It’s the crackle beneath each of these touches, the electricity at the points of contact. It’s new, despite being normal.
I’m the one who changes it, because I have to be.
I drop my feet down from the seat and sit up. Ravi shoots me a questioning look that intensifies when I nudge his arm into his own space.
I fumble in the dark for the button on the armrest and depress it. The barrier swings up and slots between the seats, and I move over, settling myself against Ravi’s side. His arm closes back over my shoulder, and I burrow in.
I don’t see his smile as the screen flashes black, but I feel it, because his entire body radiates with it.
Mr. Monroe is absent, and the substitute—a crotchety old man—greets the class by saying, “You may use the period to work on your final projects, missing assignments, or anything that doesn’t involve noise.”
Between the murder investigation and subsequent post-funeral funk, I’ve been neglecting the curse research, so this is just what I need.
So far, the earliest confirmed mention of the curse we can find was ten years ago, which was verified by the year’s class advisor as well as Carlos Garcia, Claribel’s oldest brother. According to Carlos, they were the class that started calling it that, because they had watched seniors disappear since their freshman year. As juniors, when the third senior went missing—a mountain of a bully no one was sad to see the back of—they joked that the senior curse had claimed another victim. When Carlos’s own senior year rolled around and Willa Butler—universally hated by girls and beloved by boys—vanished, he found it less funny. Apparently, Ms. Larson had tried to squash the curse rumors those first few years, but she was still new to school and let it go pretty easily.
I raise my hand and ask the sub if I can go to the office. Ravi looks up from his laptop, where he has the I Am Maplefield photos open in Lightroom, a question on his face.
“Gonna try to interview Larson about the curse,” I whisper, not wanting to anger the cranky sub.
“Want me to come?”
“Nah, you’re busy. Keep doing your pictures.”
There’s a solid chance Ms. Larson will be too busy to talk anyway, but when I get to the office, the principal’s door is open and Henry is curled up on his bed.
“Knock, knock.” I stick my head in.
Ms. Larson is on her computer, but she smiles and waves me in. “What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping you had a couple minutes to talk for a project I’m doing in Journalism.”
She spins her chair away from her monitor and offers me her full attention. “Ah, yes. How have the photos been coming?”
“Really good, actually, but this is for a different part.” I take a seat in one of the cushy chairs in front of Ms. Larson’s wide desk and set my notebook on my lap. “You’re aware of the senior curse?”
“Of course,” she says, a smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. “Yes, there were a couple, shall we say, impressive disappearances from senior classes. One girl, a gymnast, literally joined the circus. Her parents were furious because she used school computers to make the arrangements. Though, for the record, I have to tell you the curse is nonsense.”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I’m researching. The origin of the idea of the curse.”
“I see. There are perfectly boring explanations for several of the supposed victims, but it was more fun to blame a curse, I suppose.”
“Do you remember when people first started talking about the curse?”
“Oh, it was years ago. Probably a year or two after I started here, I think.”
“Do you think there’s any truth to it?”
“No, like I said, many of the so-called disappearances were completely mundane, but privacy laws prevent the school from sharing the details, which is how rumors start.”
“Do you think students believing in the curse is a problem?”
“I think it’s impossible to stop teenagers from believing in anything they want to be true,” she says. “I tried to put an end to it at first, but the more I tried to take it away, the more they clung to it. Soon, it was conspiracy this, curse that. It was the lure of forbidden fruit. I figured it would fade away on its own.”
“But it hasn’t.”
“But it hasn’t,” Ms. Larson echoes.
“But you think it’s harmless?”
“I do. It’s no worse than my generation locking ourselves in bathrooms and trying to summon the ghost of Bloody Mary.” She laughs, sounding almost embarrassed for her younger self.
“Even now, in light of Emma and Kylie? And Liam, for that matter. I’ve seen what the papers have said about the school not doing enough to prevent student suicide.”
