Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (22 page)

“What’s wrong?” Anthony’s face softens, just a little bit, and I’m overwhelmed with the urge to run into his arms. But that’s definitely something I can never do. Anthony’s already made it clear that I come from a world he hates, and how can I blame him, when that world might be responsible for his twin sister’s death? The only reason he wants anything to do with me now is to get closer to the truth. He could never see me the way I’m beginning to see him.

How did I end up wanting the only two guys in Wheatley I can’t have?

I motion for Anthony to follow me around the back of the garage, to the edge of the forest, even though Goddard has declared it off-limits. I can’t risk anyone hearing us, though, and ironically, the place where Isabella was killed is the safest.

Anthony doesn’t ask questions as he follows me down a path blanketed with brown pine needles. When we’re deep enough into the forest that the parking garage is out of view, I spill everything.

Well, almost everything. I’m not about to tell him what happened with Brent, but I tell him about Andreev, Lee, and Alexis. I recount my conversation with Detective Phelan, my throat tight like I’m about to cry the whole time. I don’t, though, because Anthony is the one person I definitely won’t let myself cry in front of.

When I end with Alexis and the tape Isabella supposedly made, Anthony is quiet.

“Sounds like you’ve had a shitty week,” he says, and I have to laugh a little in spite of myself.

“So you actually broke in to that teacher’s office?” Anthony’s eyes are wide. I nod. “Wow. You really…”

“What?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Anthony says. “I was wrong about you, that’s all.”

“Glad to hear I have your approval.” I roll my eyes at him, even though it really is nice to hear him admit he’s wrong for once.

I’m leading him out of the forest and back toward Amherst when he says, “They’re just trying to scare you. The cops. There’s no way they think you did it.”

“Why would they want to scare me?” I ask.

“To get you to talk, or to rat out someone you might be covering for.” Anthony shrugs. “They’ll keep bullying you as long as they think you know something.”

“Is that what they’re doing to you?” I ask, nervous to push further than that. But he knows what I mean.

“No. I knew my reputation at school would get out,” he says. “But that news story about me was wrong.”

“I thought you said it was true.”

“I did fight a kid last year,” he says. “And he did need stitches. But that was all. If I’d really put him in the hospital, I would have been expelled. Even public schools have standards, you know,” he adds, his voice bitter.

“Look, we need to get something straight,” I say. “I don’t give a crap that you go to public school, Anthony. So you can stop acting like
I’m
the one who’s making you feel inferior.”

I can tell I’ve surprised him, because he shuts up. After a few minutes of walking in silence, he cracks a smile and says, “I can see why she was friends with you. My sister.

“She really drove me nuts,” he adds after a pause, because I guess it’s impossible for him to say something remotely nice without ruining it.

Darlene is on duty, so I don’t have to sign Anthony in to the dorm. I just quickly wave to her and tell her he’s here to get the rest of Isabella’s stuff.

“Are you trying to tell me I need to wash my clothes more often?” Anthony asks once we get to the laundry room. Thankfully, it’s empty, but I figured it would be. Almost everywhere on campus is dead during 3:00 and 4:00
P.M.
, or what I call “get in to Harvard time.” This is when all of the clubs and organizations and sports for people who really don’t know how to play sports meet. Like Ultimate Frisbee.

“Help me move this bookcase,” I tell him. He stares at me, so I repeat myself.

“What are we doing…?” He asks, his voice trailing off as he sees the door the bookshelf was concealing. “Whoa. How’d you know this was here?”

“Look around the basement. Doesn’t it seem a little small for a building this size?”

I gesture for Anthony to follow me through the door while I find the flashlight in my bag. Mom insisted I pack one with the rest of my stuff because “you never know when you might need one.” But I don’t think she had something like this in mind when she said that.

“Holy shit,” Anthony says as I shine the light down the tunnel. “This school has tunnels?”

I tell Anthony how I read up on the school’s history and found that the tunnels were used during really severe weather. The state ruled them unsafe after Lexington Hall burned down. They said students could get trapped down there, and the school supposedly sealed off all the entrances, and no one has been allowed to use them since.

“Except they didn’t seal off every entrance, obviously, because we just used one.” Anthony pauses and runs his hand over the inscription pointing us toward the library. Even though there’s barely any light, I can see his face is calculating.

“Anthony, this has to be how Isabella snuck out of the dorm without being caught on camera,” I say.

Anthony nods, his face far off. “Let’s see where this thing leads.”

I suggest we make a right where the tunnel splits into two, since it will bring us east. The forest is on the eastern edge of campus.

The deeper we descend into the tunnel, the more uneasy I feel. There’s the sound of water dripping off in the distance, and it seems like the vaulted ceiling is getting lower. Since I have no idea what I’m going to find down here, I’m glad Anthony is with me.

“Check this out.” He points to another inscription on the wall.

INFIRMARY
   
←

MONROE HALL
   
→

LEXINGTON HALL
   
→

“Let’s go this way,” I say to Anthony. “Lexington Hall is the building that burned down. There’s a parking garage there now, right by the forest. That’s got to be how Isabella got out of here.”

