Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (18 page)

“It’s nice to meet you, Anne,” Mrs. Redmond says. I search her face for any indication that she’s already heard about me. If she has, she’s hiding it well.

“You have a lovely son,” I tell her, and this almost gets her to smile. Remy tenses next to me, and I think I see April stifle a laugh.

“Be careful getting back to school, girls,” Mrs. Redmond tells us. “I hope you weren’t planning on staying out too late. What happened to that girl is just terrible.”

The way she says
that girl
makes me sick. Everyone in the state knows Isabella’s name by now.

“Ugh,” Remy says, after we’ve put a block between Mrs. Redmond and us. “She was
so
awkward. She still hates me.”

“You dumped her son,” Kelsey says. “And you’re the only one good enough for him, remember?”

This is all news to me. “You dated Cole, Remy?”

“For, like, three months.” Remy’s face is red. “He’s over it. She should be, too.”

I don’t know why I’m so surprised that Remy and Cole were together. It unsettles me a little bit, though, because what if one of the girls dated Brent? Would that make it weird for everyone if he and I ever become more than friends? Do I even want Brent to be my boyfriend? I mean, I hate being tied down. The last thing I need is to get attached to something in Massachusetts when I already have one foot out the door.

I’m mulling over all this as April stops us at a shop that sells loose tea leaves. I can’t help but stop in the doorway, where there’s a rack stacked with newspapers. My stomach lurches at the headline on a flimsy, tabloid-ish paper that can only be Boston’s equivalent of the
New York Post.

Murdered Wheatley Student Came from a “Violent” Family, Acquaintances Say

I move out of the doorway and flip to the story without thinking.

Sources close to the family of Isabella Fernandez, the seventeen-year-old Wheatley School student found murdered last week, say the quiet Somerville residents have a violent past. An official at the public high school attended by Fernandez’s twin brother, Anthony, calls the teenager “troubled.” Last year, Fernandez had an altercation with another student that left the latter hospitalized.

Fernandez’s family could not be reached for comment. Police officials say they have not yet named the victim’s brother as a person of interest in the murder, but they are “looking into” these new developments.

“Anne, are you okay?” Remy puts her hand on my shoulder, and I realize I’m shaking. Hard.

Anthony. A killer. His
sister
’s killer. It can’t be right. Not when he convinced me that maybe we could find Isabella’s killer together.

Not when I fell asleep the other night remembering the way I felt on the back of his motorcycle as my hands slid over his midsection.…

But if Anthony wanted to distract me from figuring out he killed his sister, it would make sense he’d encouraged me to believe someone at the school did it. And if he knew the police were investigating him, he could have been trying to keep me away from them by making me believe they couldn’t be trusted.

Nausea rolls through me. Anthony could have been leading me on a wild-goose chase this whole time.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

I track down Dan Crowley at dinner. He’s sitting at a noisy table of guys I’ve never really noticed before, although some of them look vaguely familiar from class. They all freeze and get silent when they see me. Some stare at each other like they’re wondering if they’re hallucinating or not.

“Hey, Dan,” I say as if we’re old buddies. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

A look of suspicion crosses Dan’s face. His red hair is gelled into a mohawk, and he’s wearing a tiny silver earring. The sad thing is, it’s the boldest display of individual style I’ve seen at this school. “About what?”

“Something for Matthews’s class,” I say, a little exasperated that I have to lie. I give Dan my best
Please don’t make this difficult
smile. He glances back at his friends and follows me to an empty two-person table by the window.

“You need a grade change, don’t you?” he says when we sit down.

I’m so taken aback at his forwardness that all I can do is nod.

“Who told you to come to me?” Dan leans back in his chair, chest puffed out slightly. He’s posturing: He knows he has something I want. The power dynamic between us has changed.

“He asked me not to tell you,” I say.

Dan leans forward and drums his fingers on the table. “I don’t do this for just anyone. I could get in deep shit, obviously.”

I fold my arms across my chest and level with him. “Name your price.”

Dan actually looks surprised at this. “I don’t want money from you.”

