Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (15 page)

“Ken, we checked with the Amherst RAs, and I can assure you that didn’t happen.”

My father nods and eyes me with concern.
He doesn’t believe me.
Of course he doesn’t believe me—he doesn’t even trust me anymore. Not after the fire at St. Bernadette’s. My fists curl with anger as Tierney prattles on about how fear and paranoia are a natural response to Isabella’s murder. She assures my father that otherwise I’m adjusting fabulously to life at the Wheatley School, and the administration will do all they can to help me get over the whole dead-roommate thing.

Tierney gives my father and me a few minutes alone before he leaves. He tells me that I’m allowed to stay here, as long as I agree to see the school counselor and call home to check in every three days. I have to accept, because the only other option is going back to New York and getting homeschooled.

My father hugs me and speaks into my ear: “Don’t be scared. You’re safe here.”

“I’m not scared.” He squeezes me, and I don’t tell him it’s because I know I’m safe here. I’m too pissed off to be scared—pissed no one believes me about the break-in. Pissed no one seems to care if Isabella’s killer is ever found.

Tierney makes it clear she’s not done with me once my father leaves. “Have a seat, Anne. We need to schedule a time for you to talk to someone at Support Services.”

“I don’t think talking to someone about what happened will help,” I say. “I prefer to deal with things on my own.”

Dean Tierney gives me a pitiful look, as if that’s what everyone says. “Sometimes dealing with things on your own is … unhealthy. It comes with the temptation to become involved in things it’s not in your best interest to become involved in.”

Her voice is cold and devoid of sympathy in a way that lets me know she’s not talking about huffing spray paint. My tongue feels like it’s stuck to the roof of my mouth, and my throat is tight. Her message couldn’t be any clearer:
Stay out of Isabella’s murder.

But there’s no way she knows I’ve been nosing around. I’ve been so careful. Someone had to have said something to her … someone with a reason to believe I was really meddling.

Someone like Professor Upton,
I realize with a wave of nausea.

“Anne, you have a lot of resources here,” Dean Tierney says. “Let us help you.”

“Just like you helped me when someone broke in to my room? Or like you helped Isabella?”

Time seems to stand still after I say it, letting me absorb the full impact of how stupid it was. I’ve always had a problem keeping my mouth shut. My father says I got my big mouth from my Uncle Jason. He landed himself on a federal no-fly list after making casual jokes to a flight attendant about having an explosive in his pants.

Basically, Uncle Jason is a dumbass, and so am I.

“No one broke in to your room, Anne. And Isabella Fernandez’s death was an unforeseeable tragedy.” Dean Tierney’s voice is clipped. “If I were you, I would avoid making false allegations to the contrary, especially when the school has been so accommodating of your … situation.”

I swallow and nod. Message received: If I don’t cut the crap, my ass is going back to New York, and homeschooling is my only chance at finishing my junior year on time.

Anger burns in my throat as Tierney hands me a card for the school counseling center and says I can go to lunch. How can she get away with threatening me like that? How can all of these jerks get away with screwing with a murder investigation just because they’re rich and powerful?

It makes me so sick, and there’s nothing I can do. At least not if I want to graduate from high school. I don’t want to be one of the Martin Paynes of the world: a Trust-fund Fuck-up, destined to leech off his parents for the rest of his life.

I blink away the tightness at the back of my eyes as I leave the administration building. I should be worried about myself and my future, but I can’t stop thinking about Isabella, and how if she were the daughter of a politician or the attorney general, the police would probably have found her killer by now.

It’s not fair. And it’s not fair for me to sit around and do nothing about it. Not when I got off with a slap on the wrist for almost burning my school down just because of my father. I’ll be such a hypocrite if I don’t at least try to get justice for Isabella.

I’m just going to have to be more careful with how I go about it.

*   *   *

Anthony is supposed to meet me in the student center, but he’s a few minutes late. I pass the time Googling Dean Tierney on my phone. Obviously she wants me to be afraid of her, and I want to make sure I have a reason to be.