Ms. Larson’s face darkens. “They are two separate issues. On the first, I say if students find comfort in this curse, I’m not going to stop them. We use stories to make sense of the world around us, and for many, it may be easier to process these deaths through the lens of an urban legend than it is to confront their own mortality. One thing the media has right is that suicide is an epidemic. But they’re looking for someone to blame, and it isn’t me. Suicide plagued this school long before I became principal.”
“What? Really?” I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not like my generation invented depression. “The only other student deaths I’ve uncovered were from a car crash forever ago and then a kid name James Blackwell, but the obituary only said he died at home, not how.”
“I think that’s enough, Kennedy,” Ms. Larson says. “Dig up the curse, discuss the urban legend, but let the dead lie. You don’t need to drag every tragedy the school has seen into it. We have enough to deal with right in front of us.”
Ted Bundy was caught on a routine traffic stop. The Son of Sam was brought down by a parking ticket. Sometimes, all the investigating in the world can’t make up for the dumb luck of being in the right place at the right time.
The yellow caution tape is gone from the auditorium doors, but even so, no one makes much use of the space anymore. That’s why catching Owen opening the door makes me think the universe is finally aligning in my favor for once.
Ms. Larson was right; I have plenty of tragedy to keep me busy right now.
Owen doesn’t see me approaching and ducks inside without hesitation, like he has every right to be there.
I stop and glance up and down the hall. Content that no one’s watching, I creep to the door and peer in. Owen sits in the front row, dead center, like he’s watching a performance only he can see.
My heart races with the anticipated thrill of victory. I have him. Killers are known to return to the scene of their crimes. It’s one of the things that get them caught.
I’m tempted to run back to Mr. Monroe’s room and get Ravi, but I can’t risk Owen leaving. I quickly run through my options. If Owen killed Emma and Kylie—and he’s certainly strong enough to—I could be marching straight into physical danger by interrupting his reverie. On the other hand, I doubt he would attack me in the middle of a school day, in a building teeming with potential witnesses. Plus, I’m prepared. There’s no element of surprise working to his advantage, and I’m certainly not above screaming for my life.
I ease open the door and step inside.
The air is cooler than in the hallway, and the only light filters in from the skylights. Owen keeps his eyes on the stage and doesn’t acknowledge me. I consider walking across the stage and sitting on the edge of it, but it feels too dramatic. Instead, I take a seat beside him, leaving one empty chair between us as a buffer.
It’s like he’s been waiting for an audience, because the words tumble out as soon as I sit down.
“I wanted to kill her,” he says. “Kylie. When she told me about Emma’s affair, I wanted to choke her and shake her for corrupting the one good thing I had in my life. That’s how it felt—like she ruined it. Not Emma, but Kylie. If Kylie had just minded her own business for once in her nosy life, we might’ve been okay.”
<
br /> He keeps his eyes on the stage as he talks, and I don’t think it matters that it’s me he’s speaking to. He would say the words to the air if he had to.
“Even when I saw the texts on Emma’s phone, I thought about ignoring it. I thought if we didn’t talk about it, maybe it wouldn’t have to be real. But I couldn’t keep it in. I have anger issues. I’ve done the classes, but it’s hard. Especially when it’s with people I care about. I know that doesn’t make sense, but strangers can piss me off and it’s fine—I can do the breathing and let it go—but when it’s people close to me, people who should know better… It’s harder with them.”
I bite back a lecture on victim-blaming and instead shrug into my on-air persona like it’s an old coat. I’m relieved the days I lost to self-doubt haven’t destroyed it. “That sounds hard.”
His head whips around like he’s only just realized I’m here.
“I didn’t do it though,” he says. “I wanted to, but I didn’t do it. Then Emma died, and I blamed Kylie even more. The feeling didn’t go away. I blamed her for Emma’s death—still do—but I think all the wishing made it real.”
“Are you saying you made it real? You made Kylie die?”
