Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (12 page)

*   *   *

When my last class is over, I have a text from Anthony dated almost an hour ago.

Call me when u get out

I head back to my room without stopping, hoping Anthony isn’t at work or something by now. I’m relieved when I hear his voice after the fourth ring.

“You like my package?” he asks.

I choke. On nothing. Just air. Anthony waits for me to stop coughing. “Anne … the video I sent you.”

“I know.”
Thank God he’s not here to see how red my face is. “I just had a tickle in my throat.”

“Anyway, I got something on Sonia Russo,” he says.

I collapse onto my bed and kick off my flats. “Already?”

“I have friends in important places. Sonia Russo died thirty years ago, probably.”

“Probably?”

“They never found her body. She had a heart condition, though, so she would have been dead in a few months without treatment.” Anthony pauses. “She went missing in January the same year Matt Weaver did.”

I take a couple of seconds to process this. “But … if it’s an open case, why was it so hard to find anything on her?”

“No father, drug-addict mother. She was living with a foster family when she went missing. They didn’t even report her gone until three days later.”

“So no one cared about her,” I say. “I wonder how Matt Weaver knew her.”

“She spent almost two years with the foster family in Wheatley. If she went to school, she would have gone to Thomas Hutch Junior High with him. They might have been friends.”

He’s quiet in a way that lets me know he’s thinking the same thing I am. “It can’t be a coincidence they went missing the same year.”

“I don’t know,” Anthony says. “Something feels different about her case.”

I prop up my pillow behind my back so I can lean against the wall. “What do you mean?”

“They’re pretty sure her foster parents had something to do with it, even if they couldn’t prove anything. The foster father, Dwight Miller, has been in and out of prison for years. Bunch of different domestic-assault charges.”

He says it “
chaages,
” as if there were no
r.
I used to think his accent was funny, but now it’s one of those sounds that makes me feel like I’m home. Like my dog scratching at my bedroom door, or the oven timer in my kitchen going off.

“So what have you got?” Anthony asks.

“I’m working on Shepherd. His son goes to school here.” My gaze lands on the book on my desk.
The Satanic Epic.
“I think I’m making progress.”

My stomach folds into itself as I think of Brent. Anthony will think I should try to get more information on the Conroys, and I don’t want to believe that Brent’s dad was involved. Not yet.

“I’ll ask around town about Sonia,” Anthony says as there’s a knock at my door.

“Hey. I’ve got to go.” I nearly drop my phone as I scramble to look through the peephole. Remy is on the other side of my door. “Let me know if you find anything.”

I hang up. I have to take a deep breath before I let Remy, even though there’s totally nothing wrong with talking to Anthony. Remy tries to smile, but her eyes and nose are red.

“Are you okay?” I ask, shutting the door behind her.

She starts to nod, then shakes her head. When she lets the tears out, I put my arms around her. Remy squeezes me, her body shaking with sobs. I give her an awkward pat on the back. I’m the world’s worst hugger. Maybe it’s an only-child thing, because Cole gives pretty awful hugs, too.

Cole. This is what this is about.

“Talk to me.” I sit on the bed and pat the spot next to me. Remy sits and wipes her face with both hands.

“Casey Shepherd is the only guy I’ve been with besides Cole,” she sniffles. “It was freshman year, and he said he and Bea were broken up. They’re always on and off.… He was my first, and I hate myself for it. Cole was the only person I trusted enough to tell.”

I know this is supposed to be about Remy, but I feel guilty she’s telling me now. Almost as if I don’t deserve her trust. “Don’t ever say you hate yourself for that. You know what I hate? The idea that we’re supposed to hate ourselves for having sex.”

“No one’s going to see it that way. Bea already hates me, and if this gets out…” Remy chokes back a sob. “How could Cole humiliate me in front of everyone like that?”

“It’s because he’s being a huge man-baby over the Phil thing,” I say.

“He has no freaking right.” Remy is moving from depressed to pissed off. “He’s been with other girls since we broke up. I’ll
kill
him if Bea finds out and tells everyone I’m a home wrecker.”

“You won’t have to. I’ll kill him for you.”

