Deadly Little Sins (11 page)

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Alexis exhales. “Amanda had the family therapist move into the guest house the summer before Caroline went to Wheatley. This was after Caroline pushed her friend off her bike in the street. While a car was coming.”

“She tried to
kill
her friend? When she was
thirteen
?”

“Caroline claims she didn’t see the car coming,” Alexis says. “They diagnosed her with anger and ODD. Then her sophomore year, she attacked her roommate.”

Alex looks at me, the ghost of a smug smile on her lips. I know that face: It’s her
I-have-something-you-want-face.
“If I remember correctly, her roommate’s name was Natalie.”

“Are you just saying that because you heard me ask Caroline about someone named Natalie the other day?”

Alexis snorts. “I have better things to do than invent stories for your amusement. Caroline’s flipped out at this Natalie girl and drew blood, and it got her sent back to therapy.”

Something about the way Alexis says the words
drew blood
makes my stomach churn. “What did Natalie do to get on Caroline’s bad side?”

“Caroline only has one side,” Alexis mutters. “Trust me, it wouldn’t take much.”

I level with Alexis. “Let’s say all of this is true. Why tell me?” I pause. “What do you want from me?”

Alexis tosses her hair over her shoulder and re-adjusts her signature black velvet headband. Unease settles over me: Alexis clearly isn’t going to tell me to stay the hell away from her family, like she did the last time she sought me out.

“The same thing you want,” she finally says. “Answers. Caroline has been acting more bizarre than usual lately. Lots of hushed phone calls. Accusing me of things, like going in her room. I even caught her lying about being at an equestrian outing. Something is going on.”

I run my hands over my sweater sleeves, wishing I had a jacket. “How long is
lately
?”

“I don’t know. A few months. Maybe more?” Alexis shrugs.

Or around the time that Natalie reappeared in Wheatley—then disappeared again.

“Who is this Natalie person?” Alexis asks, invading my thoughts. “I checked Caroline’s yearbook, and there was no Natalie in her graduating class. Did she just … disappear?”

“Basically,” I murmur, drumming my fingertips on my knee. “Caroline could be involved. Or she might know something. I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Well, if you’re going to get to Caroline, you’ll need my help,” Alexis says.

“I need to get into the tunnels. And you can’t help me with that. They’re closed off.”

“Not so fast.” Alexis presses the pad of her index finger over her lips, thinking. “It’s a long shot, though.”

I give her a sideways glance.

“There’s a rumor—myth, or whatever—that there are three secret entrances around campus,” Alexis says.

“Where?” I ask.

“Did you not hear the ‘secret’ part? All I know is that one might be in the library.”

“That’s not much to go on,” I say. “The library is huge.”

“I know.”

We look at each other, then down at our hands. It feels weird—agreeing with each other.

“Start with Renee Linden, nee Jones. She was Caroline’s RA,” Alexis says. “She still works here, as head of student housing.”

“What’s she going to tell me?” I ask.

Alexis rolls her eyes. “Why Caroline went off on Natalie. The people who work here have more secrets than the rooms in your precious tunnels.”

Alexis motions to get up.

“Wait,” I say. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Alexis cocks her head at me. “Because we want the same thing.”

I’m not exactly sure that’s true. But sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

There’s a line the length of a football field outside Renee Linden’s office. All freshmen—some near tears, some complaining to the person behind them about how their roommate is the
worst
. Renee Linden must find their problems exhausting, because when it’s my turn, she calls out “Next!” in a harried voice.

Renee Linden is tiny. Tiny enough to shop in the juniors section. Her desk is a shrine to her children; I count three of them as I take a seat across from her.

She looks at me and forces a smile—it’s not unkind, but she obviously wants to get rid of me quickly.

“I don’t know you,” she says. “How come?”

“I’m new,” I say. “Or I was last year. I’m Anne Dowling.”

Renee’s eyebrows lift a bit. “I do know you. I placed you in a room with Isabella Fernandez. Some year
you
must have had, huh?”