He runs a hand over his shorn head. “Yeah. I think I did. In anger management, we talk about how the energy you project matters and has consequences. I think I spent so much time wishing Kylie dead that the universe made it so.”
I mull this over, wary of coming at it wrong and scaring him away. I keep my tone gentle and free of blame. “Are you saying you killed her with your brain? By thinking it?”
He pulls his lips in until they disappear and nods. In the dim light, his eyes are huge with horror. He’s guilt-ridden all right, but my sureness of his crime slips away. “Owen, did you see Kylie the day she died?”
He shakes his head.
“Then how can you be responsible?”
“Because I wanted it to happen,” he whispers.
“But did you actually do it?”
“No.”
I believe him. He could be lying to my face, but dammit, I don’t think he is. A disturbing wave of disappointment floods over me at this conclusion, and I shake it off, set it aside. I should be happy my classmate isn’t a murderer. I should be sympathetic to his grief over a dead girlfriend and a dead ex-crush, but more than anything, I’m frustrated.
Owen had made so much sense. He was intimately involved with both victims, physically capable of committing the act, and has a history of unstable behavior. But he’s so contrite, so earnest in his shame, that I just can’t see it.
When I step through the front door, I almost turn right back around. A barn has exploded in our living room. Riding boots, a tangle of leather straps I can’t identify, and two helmets—one sparkly, one plain black—are piled in front of the door. A saddle is draped over the back of the couch like a sleeping cat. I step over the debris, nearly breaking my shin on Cassidy’s wooden tack trunk, and am greeted by my weary-faced mother.
“Oh, good. You can help pack,” she says instead of hello.
“I literally just walked in.”
“Just when I needed you.” She kisses my cheek. “Please. Your father is picking Cass up from the barn, and I would like to have one family dinner before we leave.”
I sigh and return to the bulky wooden trunk, hefting it up by the metal handles on either side. “God, does she have a body in here?”
“Probably. It’s going in the SUV.” She holds the door open for me. “You’re a peach. You can still join us, you know.”
“Yeah, no. You guys go be horse show parents; that’s your jam. I’m all for being the cheering squad when it’s local, but four days sitting around a barn? No thanks.”
Cassidy and the parentals are making the four-hour drive up to Pineland Farm, a world-class training facility in Maine that’s hosting a winter qualifier for the Paralympics. They leave first thing in the morning and won’t be back until late Sunday. Four whole days of having the house and car to myself.
Mom retreats to the kitchen to put the bread in the oven while I rid the living room of everything horse-related. When I’m done, I join her and start assembling a salad.
“How is your school project coming?” she asks.
“Really good.” I fill her in on the details of Ravi’s photos and the curse research. I don’t mention the murder investigation, or that Ravi and I are turning into something undefinable but exciting.
“You know, we had a senior die when I was in school,” she says. “A suicide. It was awful.”
“Seriously? I didn’t know that.” I try to do the math, wondering if this is one of the historical suicides Ms. Larson had alluded to.
Mom nods as she slices a cucumber into half-moons. “It was so sad. In those days, you didn’t really talk about depression and death though, so it was very hush-hush. I was friendly with his sister. She was the one who found him. He’d overdosed on their diabetes medicine. I think she blamed herself. She stopped coming to school after it happened. Awful, awful thing.”
“Whoa.” I can’t help picturing Emma’s lifeless body in the woods and how hard it had been to look at. I can’t even fathom finding Cassidy like that. The thought alone takes my breath away.
But then Cassidy comes in, reeking of horse and trailing bits of hay in her wake, and I realize there’s too much life in her for me to have to worry about such things. Still, I have to fight an uncharacteristically strong urge to hug her and profess uncomfortable feelings.
Rather than embarrass us both, I get the salad on the table while Mom dishes out lasagna and let Cassidy go over her entire schedule, in excruciating detail, for her upcoming weekend.
