Deadly Little Sins (6 page)

Dennis snuffs out a cigarette with his heel, and just like that, he’s instantly less good-looking. I don’t like guys who smoke. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“I want to report a missing person.”

“Has it been more than forty-eight hours?”

“Try eight years.”

His gaze probes mine. “Is this related to another missing persons case? One that was recently solved?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But I need your help.”

“Officially, or unofficially?”

I hesitate. “Unofficially.”

“I’ve got a lot of eyes on me now,” he says. “I can’t chase another one of your hunches.”

“When I tell you what’s going on, you’ll see why no one will believe me. And last time I checked, one of my hunches got you Matt Weaver’s body.”

Dennis’s mouth forms a line. “Why don’t we talk inside?”

I follow him past the reception area to a desk cordoned off by filing cabinets. Dennis pulls out a chair and settles into the seat across from me.

“You have a cubicle.” My gaze lands on his nameplate: DETECTIVE DENNIS DICHIARA. “You’re a detective now?”

He nods and leans back, pressing his fingertips together in front of his face. I hadn’t noticed that he’s wearing a jacket and tie instead of his plainclothes uniform. “As of last month.” He hesitates. “Your tip, about the lake house—it helped me tie a couple things back to Shepherd and Tretter. Higher-ups were impressed. So thanks.”

“So you kind of owe me then, right?” I lean forward in my seat. “And I mean, I don’t think your boss would be
happy
that you withheld information about your sources. And you gave me a Taser.”

“Jesus, Anne.” He sighs, massaging his temples. “Okay. What’s going on?”

I start with the moment I went to say good-bye to Ms. C and learned she left. I tell him about my meeting with Dr. Muller, and his last text message to me before he was murdered.

“Hold up,” Dennis says. “The home invasion in Dorchester?”

“Yeah. I called the tip hotline, and this woman totally blew me off, like I was some dumb kid telling stories.”

“I don’t think it’s personal.” Dennis spins back and forth, making small semicircles with his chair. “Boston Police have a lead on that case already.”

“I thought they didn’t have any suspects?”

“They don’t, technically,” Dennis says. “But the MO—the way what’s-his-name was killed—matches an unsolved double homicide in Brockton. All three vics were tied up, robbed, and shot execution style.”

I dig my nails into my kneecap. I don’t like the way Dennis is talking about Dr. Muller. As if now that he’s a detective, he can start talking about murder victims like they’re not people. Just bodies to be sliced open and searched for answers.

“BPD’s looking for a serial home invader,” Dennis continues. “You gotta realize that this looks like a random thing. Dorchester’s crime rate is so high, we call the place Deathchester.”

“So I’ve heard.” My neck gets hot. There’s not enough air in this station. “You have to realize that it doesn’t look random to me. I’m telling you, there’s someone else in danger.”

“Anne, I hate to say it, but it sounds like the only danger your teacher’s in is getting busted for fraud.”

“You don’t know her. Ms. C wouldn’t have …
changed
her identity in the first place if she wasn’t in trouble,” I say. Dennis’s lips part and I know I’m losing him. My blood pressure ratchets up. “So she disappears, and three months later, the guy she was dating winds up dead? Come on Dennis. I can’t be the only one who sees a connection.”

He sighs, and I know I’ve got him. “The murder isn’t in my jurisdiction, and Boston isn’t going to appreciate some rookie from the suburbs calling and telling them how to run their investigation. But I’ll dig up whatever I can on this Natalie Barnes.”

I nearly stand up and hug him. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure. But you should probably let me handle this,” Dennis says. “I’m kind of surprised to see you back here. How did that happen?”

I open my mouth, but opt for a shrug instead. Because I’m still trying to figure out the answer to that question myself. As I get up to leave, I can’t help but turn around.

“Have you heard from Anthony lately?” I ask.

Dennis leans back, puts his hands behind his head. “Probably … July. Before he got fired from Alex’s.”

“He got fired?”

“Sorry, just assumed you knew.” Dennis looks at me funny. “When was the last time
you
heard from him?”

“A while.” I hope my cheeks aren’t as red hot as they feel. “Do you know if he’s okay? Or where he’s working now? I’m kind of worried about him.”

