Deadly Little Sins (13 page)

I poke my head around the shelf and scan the study area. No one sitting at the tables takes out their phone. I don’t hear a text message alert or a vibrating sound.

I nearly talk myself into heading back toward the quad. Someone could be down there, waiting for me in Room 105. Someone whom I may not particularly want to be trapped underground with.

I come up with a plan: I’ll keep my flashlight off and feel my way around, so if someone is down there, they won’t see me coming. That way I’ll have a head start if it’s someone I don’t want to see. I triple-check my purse to make sure I have my pepper spray and my metal nail file. I hate to consider the possibility that I’ll need the file for something other than picking a lock, but, quite frankly, if it comes to it, I’ll stab a bitch.

I don’t need Anthony or Brent to follow me down this time. I’ve got my own back.

There’s a wiry freshman or sophomore boy on the couch in the poetry room, reading Camus’s
The Stranger.
His hair is swept to the side.

“Hey,” I say. “Have you seen anyone … come through here?”

The boy blinks at me and goes back to reading. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t look up at me this time. I roll my eyes, because I’ve read
The Stranger
, and it’s not
that
absorbing. Or this kid is just a pretentious little shit who thinks I’m not worth his time.

In any case, I can’t open the secret passage right in front of him, so I need him out of this room. Stat. I plop down next to him on the couch, even though there are several open seats. He gives me the side eye.

I grin. “Gorgeous day, huh?”

“Yup.”

“So are you reading that for a class?”

He turns the page. “No.”

I have to hand it to him—he has a high tolerance for annoyance. I fish around my bag for headphones and queue up the most annoying song in my iTunes. I stick the headphones in my ears and blast the volume so anyone within a ten-foot radius can hear the music.

The boy makes a disgusted face and gets up, stuffing
The Stranger
into his messenger bag. Then I’m alone.

I find the hidden latch on the poetry bookshelf and slip through the door. I descend the staircase, leaving the light from the library room behind. I don’t want to risk using my flashlight, so I have to feel around with my foot to find the next step until I get to the bottom.

Right, left, straight ahead.
I practically have the layout of the tunnels memorized by now. I use the wall to guide me, taking the path a step at a time. It’s silent down here, save for the occasional
plink
of water hitting stone.

I’m holding my breath by the time I’m beneath the administration building. I don’t see light emanating from any of the rooms. I relax a bit and let myself shine the light from my phone on the doors until I find 105.

It’s cracked open. I grab the knob with one hand, standing behind the door as I pull it open. “Who’s there?” I whisper.

Silence. One hand hovering over my canister of pepper spray, I shine my phone light into the room. It’s empty.

I reach for my flashlight to get a better look at the contents of the room as I step inside. It’s empty, except for a rusted metal folding chair and a water-stained cardboard box.

As I let go of the door, it slams shut behind me. My heart leaps into my throat. I turn around and shine my flashlight over the door. There’s no knob from the inside.

Panic corners me. I slam my palm against the door. “Is someone out there?”

I press my ear to the door, expecting to hear footsteps. Nothing. I’m alone down here. I shine my light around the room. There’s a rubber doorstop at my feet. I must have kicked it out of the way when I opened the door.

I check my phone, even though I know I’m too far underground to get any service. All that’s on the screen is a “Message Delivery Failed” notification, for the text I sent to the mystery number earlier.

Calm down, calm down. They sent you down here for a reason.
I tear open the cardboard box and force myself to look inside, fearing this may be a
Se7en
type situation and Natalie Barnes’s body is inside.

But there’s nothing except ancient-looking math textbooks.

And a note scribbled on computer paper: One that was definitely torn from outside room 105’s door.

DO NOT SHUT DOOR!!! LOCKS FROM THE INSIDE

All of the air leaves my lungs. Whoever texted me
did
send me to this room for a reason.

Because they want me to die down here.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

I bang on the door until the skin on my knuckles is raw. It’s useless: No one can hear me. No one saw me come down here. I made sure of that.

I ignored every single instinct I had, and now I’m trapped.