“And guess what?” She’s vibrating with excitement. “Guess who’s driving up to watch my freestyle?”
“Charlotte Dujardin,” I say, naming the only famous rider I know.
“Nope. Bryce.” She practically sings his name.
“Cool. Have him video it for me.”
“It’s the same one you’ve seen like three times.” She waves me off. “Nothing special. But it’ll be the first time for him, and it’s a long drive, so yeah. Pretty psyched.”
I sneak a glance at Dad, who looks anything but psyched. I hope he doesn’t scare the poor kid away.
“Sounds awesome.”
“Aren’t you gonna be bored without us?” Cassidy asks, eyes twinkling. “What are you gonna do, have raging parties? Go on dates?”
Dad clears his throat. “Yes, what are your plans for while we’re gone?”
“Wild parties,” I deadpan. “All the orgies.”
Cassidy giggles, and Dad glares.
I sigh. “School. Donut Hole. Dinner at Ravi’s.” And solving a double murder. “You know, the usual.”
“I expect you to check in with us every day,” Dad says. “Staying alone is a big responsibility.”
“I’m eighteen. Pretty sure I can handle it.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’ll be good,” I promise. “I’ll check in. Make sure the plants are watered. Nothing to worry about.”
“I’m worried about Jacob,” I announce at lunch the next day.
“In what way?” Ravi asks.
“Where the hell is he? I’ve been looking for him all week, and I haven’t seen him once.”
“Suspended?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “Okay, yeah, maybe. But I think he’s actively avoiding me.”
Ravi studies me. “Like you thought Kylie was?”
That’s not something I want to think about. “No, like he’s hiding. That night at the party, he seemed so distraught, but what if that was actually guilt? What if we misread him and he did a runner?”
“I didn’t misread him,” Ravi says. “Trust me. After you took off with Vic, all he did was wax poetic about Emma’s grace and beauty and world-changing awesomeness before he turned into a snoring, drooling mess. I’m inclined to believe it was genuine.”
“And I’
m inclined to believe Owen was genuine.”
“Then one of us is a poor judge of character.” Ravi breaks off the end of his ice cream bar and offers it to me.
“Or we’re looking at the wrong people,” I say around the bite of ice cream. “We need to talk to Peter Vernon. He was acting shifty at Kylie’s funeral, and if Owen and Jacob are both besotted fools, then maybe he really is our guy.”
“Okay, but we need a plan. We can’t just ambush him. I have an eye doctor appointment after school, but we can talk later, figure out how to approach it. Maybe we should try to catch him at the church.”
I nod, but the idea of ambushing him and catching him off guard was a solid enough plan for me. Having the conversation we need to have with an entire church congregation milling around will be all but impossible.
Thoughts of Peter plague me for the rest of the day. If it was him, there’s every reason to expect him to strike again. Same if it was someone else or a random psychopath. But if Owen or Jacob is the killer, and the link between victims is only the affair-that-wasn’t, it’s logical to assume the murders are done. I have to find out which it was before the next body turns up.
After school, I go to The Donut Hole in hopes of being put to work, but it’s a slow day, and Mr. B doesn’t need me. I make a coffee and take a donut to go, wishing Ravi didn’t have his stupid appointment. I need to be doing something, anything, to move the investigation forward.
I opt for a bit of recon. Just a drive by Peter’s house to see if he’s home. If he is, I’ll pick up Ravi after his appointment, and we’ll get this over with—no waiting three days for Sunday church service, no risking more lives.
Peter’s street is quiet, lined with small, older houses with neat lawns and trimmed hedges. His house is at the end of the road, right at the entrance to the reservoir trails. I’ll drive through to the reservoir’s parking lot—a route that will allow me to check Peter’s driveway for a car—then be on my merry way.
I repeat this plan in my head, but when I coast by the gray cottage, not only is Peter’s car in the driveway, he is too.
Bury the Lead Page 20