“My mom saw him busing tables at Fiorello’s,” Dennis says. “Italian place around the corner from here.”

I thank Dennis and try not to flip any tables over on my way out.

Fiorello’s is a five-minute walk from the Wheatley School. And I’d thought he was MIA.

Against my better judgment, I’m going to see Anthony. Ever since the news of Muller’s murder, I’m numb and all I want is to feel something. Even if it’s the sting of rejection.

The staff at Fiorello’s is setting up for their dinner shift. It’s the type of place with cushioned booths leaking stuffing. Vintage family photos on the wall. Whatever’s cooking in the kitchen smells excellent.

I ask the host if Anthony is working tonight. “Out back,” he says. “Want me to get him?”

“It’s okay.” This conversation is best had outside anyway. I head around the back of the building, following the noise of a metal Dumpster slamming shut. Anthony turns around before I can announce my presence.

He just sort of stares at me for a bit. He’s in jeans, a white T-shirt, and a black apron. His hair is longish again, tied in a man-bun at the nape of his neck, exposing his tattoo. It’s a black, elongated star with eight points. I’d always thought it was some intricate design ripped from a heavy metal band’s album cover.

Last year, I finally asked him what it is.

Polaris, he said. The North Star.

I’m staring. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He shifts his feet, watching me almost as if he doesn’t recognize me. But something in the way his shoulders have tensed tells me that yes, he recognizes me. Whether or not he’s happy to see me is another story.

We just kind of look at each other for a bit. I wonder how he sees me; how
I’ve
changed since May.

“I called you,” I say. “A couple times.”

“I know,” he says.

Anger ripples through me. “And you have no reaction to that.”

“I don’t know how you want me to react.” Anthony rubs his chin. He’s letting his sideburns grow out, and the lower part of his face is covered in black stubble. “You pretty much Dear Johned me.”

“I told you I had my phone taken away,” I say. “I couldn’t call you all summer.”

“I’m talking about before that.” His eyes flash. My chest constricts.

I never said good-bye to Anthony. In the car home, I sent him a text.

Going home. I’m probably not coming back. I’m sorry.

“Things are different now,” I say. “I’m back…”

A laugh escapes his nostrils. “You really think this could work? Anne, I couldn’t even take you to the prom without everyone recognizing me as the guy who got arrested for killing his sister.”

“You didn’t kill her.”

“Yeah, well.” Anthony sighs, runs a hand through his hair to get it away from his forehead. “A lot of people think I could have if I’d had the chance, you know?”

“No,” I say. “I don’t. I’m not saying we should … date, or anything, but I like hanging out with you. I don’t believe the things you think about yourself. I’ve seen how you really are.”

He watches me, as if waiting to see if there’s more.

“I like you,” I say.

“Do you like me, or the person you think I could be with a little work?”

I feel like I’ve been slapped. “That’s not it.…”

“I like you, too, Anne,” he says. “But I’m trying to put everything behind me.”

“Is this about what happened at Shepherd’s?”

Anthony clenches his fists. “Would you keep it down? I thought we said never to talk about that.”

The backs of my eyes prick. Blood. So much blood. “You’re really going to sit there and tell me you don’t think about that night?” I pause. “Why did you get fired from the mechanic shop?”

Anthony’s eyes flash. “Who told you that?”

Crap.
“Dennis.”

“Anne, what the hell are you talking to Dennis for?”

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” I say.

“I don’t care what it’s got to do with. Dennis could put us at the scene of that night, if he really wanted to.” For the first time since I’ve known him, I see real fear in Anthony’s eyes. I’ve seen him fight off an intruder in my dorm room, run at a man with a gun holding nothing but a baseball bat, but now—now is the first time I’m seeing him scared.

He takes a step toward me “We broke into a guy’s house. We could go to
jail
if they prove it. Don’t you get that?”

“Of course I do. Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot.”

Anthony wipes his hands down his face. “I don’t know what you’re doing hanging around Dennis for, but I can’t be a part of it. We’ve already seen too much, and whatever else you’re trying to do, you can’t drag me down with you.”