How long will it be before anyone notices I’m missing? Probably not until check-in tonight. And even then, no one will think to look for me down here. The tunnels are sealed off: They’re the last place anyone will think to look. If Dean Tierney or any of the other teachers even know about the secret entrance.

Tierney.
For all I know, she could be the one who sent me down here in the first place. She knows something about Ms. C—she had Natalie Barnes’s file on her desk. If she’s involved, or trying to cover something up, what better way to shut me up than to stage my unfortunate demise?

It could be days before anyone finds me down here.

“Help!” I scream until my lungs are sore, beating my fists against the door. “HELP!”

I stand back, one shoulder out, ready to charge at the door. Then I crumble to the ground, near tears. There’s no way I’m breaking that door down. My breathing quickens: I think I’m having a panic attack.

I walked right into a trap. But who set it? If not Tierney, it’s someone else who’s familiar with the tunnels. Who knows about this room and the broken door.

Someone who went to Wheatley—like Caroline Cormier-Frey.

Or Alexis.

Or, more likely, someone with easy access to campus and the tunnels. Like the man in the administration building the other night.

The scent of mildew and dust in the room crowds out my thoughts. I’ve never been claustrophobic—I mean, hello, I live in Manhattan—but reality is quickly sinking in.

I stand and pick up the folding chair, forcing it closed. And I charge at the door.

Anne?

I drop the chair. Someone called my name. A guy. I beat my fist against the door. “In here!”

“Anne?” There it is again. I’m not hearing things. A cry of relief bubbles in my throat. I bang both fists on the door until someone yanks it open, and I nearly fall forward into the hall.

Cole grabs my arms to steady me. I jerk away from him. “What are you doing?”

“How about a thank you?” Cole opens the door, inspecting the area where the knob should be on the inside. “What are you doing down here?”

I search his face, but it’s too dark to gauge his expression. “Did you follow me?”

I sense him shift where he’s standing. “Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to talk to you, but you never came out of the poetry room. You left a book out. That’s when I saw the latch in the shelf.”

“You
followed
me.”

“You’re lucky I did!”

I inhale through my nose. Out through my mouth. I’m not sure being down here with Cole is any better than being trapped in that room. “Let’s just get out of here.”

He doesn’t argue; instead, he shines his phone light ahead of him and leads the way. When the ground begins to slope upward, the bricks unevenly spaced, he extends an arm to me. Because even though we’re not on the best of terms, Cole is a gentleman.

“Thanks.” I lay my hand on his forearm tentatively. “You said you wanted to talk to me. That’s why you came down here.”

Cole hesitates. “I just … wanted to say sorry. For making things weird.”

He’s also a terrible liar.

“What is this really about?” Worry and suspicion surround me like unwelcome friends. Even though we’ve had our issues, I’ve never explicitly thought that I can’t trust Cole. He’s always the levelheaded, thoughtful one, reigning Murali and Brent in when they’re doing something on the wrong side of stupid.

But something feels off about him being down here. When I catch him glancing down the tunnel that leads to Aldridge and beyond, I know exactly why he’s really here.

“You knew I was coming down here,” I say. “That’s why you followed me. To figure out how to get back in the tunnels.”

“What are you talking about?”

I stop in my tracks, halting us both. “I’m not dumb, Cole. I know that you guys—the crew team—you use the tunnels for the Drop.”

The muscles in his forearm tense when I say the words.
The Drop.
The dangerous initiation prank the crew team members play on the new recruits. Blindfolding them and making them jump off a quarry into freezing cold water, tied to what they believe are cinder blocks.

If the guys can’t get into the tunnels, their secret path to the quarry is cut off.

“I’m sorry,” Cole says. I jerk my hand away from his arm and walk ahead of him.

“You could have just asked me how to get down here.”

“And what, you would have told me?” Cole snorts, catching up with me in two strides. He’s the tallest guy in school—nearly six feet. Lean, yet muscular. He’s also probably the best looking, but we’re kind of past that.