“But you want something.” I raise an eyebrow. Dan’s pasty skin turns pink.

“Kelsey Emmet,” he says. “You’re friends with her.” I nod. “Put in a good word for me.”

“You’re serious?” I say. “That’s all you want?”

It’s Dan’s turn to nod now. But now I’m suspicious.

“How do you know I won’t get you in trouble?” I say.

“I don’t.” Dan shrugs. “But I figured out you were okay when I saw you shut up Alexis Westbrook in class last week.”

“Thanks,” I say, even though I’m not sure he meant to compliment me.

“So what class do you need a grade change in?” Dan lowers his voice. “I could probably do it Monday morning.”

“You mean I can’t do it myself?”

“I’m not going to mess it up, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve done this tons of times.”

“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just … there was something else I wanted to check on the teachers’ portal.”

Dan’s forehead creases. “What is it?”

God, he’s nosy. “Someone’s discipline record, okay?”

“Is this about Isabella Fernandez?” Dan whispers, making his slight lisp more pronounced.

My insides go cold. “So what if it is?”

Dan’s face looks conflicted for a minute, as if he’s debating whether or not this is something he should get involved in. But at least I don’t have to worry about him telling anyone what I’m trying to do, because he’d have to implicate himself as well. Plus, he doesn’t seem like the type to squeal.

“Okay, but you can’t just go screwing with the portal when you’ve never used it before,” Dan says. “I’ll have to be there to help you. Meet me in the science computer lab Monday after class.”

That’s perfect: I need to be in the science building to break in to Andreev’s office anyway.

*   *   *

I should be finishing my art-history paper, but instead, I’m combing through my e-mails for the one from Anthony. The one with his phone number.

Obviously this can’t end well, but I can’t help myself.

I can’t gather the nerve to call him, so I send him a text message:

Hey … it’s Anne. You there?

I’m positive I’m going to faint from nerves the second I send it. When a minute goes by, then five, I’m convinced he’s not going to respond. I turn back to my paper just as my phone lights up.

yeah. didn’t think you wanted to talk to me anymore

I saw the front page of the news today,
I type back.
Is it true?

What ensues, I’m convinced, is the longest five minutes of my life. He’s definitely not going to respond to that.

But by the time I finish peeling all of the nail polish off one hand and am arranging the flakes in a pile on my desk, I have a new text from him:

it’s not as bad as they made it sound.
And then a few seconds later, this:
i didn’t kill my sister

He must interpret my silence as not believing him, because he sends another message after a few minutes:

i have an alibi. i was with my ex-girlfriend the night isabella was killed

This is supposed to reassure me, probably, but my chest feels tight. So Anthony was with a girl. What do I care? Sure, I’m attracted to him, but it’s not like I actually thought anything would happen between us.

My stomach drops as I think back to the article about Anthony. If it’s true, and he put some kid in the hospital, would I be stupid to believe him that he didn’t kill Isabella?

Am I stupid for not being afraid of him?

*   *   *

Alexis is out to lunch with her parents Sunday afternoon, so Remy and I are doing our French homework in her room. Or, I’m doing
my
French homework, and Remy is freaking out that the warm-chestnut dye she put in her hair is going to turn it orange.

I tried explaining that for her base color, that would be pretty much impossible unless we were in a lame sitcom, but she ignored me.

“I should wash it out early.” Remy sits on the opposite edge of her bed from me and gnaws at her thumbnail.

“You still have five minutes,” I say. “Try to chill.”

“This was a terrible idea. And I dripped a little dye on Alexis’s rug.” Remy points to a minuscule brown spot with her toe. “She’s gonna kill me.”

I move my French textbook from my lap to the bed. “What’s the deal with her, anyway?”

“What do you mean?” Remy’s not looking at me.

“You know what I mean. Everyone seems afraid of pissing her off, but no one actually wants to be friends with her.”

“That’s not … completely true. I know she seems like a total bitch, but Lex has been through a lot.” Remy shoots a glance at the door. “Her Dad only cares about his campaign, and her stepmom is a total psycho. Lex’s real mom and little brother died in an awful car crash when she was five.”