According to the school’s Web site, Dean Tierney was on the Wheatley School Board of Trustees before taking over for Dean Watts two months ago. There’s a picture of the board; Tierney is the only woman on it, and according to the caption, she’s the only member who didn’t go to Harvard. She graduated from Smith College in 1983. All of the board members except her are Wheatley School alumni.

I scroll down the page, where there are more pictures of the board members doing board-memberly-like things, which, as far as I can tell, are limited to playing golf and accepting lots of money from people.

There’s a sickening taste in my mouth as I hover over a photo of a board member and Dr. Harrow shaking hands with a man in a suit who looks like he gets regular spray tans. I don’t need the caption to confirm that it’s Senator Steven Westbrook: The familiar horsey nose and too-straight, too-white smile are enough.

Senator Steven Westbrook makes historic $1 million gift to the Wheatley School.

I could seriously barf. Alexis’s father practically owns the school. Harrow might as well have his tongue hanging out and a collar around his neck, because the look he’s giving the senator clearly says
I am your bitch.

I pause on the last picture. The board is presenting some sort of award to a younger-looking woman with a short, cropped blond haircut.

Dean Margaret Watts receives prestigious Wheatley School Service Award.

The picture is dated from October of this year. Something is seriously bugging me about it, though. Something in my brain is sending off signals that it can’t be right.

Dean Watts is facing the camera, her entire body in the frame. She’s wearing a simple gray pencil skirt and suit jacket, but her stomach is undeniably flat and smooth.

Barbara told me Dean Watts was out on maternity leave—no, she specifically said that Dean Watts was
having her baby.
I add up the months in my head. There’s no way Dean Watts is pregnant in this photo, and even if she were, it would have to mean she left school to have a zygote, not a baby.

Why would Barbara lie about why Dean Watts left?

“Sorry I’m late. Ready to go?”

I look up and see Anthony. He’s holding a motorcycle helmet.

“What … is that for?” I ask.

“It’s for you.” His eyes gleam wickedly. His hair is pulled into a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck, so I can see all of his face: his full upper lip, strong jaw dotted with stubble. I have to admit, it’s a good look for him. I catch the girls selling rose-grams in the lobby staring at him on the way out, and I’m shocked at my primal urge to snarl at them.

Anthony stops at a beat-up but clean red motorcycle parked at the curb in front of the student center. He crumples up the yellow ticket on his windshield and throws it to the ground without looking at it.

“You shouldn’t litter,” I say, ignoring the wild thumping in my chest. I’m wavering between
There’s no way in hell I’m getting on that thing
and
Hell, yes, let me on that thing.
I’ve always wanted to ride on the back of a motorcycle, but I imagined it would be through the streets of Greece with a hot guy named Theo who just rescued me from a boring-ass tour group.

“Do you even have a driver’s license?” I ask Anthony.

He stares at me like I couldn’t have asked a dumber question if I’d tried. “Of course I do. You don’t?”

“Why would I?” I say. “I live in Manhattan.” I’m not about to admit to him that I don’t even know how to drive.

Anthony just shakes his head and hands me the helmet. “Hop on.”

I wince as I put the helmet on, trying not to think about the last time Anthony washed his hair. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Police station.” Anthony squeezes the handle of his bike, and the engine revs. “My buddy at school has an older brother on the squad. He’s got something to show me.”

It’s clear Anthony isn’t going to shout over the sound of the engine to tell me more, so I swing one leg over the back of the motorcycle.

“You’re gonna want to hold on,” he says over his shoulder.

I look down at my arms and wrap them around Anthony’s waist. His stomach feels solid through his T-shirt. I feel Anthony tense up at my touch. I say a silent prayer that this ride will be over fast.

*   *   *

My legs wobble as I slide off Anthony’s bike. He gives me his hand to steady me. He’s avoiding my eyes, like he’s embarrassed I spent the last fifteen minutes groping him, even though if he didn’t drive so damn fast, I wouldn’t have had to hold on so tightly.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?” I ask as Anthony leads me to the side of the police precinct. It’s a four-story building made of beige stone. There are bars covering the windows over the front entrance.