I don’t miss the way Renee has leaned forward in her chair. I can practically smell the curiosity coming off of her. She reminds me of my mom’s friend Stacy, who always pulls me aside at dinner parties.
Your mom sure loves her Chardonnay, huh?
Stacy will talk shit about anyone as long as she can sniff out someone who’s willing to participate.

I’m getting a very similar vibe from Renee Linden.

“Yeah.” I throw in a nervous laugh. “Isabella was … well, I’m sure you’ve heard.”

Renee’s eyes glint greedily. “It’s always the ones you don’t expect, right?”

I want to reach across and shake her, ask her what type of sixteen-year-old, exactly, she would
expect
to be statutorily raped and murdered by a teacher. But I clutch my armrests and give her a grim smile. “That’s kind of why I’m here,” I say. “I have a college interview with a Wheatley alum, but I kinda want to cancel because she just seems … I don’t know, weird? And I heard you were her RA, so I figured you may know her well.”

“Oh yeah, I was an RA for two years.” Renee beams. “Who is she?”

“Caroline Cormier-Frey.”

“Oh, do I
know
her.” Renee has completely forgotten about the line of students outside her office. “Caroline. Huh. Wow.”

I lower my voice. “I heard she
attacked
her roommate.”

“Uh-huh.” Renee’s voice tells me this isn’t the first time she’s told this story. “Looked like a cat pounced on poor Natalie’s face. When girls fight, they can be
vicious
.”

I don’t say it, but I’ve had the urge to drag my fingernails down another girl’s face. Caroline’s own cousin, nonetheless. Maybe that makes me vicious, too.

“Why would Caroline hurt her friend?” I ask. “They
were
friends, right?”

“Natalie was her only friend. That was the problem.”

“Oh. So Caroline was a stage five clinger?”

“Something like that. Caroline had a lot of trouble fitting in, and Natalie eventually found her own group. Caroline probably couldn’t take the rejection. Poor thing hasn’t had an easy life.”

I wonder what qualifies as a difficult life for a Wheatley alum. Purebred stallion never placed at the Massachusetts derby? Then I remember that Alexis said Caroline’s father died, and I feel like an awful person. “Sounds sad.”

“It really is.” Renee makes a sympathetic face. “The reason Caroline went after Natalie in the first place is because Nat requested a room change.”

And now any kinship I felt with Caroline Cormier-Frey is lost. I mean, I had the urge to attack Alexis because she started a rumor that I’d killed my own roommate. But drawing blood over wanting to move out?

I’d hate to think what Caroline’s capable of if someone
really
screwed her.

“Hey, Ms. Linden,” I say, before I get up. She holds up a hand. “Call me Renee.”

“Okay. I was kind of hoping to talk to Natalie, but I don’t know what happened to her. Does she have family in the area or anything?”

“I know she had a brother,” Renee says. “Liam? Lucas? I can’t remember. Why do you want to talk to Natalie, anyway? Can’t you just change your interview?”

I smile. “I don’t think I can, actually.”

In history, I whisper to Brent.

“Have you heard about a secret room in the library?” It comes out a little louder than I meant it to, because Kazmarkis snipes from across the room about the importance of being quiet while she finishes handing out today’s outline.

“Everyone’s heard about the mythical library room,” Brent says. “It doesn’t exist.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as Kazmarkis strides back up to the front of the classroom. I have to balance the suspicion that Alexis may have been screwing with me about the library room with my irritation at the fact that we already have an essay due on Friday. Also, that Brent thinks I need clarification that a myth is something that isn’t real.

He pulls my notebook toward him and writes in the inside flap.
What’s this all about?
His forehead creases as he adds something.
Dr. Muller?

No
, I write back.

Bullshit.

I slide his pen from his fingers and cross it out.

At the end of the painfully long hour, someone says my name. He’s so quiet I barely hear it over the shuffling of papers and the zipping of laptop cases. I stand up and see Artie getting up from the table next to us, to Brent’s left.

He passes a Post-it note to me. He’s written
Shakespeare sonnet 40.