Something catches in my throat. That does sound terrible, but I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for Alexis. “She did something to make you guys stop hanging out with her, didn’t she?”

Remy avoids my eyes and tucks her feet beneath her, and it becomes clear to me that she’ll be a tough nut to crack. She’s still got some sense of loyalty to Alexis, for whatever reason. Maybe it’s because they were friends when they were kids. Maybe Alexis has something on her. Who knows?

“Remy, you can trust me,” I say. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s not like that,” Remy sighs. “I mean, everyone knows. It’s no secret. She just did something really messed up, and it was embarrassing. Anyway, I really don’t want to talk about it. And I have to wash my hair out now.”

“Okay.” I can’t tell if she’s mad that I pried. She gets up and leaves me in her room.

Leaves me. In her room.

Alexis’s room.

I stay seated on Remy’s bed, frozen. It’s not that I’m too scared to go through Alexis’s stuff. But probably, if I had the choice, I’d rather snoop around the cave of a particularly violent bear.

When am I going to get another opportunity like this, though? Remy will be in the bathroom for at least ten minutes washing the dye out of her hair. This could be my only chance to see if Alexis is hiding anything that could connect her to Isabella’s murder.

Think, Anne. Think like a cop. What would you look for if you had a search warrant?

I have no idea what Alexis could have stolen from my dorm room, so the most obvious thing to look for is a murder weapon. A knife, I remember with a wave of nausea. But Alexis is too smart to hide something that damning in her dorm room.

The blood … Isabella’s neck wound was so grizzly that her casket had to be closed at her wake. There must have been a lot of blood. Whoever killed her had to have gotten some of it on their clothes or shoes.

Think, think.
What was Alexis wearing the night Isabella was killed? I saw her earlier that night at dinner. And I
know
some part of my brain processed what she was wearing.

I make sure not to disturb anything in Alexis’s closet as I try to jog my memory. Alexis has everything arranged by color. I didn’t think mentally stable people actually did that, but I remind myself I’m not positive I’m dealing with a mentally stable person. There’s a rainbow of cardigans and V-necks along with an array of neatly pressed uniform sweaters. I push aside a bunch of stiff-looking pastel sundresses and grunt with frustration. Why can’t I remember what she was wearing?

Maybe none of these clothes are jogging my memory because Alexis got rid of the clothes. It would make sense, if she didn’t have time to wash the blood out or if they were so stained it’d be no use anyway. I move my attention to the far end of the closet, and that’s when I see it: a crisp white button-down shirt.

It’s not what Alexis was wearing the night Isabella was killed, but now I can see her in my head. Wearing an identical button-down shirt in powder blue.

I triple-check the closet, but the blue shirt isn’t there. It’s not in her dresser, either, or the small pile of laundry at the bottom of the woven bamboo hamper at the foot of her bed.

Her bed. I plop down on the ground and roll onto my side so I can get a look underneath. No clothes. No bag they could be stuffed into. Underneath Alexis’s bed it’s dust- and junk-free.

So what happened to the clothes she was wearing the night Isabella died?

I’m barely to my knees before I hear the door open. The rage in Alexis’s eyes is indescribable.

“This is a joke, right?” she hisses as I scramble to my feet.

“I um, dropped my earring.” I wince. I’m not even wearing earrings.

“Do you think I’m retarded or something? What the hell are you doing in my room?”

“I could probably ask you the same thing about what you were doing in my room,” I say innocently.

“What are you talking about?” The panic that flits in Alexis’s eyes for half a second is the only indication she’s lying.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Alexis takes a step toward me. “You might have charmed your way into a spot at this school, and you might have charmed your way to the top of the social ladder, but I swear, if you keep sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, you’re going to seriously regret ever leaving New York.” Alexis’s eyes flash in a way that makes me think that maybe I should believe her.

“Sounds like you’re afraid of what I might find, Alexis. Like something you stole from Isabella?”