“There’s something wrong with the security feed from the night Isabella was killed.” Anthony takes out his phone and dials a number. He lets it ring a few times before hanging up. Moments later, the side door opens. A young officer in uniform gestures for Anthony to come inside, his eyes filling with concern when they rest on me.

“I thought it was going to be just you,” he says to Anthony.

“No, she’s cool. Don’t worry.”

The officer does look worried, though, as he offers me his hand. He’s probably in his twenties. Military-looking. “Dennis.”

“Anne,” I say, following him and Anthony down the corridor. Another officer walks by, picking his head up from his folder when he sees us.

“Taking my lunch now,” Dennis says, nodding to him.

The officer looks from Dennis to Anthony and me and nods back as if to say
Hell if I care.
Dennis leads us into a room at the end of the hall and shuts the door.

“I could get in trouble for this,” Dennis says. “But if it were my sister, I’d want to know everything that was going on.”

Anthony’s face is stony. “Thanks, man.”

We’re silent as Dennis slips something into the DVD player in the corner of the room. A wave of paranoia hits me as I realize the black-and-white images on the screen are still shots taken outside of Amherst.

“I had no idea there were security cameras,” I murmur as Dennis plays the tape and I see me, Remy, April, and Kelsey sneak out the back door. “Crap.”

“They’re unmanned at night,” Dennis says. “Used just as a precaution. Probably why people were able to get away with sneaking out for so long. Watch, though.”

Anthony and I keep our eyes on the screen. I recognize a few of the other people sneaking out, but there’s no Isabella. We watch me herd April and Kelsey back into the dorm, and, an hour later, we see Cole walk Remy back.

And then, at 3:15
A.M.
, the security feed goes dark.
NO SIGNAL
, it reads.

“There was a power surge in the dorm,” Dennis explains. “Probably from the wind. But it doesn’t matter, because the medical examiner says Isabella died between eleven and two.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Anthony says. “She didn’t leave the dorm during that time frame, according to the tape.”

I suddenly feel dizzy. “Could she have been killed inside the dorm?”

“Highly unlikely,” Dennis says. “Aside from the fact we didn’t find blood in the dorm, the killer would have had to carry her body all the way to the woods—and somehow evade the security tape.”

“But it went dark at three fifteen,” Anthony shoots back. “Maybe whoever killed her turned the camera off before moving her body.”

“We confirmed there was a power surge,” Dennis says. “It’s nearly impossible her killer got that lucky. Evidence says she was killed in the forest between eleven and two, despite what the tape says.”

“Then Isabella took another way out of the dorm,” Anthony finally says. “One the security camera can’t see.”

Dennis nods, almost mechanically. “That would be the most logical explanation.”

“So what’s the problem then?” Anthony demands.

“We can’t figure out how she did it,” Dennis admits. “All of the doors are within range of the camera, and the first-floor windows have heavy-duty locks on them.”

“But that doesn’t make sense.” There’s an edge to Anthony’s voice now. “She had to have left.”

“There’s another explanation. It’s not a popular one.” Dennis’s voice is low. “But there’s a small chance someone could have tampered with the tape.”

Goose bumps ripple across my arms. If someone tampered with the tape, it means Isabella’s killer was probably on it.

“Someone at the school had to have messed with it.” Anthony’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “Why aren’t you arresting them for interfering with the investigation?”

“It’s not that simple,” Dennis says. “The records don’t show anyone entering the security office from the time the guard left at ten
P.M.
and the next showed up at eight
A.M.
”

“Fuck their records.” Anthony shoves the chair he was leaning against. The screeching of metal on linoleum makes me jump. “They’re hiding something, Den. They know who did this, and they’re protecting them.”

Dennis doesn’t respond to this. His eyes are on the TV, where we just watched the tape. I don’t believe that someone tampered with it. Isabella was smarter than all of us. If she wanted to sneak out of the dorm without being seen, even by the security cameras, she would have found a way.

But becoming invisible?

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

Anthony is silent as we leave the police department. He’s super pissed off still, so it takes me the entire ride back to school to gather the nerve to ask him what I’ve been meaning to all afternoon.