“Find the book,” he says, before slipping in with the line of people leaving the classroom.

I leave dinner a few minutes early to head to the library. The tables and study carrels in the main stacks are empty, save for a few overachievers. Starting tomorrow, the place will probably be mobbed.

I search for “Shakespeare” using the online catalogue. There are several hits, but only one looks like a complete volume of his sonnets. I write down the call number on the back of Artie’s Post-Iit and do a few aimless laps around the stacks before enlisting the librarian’s help.

“Excuse me,” I ask. “But where can I find this book?”

She squints, reading the call number. “That’s in the poetry room.”

She points to a door at the back of the main stacks. I deflate a little. Is this the room Artie thought I was talking about?

“Thanks.” I slip the Post-it in my pocket and head for the room. It’s small—or cozy, if you’re being polite—with a gas fireplace and a leather couch. There’s a Scrabble box on the coffee table and a floor-to-ceiling rotunda-style bookcase. There’s no overhead light—just a faint glow afforded by the sconces on the walls.

I trace my finger along the shelf toward the bottom, past Schuyler, Shelley, before I land on
Shakespeare’s Complete Works: Sonnets.
I thumb through to forty and read it to myself, lingering on the last two lines.

Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,

Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

Is this a clue or something? A riddle buried in some obscure Shakespearean sonnet? I don’t have time for this crap. I’m about to close the book when the light catches the page, revealing a series of scratches in the white space at the bottom of the page.

I run my fingers over it. Something is written here.

I hold my phone over the page for more light, but it’s hard to tell if the scratches are letters or numbers. I fumble in my bag for a pencil. Once I find one, I place the Post-it note over the markings and shade the area with my pencil. Chelsea and I used this technique to trade notes in middle school.

I hold the Post-it note up to the light to study the impression.

UP – 3

RIGHT – 8

My gaze drops to where the book of sonnets was. I hold that place with one hand, and count in my head. The book up three spaces and eight to the right is a Norton anthology of poetry. It’s a beast of a thing; I have to use both hands to dislodge it.

I’m about to give up, leave, and ask Artie why he led me on a poetry wild goose chase when I notice some sort of metal fixture at the back of the shelf, behind where the Norton anthology was. I reach and feel around the area.

It’s a latch. I pull on it, not expecting the loud click that sounds. Like a lock being unbolted.

The right side of the rotunda creaks ever so slightly, opening to reveal a room behind the wall.

The hair on the back of my neck pricks. The door is about my height; I duck through it and gently close it behind me. The room is wall-to-wall bookshelves. Priceless first editions.

The light from the room only reaches the first few steps, so I have to use the glow from my phone to guide me. The familiar smell of lime and damp air meets me at the bottom.

I’ve never been this far down the tunnels. I visualize the layout of campus in my head—the library is on the southwest corner, on the opposite end from the dorms, and the secret tunnel to the Wheatley quarry. I head east, toward the center of campus where the tunnels converge.

As a precaution, I turn off my phone light and use the wall as my guide until I sense the floor sloping upward.

Lexington Hall was one of the oldest buildings on campus until it burned down in the fifties. But the basement was unscathed, and now the rooms house all of the archived student records. I know, because I’ve gone through them before.

I pause, shining my light down the hall.

Something isn’t right: All of the room doors are open.

And the ground is littered with paper. Torn up, yellowed paper. Some are damp, the ink bleeding away from the rainwater that seeped up through the concrete.

I swallow away the lump in my throat and pick up a folder by my feet, the contents strewn god knows where. It’s empty. A piece of beige paper with bleeding ink is stuck to it.

It’s a handwritten page. A very poorly handwritten page. I hold my light up to it, but it’s hopeless. Only two lines are legible.

My arm is still broke from the jail and I can’t sleep without the headaches starting. If they make me go there again I don’t think I’m coming back.

My stomach sours. I drop the note—journal entry?—and decide I need to get what I came for and get out: Caroline’s file. And any others that mention Natalie Barnes.