I’m speechless.
Anthony
is the one who wanted to pursue the Matt Weaver thing. He wanted to go into Shepherd’s house that night and get into his safe. He helped me uncover the truth, and now he wants to bury it and pretend it was my idea all along.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me into the house,” I say. “I didn’t ask you to help me. You
wanted
to.”

His eyes flash. “You’re right. If only I knew then it wasn’t fucking worth it.”

Something in me snaps. I slap him in the face.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

My ex-boyfriend is barely speaking to me because I accused his father of being involved in a murder, and I just slapped the other guy I was involved with in the face.

Romance. Clearly, I’m doing it right.

There was a time when Brent and Anthony were assets. Like when Brent helped me distract Sebastian to get crucial information about Isabella from his computer. Or the time Anthony helped me dig up a box of evidence from Matt Weaver’s neighbor’s yard.

Now, they’re both liabilities. Distractions I can’t afford. One teacher at Wheatley is dead, and another is next if I don’t find a way to unravel the truth first.

If she’s not already dead to begin with.

The next morning, we meet up with our groups in the quad after breakfast. Today, we’ve doubled in size. Three freshmen boys huddle together, avoiding eye contact with Peter Wu and Arthur Colgate, the other seniors in my group. Arthur goes by Artie, even though people call him Peepers behind his back.

The freshmen boys are all bronzed, as if they’re fresh off a Nantucket sailboat. I look inside my packet—their names are Bingham, Banks, and Oliver. They all probably own purebred golden retrievers and monogrammed sheets their mothers ordered from Williams-Sonoma.

Barbara, an excitable woman who’s in charge of student services and orientation, clears her throat until there’s quiet and tells us she has an exciting activity planned for us today. Jill is standing as far away from the guys as possible, her eyes glued to her phone. She looks up and gives me a wave. According to the packet, we’re missing someone named Farrah Nassir.

“Um, is this Group Ten?”

I turn to see the girl from yesterday—the one whose mother bodychecked me. She reddens and smiles sheepishly.

“Hey, yeah,” I say. “You’re Farrah, right? I’m Anne.”

“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “Kind of hard to find it here from the dorm.”

I look around at the other freshmen girls. Most of them seem to be paired off, tugging at the ends of their hair together, whispering to each other. No doubt Farrah’s roommate left her to fend for herself.

When Barbara makes her way to our group, she takes attendance and hands me a manila envelope. Apparently I’m pack leader. She also gives me a digital camera and tells everyone to hand over their phones.

“Uh, why?” one of the boys asks through his nose. I want to elbow him in it.

“Well, because you could use them to cheat during the scavenger hunt,” Barbara says brightly.

I groan inwardly. Jill looks similarly miffed about having to traipse around campus in ninety-degree weather doing an activity better suited for a ten-year-old’s birthday party.

We hand over our phones—and in Peter’s case, his mini tablet—and take a look at the list of stuff we need to find. The scavenger hunt is a poorly disguised “get to know your peers!” exercise: The first item is “the youngest group member’s memento from home.” Bonus points if it has the name of the person’s hometown on it.

We’re in luck: Farrah, who is from Baltimore, has an Orioles hat. But after two hours, we’re only on item five on our list. It would be so much faster if we could divide and conquer, but Barbara already thought of that by giving us only one camera. We sit on the bench outside the refectory to regroup after reading the fifth item: a photo of the teacher at Wheatley who was nominated for a Nobel Prize.

“Anyone know the answer?” I survey the group. I’m met with blank stares.

“How are we supposed to figure that out without our phones?” Banks tosses a pebble at a squirrel, scaring him away.

“Before we had iPhones, there were these things called computers,” I say.

Jill snorts.

“Yeah, well, we get disqualified if we use our laptops,” Banks says.

“The library,” Artie says. “The computer lab might be open.”

“If not, we could go through old yearbooks.” Peter shrugs. “It’s gotta be mentioned in the teacher’s bio, right?”

We plod off to the library, a scattered pack, with Banks and company at the back, muttering about how lame this is. The library computer lab is locked and dark, so we ascend to the second floor where all of the old yearbooks are kept.

“This place is mad creepy,” Banks says, eyeing the low ceilings and creaky oak floors. It’s the first thing he’s said today that I agree with. I shepherd everyone to the last row on the right, where the yearbooks are kept.