Remy smiles at me and blinks tears away. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

I meet her gaze just as her face turns serious. “Anne, just promise me you won’t hate me. If they start saying stuff about me.”

“You definitely don’t have to worry about that,” I say. ‘Let them talk’—that’s my motto. “Let’s make some tea.”

Remy is quiet as she gets up and looks through my mug collection. She picks up my favorite one with a Henry VIII picture that disappears on the outside when you put hot liquid inside. There’s something else she’s not telling me—I know it by the way her nose is twitching like a rabbit’s. She always does that when she’s uncomfortable.

I want to probe her, to find out what she’s not telling me. She’s stubborn, but with a little dedication, I’m also capable of getting people to spill just about anything.

But she’s not the one I should be using that skill on. When Remy’s not looking, I open the copy of
The Satanic Epic
sitting on my bed. Once I get close enough to Casey to figure out if his father was involved with Matt Weaver’s disappearance, I’ll have to teach Casey that it’s not nice to treat girls like garbage.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

The next day is especially painful. Remy isn’t talking to Cole, Cole is still pissed at Phil, Kelsey thinks Remy is mad at her for going to the formal with Cole, and everyone else does everything they can to avoid the awkwardness of it all, even if that means getting their meals to go.

On the plus side, I get to spend more time with Brent when he’s not at crew practice. We study for Fowler’s exam Thursday night until around nine, when he has to get back to the dorm and give himself an insulin injection. After he leaves, I sneak down to the laundry room with my basket. It’s just for show, though.

I double-check all of the machines to make sure they’re empty and no one will be back to collect their clothes. I push the bookcase away and slip through the tunnel entrance.

When Anthony and I first discovered the room full of student archives, I looked for Matt Weaver’s file out of curiosity. Someone moved it. Or destroyed it.

But the other men in the photo should still have active files. I know that because I looked through Steven Westbrook’s a couple of months ago.

I bypass the crew team office/hangout and head for the student archives. The door is still unlocked from the last time I picked it.

The filing cabinets toward the end of the alphabet are the closest to the door, so I start by pulling Lawrence Tretter’s and Travis Shepherd’s files. It’s all pretty boring stuff: transcripts, letters of recommendation from professors, alumni donation records. Apparently Larry Tretter was on academic probation for most of his time at Wheatley, and he only got into two colleges: the University of Massachusetts at Lowell, and Fairfield University in Connecticut. He chose Lowell.

There’s a copy of Tretter’s acceptance letter and a copy of a newspaper article at the back of the file. I resist the urge to crumble it and throw it against the wall. I could be swaddled in my microfiber sheets, asleep right now, instead of in a dank basement rifling through useless information. I stifle a yawn and read the newspaper article. It’s dated 1980:

T
RETTER,
S
HEPHERD,
C
ONROY, AND
W
ESTBROOK
L
EAD
M
EN’S 4
T
EAM TO
V
ICTORY

The men’s 4 team
 … The first article I read about Matt Weaver said
he
was on the men’s 4 team. I replace Tretter’s file and flip through Shepherd’s. The same news article is tucked at the back of the file, after Shepherd’s acceptance letters (he got into Yale, Dartmouth, Harvard, UPenn, and Georgetown). But there’s another article after that. This one is dated 1981.

I ignore the cold biting at my fingers and hold it up to the light from my phone.

W
HEATLEY
M
EN’S 4
R
OWS TO
C
HAMPIONSHIPS

The headline is followed by a picture of Pierce Conroy, Steven Westbrook, Travis Shepherd, and Matt Weaver.

According to the caption, Matt Weaver replaced Larry Tretter on the men’s 4 team.

I tuck the clipping in the pocket, my thoughts swirling. Losing your spot on the men’s 4 relay team sounds like a good enough reason to hate the new kid. What if Tretter was angry enough to murder Matt over it? Like that crazy mom in Texas who killed a high school cheerleader because she became captain instead of her daughter.

I close the archives door behind me and head down the tunnel. The sound of voices freezes me to where I’m standing.

They’re male voices.
Security guards?
They don’t come down here often. But of course they chose tonight.

