"I have to spin you around," he whispers. "So you don't know where we're going. The prefect room's location is supposed to be a secret."
"But you know where it is. If I'm a prefect, I'll know where it is. Why the secrecy?"
"Fuck if I know. But if you don't play nice with the all the old prefects who are here for the ceremony, they might change their minds."
"Okay, fine. Spin me."
Jake spins me around a few times and then leads me up the hill on the concrete, which makes it quite obvious what direction we are heading.
And, now that I have my wits about me and my heartbeat has slowed down to a reasonable rate, I kind of want to jump up and down and scream.
Because, me . . . a prefect?
I'm led into a building that I'm pretty sure is the student center and then down a set of stairs. We go into a room and then down another set of stairs.
Jake leads me a bit further then grabs my shoulders, turns me around, and positions me in a line. I can feel someone's shoulder next to me. Based on his cologne, I'd guess it's Dallas.
"Brothers and Sisters of Eastbrooke," a deep voice announces, "we welcome Keatyn Monroe into the fold."
My hood is pulled off, revealing a huge stone room, lit only by the candles being held by what I assume are years' worth of prefects, all dressed in red robes.
It's like a scene out of a movie where college students are taken to a dark basement and inducted into a secret society.
They take the hoods off the students one by one and announce them.
"Brothers and sisters of Eastbrooke, we welcome Dallas McMahon into the fold. Brothers and sisters of Eastbrooke, we welcome Logan Pedersen into the fold. Brothers and sisters of Eastbrooke, we welcome Ariela Ross into the fold. Brothers and sisters of Eastbrooke, we welcome Riley Johnson into the fold. Brothers and sisters of Eastbrooke, we welcome Maggie Morgan into the fold. And, lastly, brothers and sisters of Eastbrooke, we welcome Aiden Arrington into the fold. Seven prefects. A divine number for a divine responsibility."
He moves to address us directly. "Prefects, you have been chosen because of your leadership and sense of community. You are the new faces of Eastbrooke. The hearts and souls of this magnificent place. Those who will guide our students, be their collective conscience, and uphold all the traditions that define Eastbrooke. The video with the seven of you has given our school faces for students to identify with for years to come. That, combined with your philanthropy, leadership, and social efforts are why you were chosen to best represent our school for the coming year."
Each of the current prefects move to stand in front of the student they brought, with Jake stopping in front of me.
The main prefect announces, "Current prefects, please remove your robes and present them."
Jake unzips the black robe he's wearing and helps me put it on. Then he receives a red robe of his own.
"This is the changing of the guard. For the next semester, you will work alongside your prefect guides to help prepare you for the coming year."
As a circle of red robes forms around us, I'm handed a candle and instructed to get in a circle with the other new prefects.
Everyone sings Eastbrooke's school anthem.
Tears fill my eyes as they sing about tradition, honor, and glory; friendship, bonds, and love. All things that resonate clearly in my heart in a way they never have before.
Standing here, in a circle with my best friends, has solidified what Eastbrooke means to me. It's love, friendship, and bonds that I pray will never break. It's the parties, the late nights, the sneaking out, the homework, the sports, the planning, the clubs. All of those things have introduced me to a world I love. A world that, no matter what happens to me next, will always be in my heart.
I'm beaming with pride when the song finishes, then our candles are taken away and Eastbrooke prefect pins are placed on our lapels. "We proudly present you with this badge," a prefect says. "A symbol of all that is Eastbrooke."
Another prefect speaks to us. "The word prefect is from the Latin praeficere, meaning 'make in front.' The prefect tradition began here in 1948 with two male prefects. In 1967, we opened our doors to a co-ed population and were ahead of our time when we honored our first female prefect in 1969. For the last sixty-six years, students have been chosen in twos, fours, sixes, and this year, sevens, for their prowess in scholarship, leadership, and philanthropy. Tonight you join a society with only 216 members. Now, we'd like for you to meet some of those who have gathered to welcome you tonight."
The former prefects create a receiving line. The first hand I shake is that of Regina Bosworth, prefect, 1972. Then Alfred Norman, prefect 1952, and the oldest prefect here.
We shake hands with nearly one hundred former prefects. Many whose names I recognize from Stockton's walls, including two of its founders.
Then we're escorted back to our dorm rooms, where I find a prefect's polo and sweater laid on the end of my bed.
I'm wide awake after the ceremony, so I lean against my headboard and start going through all the millions of emails I've gotten announcing January sales at all my favorite retail stores.
I delete them and go through my spam folder.
I'm bulk deleting crap emails when one catches my eye. I quickly click it.
RE: Warren Taylor Agency script request.
/>
Keatyn--
Sorry it took so long, but here's the script you requested for A Day at the Beach, the working title for the remake of A Day at the Lake. Please see attachment.
Cheers.
I'm just opening the script when a notification pops up telling me I have an incoming call from Brooklyn.
I immediately answer it, praying it's actually him.
That's he's overtaken Vincent and is free.
Or that Garrett found him.
I say a quick prayer then open my eyes.
To find Vincent staring back at me.
"You called yesterday?" he asks.
"Uh, yeah," I reply. My eyes are fixed to the screen, trying to scan the background for any possible clue or indication to where he may be keeping Brooklyn.
At the same time, I'm patting the bed, searching for my phone. I have to record this.
Put your hands where I can see them," Vincent orders.
I hold my hands up. "Why?"
"Because I need to know you're not recording this."
"Why, are you going to say something incriminating?"
"No, I was seeing what you wanted. You called me last night."
"I'm coming back to Malibu. I'm ready to make the movie."
He smiles a genuine smile, looking like the Vincent who I thought was my friend. "Really? When?"
"I'm flying in from New York on Sunday," I lie. "Where should I meet you?"
"I think you know."
"On the beach?"
He nods.
"I want to talk to Brooklyn."
"I'm afraid he's unavailable at the moment."
"Is he alive, Vince?"
"Yes, Lacey, he's alive. We're just waiting for you to join us."
I nod, end the call, and immediately open the script and read the ending.
Even though it's late, I call Garrett.
"I just got the new script!" I tell him.
"Keatyn, what time is it there?"
"I don't know. Late. Were you sleeping? Did I wake you?"
"I was taking a quick nap. It's okay. What did you learn?"
"Well, first off, Vincent changed the name of the movie to A Day at the Beach. He added a bunch of special effects things that I sort of skimmed over but--have you ever seen the original?"