“Anne, you have to admit that you’ve been acting super sketchy,” he says. “I mean, one minute you’re asking me where to find Casey Shepherd, and the next day, everyone’s saying that his dad and Coach Tretter killed Matt Weaver.”

It’s been a while since anyone’s said Matt Weaver’s name to me. It sounds all wrong coming out of Cole’s mouth—as if my two lives are colliding. In one, almost everyone believes the “official” story from last year.In the other, I’m just biding my time until the real story comes out. Because if I’ve learned anything from what happened with Matt Weaver, it’s that the truth can’t stay buried forever.

“I didn’t have anything to do with that,” I tell Cole. We’re at the bottom of the stairs that lead up to the library room now. He’s quiet until we get to the top. Until we’ve reached the light, and I can see his face clearly.

He doesn’t believe me. But I definitely don’t expect the words that come out of his mouth next. “You must think we’re the biggest assholes in the world.”

“What do you mean?”

“The stuff … we do to the younger guys,” Cole says. “We didn’t come up with it, but we do it anyway. You probably think we’re the scum of the earth.”

And if he knew the secrets I’m keeping, he’d think even worse of me. “It’s fine.”

Cole runs a hand through his hair. “Just don’t hold it against Brent, okay? I know he’s messed up over everything that happened.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t hold it against any of you.”

Cole smiles, his face relaxing. But I’m not thinking of Brent—or Cole—as we step into the poetry room, shutting the secret door behind us.

I’m thinking of Room 105: And tracking down the son of a bitch who sent me there.

Cole and I arriving at the quad together raises a few eyebrows: namely, Kelsey and Remy’s. An unpleasant feeling passes through me, like my stomach is trying to swallow itself. I have no idea what’s going on between Cole and Kelsey; namely, if they’re together or not and I’ve violated some sort of girl code.

I’m becoming a fringe member of this group, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Remy’s the one to say something. “Where were you guys?”

“Had to print the reading for Knight’s class,” Cole says. “I used my paper quota for the week. Anne lent me some.”

Murali shoots Cole a questioning look, and I have to wonder if he was in on the plan the whole time: Follow Anne. Find the tunnels.

Kelsey passes around a pack of gum, seemingly satisfied with Cole’s explanation. Remy shoots me a probing glance, and just like that, I’m back in Casey Shepherd’s kitchen during the spring formal after-party. I remember the look Remy gave me when she walked in on Cole and me. Saw me drunkenly leaning on his shoulder.

I don’t have time for this crap. The conversation shifts to after-dinner plans, and I take out my phone. When no one’s looking at me, I dial the number from earlier and discreetly press the phone to my ear.

The number you have dialed is not valid.

Remy shakes me awake. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
Fire. Intruder.
I jolt upright.

“You were freaking out.” Remy looks wide awake. Her alarm clock says it’s three A.M. I wonder how long she’s been up. “Like, tossing and turning. And whimpering.”

I put a hand to my chest, willing myself to calm down. In my dream, I was in the basement of Amherst, where the tunnel entrance used to be. And someone locked the door at the top the stairs, trapping me down there.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to remember the person’s face, even though it means nothing.

“Anne? You okay?”

“Yeah. Just a nightmare. Sorry I woke you.”

Remy gets up from the edge of my bed, and I nearly reach out. Beg her to stay next to me. “Hey—Rem?”

“What’s up?” she asks around a yawn.

“I don’t know. I’m just kind of too freaked out to sleep.” I pull my comforter up to my chin.

Remy crawls into bed next to me. “Scoot.”

I shift so I’m pressed against the wall. “Sorry I’m being such a baby.”

“You’re not.” She yawns again. “I … get them too sometimes.”

My throat is dry, my voice raspy. “Is it because of everything that happened last year?”

I know I’m testing dangerous waters, but Remy is my best friend here. And I want to talk to someone about everything that happened—not my parents or any of the worthless psychiatrists they sent me to. Definitely not Anthony, even though he wouldn’t listen anyway.

“I don’t know.” Remy pulls her knees to her chest. “I try not to think about it. I mean, I just can’t, you know?”