The voices come closer, cornering me. Crap. I squeeze my eyes shut and flatten my back against the wall, praying they don’t sweep their lights over the pitch-dark curve where I’m hiding.

“Cole, get your ass out of my face.” The voice is unfamiliar. But not old enough to be a security guard’s.

“Get your face out of my ass. Who has the flashlight?”

“Only use it if you have to.” Brent’s voice makes my heartbeat accelerate. “We can’t risk being seen down here.”

“By who?” This time it’s Casey Shepherd’s voice. “We’re the only ones who know about the tunnels, and Coach said the guards wouldn’t be down here tonight.”

I freeze, waiting for Brent to tell him he’s wrong, that I’ve been down here many times before. He doesn’t, and I swallow away guilt for doubting him.

If they say anything else, it’s drowned out by the sound of something scraping against concrete. Something heavy. I peer around the corner.

It’s dark; I can only make out the outlines of four bodies because one of them is using his iPhone for a small radius of light. The fourth figure is larger than the others, even Cole. There’s only one guy I know of at Wheatley that’s his size: Casey’s friend Erik.

I strain my eyes to see them disappearing into a room across the hall. At their feet, I can see large blocks of some sort. Their voices are almost indiscernible. But I know what room they slipped into.

The crew team lair where I broke the picture frame. I break a sweat as I wait for them to notice the glass on the floor, get angry that someone trespassed into their hangout. A minute or so passes before they emerge from the room.

“Well, this was fun,” Casey snaps, closing the door behind him. “Let’s do it again real soon.”

“I’m sorry. Did you have a better idea?” Brent asks. “Besides trying to sneak six cinder blocks in our rooms while Kyle is on duty.”

“He wouldn’t say anything to me,” Casey retorts. “Not after I saw him at a movie with another dude.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Cole says.

Casey laughs. “Sure it doesn’t, Mr. I-Like-When-Girls-Put-Their-Finger—”

“Can you just shut the hell up so we can get out of here?” Brent says.

“What’s your problem, Conroy?” Casey’s voice again. “Think you’d be getting plenty of your own, dating the hottest girl in the junior class.”

My face heats up.
Really, I’m flattered, Casey, but you’re a swine.

“Don’t talk to me about Anne,” Brent snaps.

“Why? Haven’t fucked her yet?” Casey sounds gleeful, like a sadistic little boy standing over a bunch of ants with a magnifying glass. “Or do you prefer to sit back and watch? I heard your dad was into some freaky shit like that in his day—”

Casey is cut off by the sound of scuffling. One of the guys yells, and I break out into a cold sweat, picturing Brent’s hands around Casey’s neck.

“Knock it off, Shep.” I’m relieved to hear Cole’s voice. “Save the asshole routine for when we face Ellison Prep, all right?”

My heartbeat reaches my ears as the footsteps come closer to me. It’s dumb luck I didn’t wear perfume tonight, or else they would for sure be able to tell I’m hiding. Their voices disappear around the corner leading back to Aldridge, and I allow myself to breathe again.

I should run to Amherst and never look back, but I can’t help it—I stop at the crew team room. The door is locked. Either the guys have a key or someone on the team is as skilled as I am. I don’t appreciate the thought.

Once I’m inside, I shine my light on the wall where I’d left the photo I’d knocked down. In its place is a stack of cinder blocks.

The glass from the broken frame is gone. Swept up.

Someone definitely knows I was here.

No-no-no.
I yank open the filing cabinet where I found the letter about the 1980 hazing.
Please still be here.

“Crap.” I resist the urge to kick the filing cabinet. Someone has erased all evidence of Wheatley Rowing. The drawer is empty except for a manila envelope that wasn’t there the other night.

My brain screams at me not to touch it.

Leave. Get the hell out!

I’ve never believed in out-of-body experiences. But I can’t remember picking up the envelope and opening it. It’s as if someone else took over my hands and made me do it, while I looked on, trying not to scream at the photo inside.

It’s of Isabella’s face, white as snow. Her lips are an ashy gray. The rest of the photo is red. So, so much red.

The wound in her neck is so deep that it’s a miracle Dr. Harrow didn’t take her head clean off.

CHAPTER