We make a right. The toe of my shoe snags on a crack in the ground and I lurch forward, the flashlight flying out of my hands. Anthony’s hand is at my waist, sending a flush up to my cheeks. I scramble to pick up the flashlight. As I stand up, I follow its beam up the wall. There’s a door in front of me, with the number 103 inscribed on it.

I take off past the door, Anthony trailing behind me. As I expected, the tunnel opens up into a room: a dank and dark basement like the tunnel entrance in Amherst’s basement. And there are more doors. I frantically shine the light on each one.

I know it’s here somewhere. I know we’re in the basement of what used to be Lexington Hall. My heart almost stops as my beam lands on a door.

Room 108.
Lexington Hall 108.

I don’t waste time giving Anthony an explanation. I jiggle the doorknob. It’s locked, but not for long, because luckily, I brought my wallet. Thank you, Visa.

Anthony gapes at me as the door squeaks open. “Jesus. How did you do that?”

The truth is: practice, luck, and an older lock. But my adrenaline is flowing now that I’ve found room 108, and I’m feeling reckless. Flirtatious, even. So I say, “I have a lot of skills you don’t know about, Anthony.”

Through the dark, I see his lips settle into a smirk.

We step into the room and I suppress a gag. It smells about a thousand years old in here.

A 180-degree motion with my flashlight reveals what the room holds: wall-to-wall filing cabinets. I feel a surge of disappointment. I don’t know what I was expecting to find here, but if there’s anything useful, finding it is going to be like searching for a needle in a haystack.

“Look.” Anthony stoops to pick up a folder lying face open on the ground. I help him pick up the contents. “It looks like someone tried to put this back in a hurry.”

I hold my flashlight to the name on the file.
ELAINE MICHAELS.
I browse the inside of the folder, which is yellowing at the edges. From her transcripts, I learn that Elaine Michaels graduated in 1984. There’s also a grayscale photo of her that makes me pause.

I’ve seen her before. But that’s impossible, since I’ve never met anyone named Elaine Michaels.

“What else was in that file?” I ask Anthony. He hands me a bunch of papers, pointing to the one at top.

“This looks pretty recent,” he says.
ALUMNI CONTRIBUTIONS
, the top of the paper reads. I grab it from him and examine it. Elaine Michaels made two contributions of fifteen thousand dollars: one in 1990 and then another in 1996. But by then, she was Elaine Redmond.

Cole’s mother. That’s why I recognized her.

“What does this have to do with my sister?” Anthony asks, an impatient edge to his voice.

“Probably nothing,” I admit. I can’t help being frustrated. Isabella obviously knew about this room and the tunnels, but that doesn’t mean she was the one who pulled Mrs. Redmond’s file. Even if she was, how could Cole’s mother have anything to do with her death?

I run my phone light over the filing cabinets again, pausing on the W’s. I open the drawer, coughing as dust drifts up to my nostrils.

“What are you looking for?” Anthony asks.

“I’m just curious about someone. Matthew Weaver.”

“The missing kid?” Anthony is behind me, his breath warm on my neck. “I remember the
Dateline
special on him a few years ago. Why are you interested in him?”

“Don’t you think it’s worth acknowledging the fact that no one from the school came forward when
he
disappeared, either?” I run my fingers over the labels on the folder.
WATSON, WEXLER, WILSON
 … but no Weaver.

“There’s no file on him,” I whisper.

Anthony’s whole body suddenly freezes.

“What?” I ask.

“Do you hear that?” He looks toward the door. That’s when I hear what he hears.

Voices. Two of them.

We’re not the only ones down here.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

Anthony and I move in perfect synchronization. I lock us inside the room, and we press ourselves against the wall beside the door. Moments later, a beam of light passes across the glass pane in the door.

“Is there anyone down here?” A gruff voice calls out. It’s older. Not one I recognize. Probably belongs to a security guard.

“I could have sworn I saw a light in one of these rooms,” the other voice responds.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you saw things, Ray.” The doorknob jiggles, and I tense against the wall, drawing in a sharp breath. Next to me, Anthony grabs my hand. It’s not protective or sweet like the way Brent grabbed my hand. No, Anthony’s message is clear:
Calm the hell down or we’re screwed.

“It’s probably some kids messing around,” Ray says. “Let’s go.”

“We’re the ones who’re supposed to keep the kids out of here,” his companion snaps. “Are you sure you saw a light?”

Ray hesitates. “I guess not. These rooms are locked, anyway. Kids can’t get in.”

The light passes across the glass again, and then there’s blackness. When the voices disappear, we sneak back out of the room and run.

It’s dark, but we can’t risk using the flashlight again. We can’t go back the way we came, either, unless we want to run into the guards.

I tug on Anthony’s sleeve and pull him with me in the opposite direction, feeling the wall to guide us. The tunnel floor is slanting upward. We’re getting closer to ground level. An entrance has to be nearby.

“Here,” Anthony whispers, at the same time as I stub my toes on a slab of concrete.

Stairs. We fly up them, emerging in a narrow concrete stairwell.

Anthony pushes the door at the top of the stairway open to reveal a parking garage. That’s when we see the sign on the other side that says
SECURITY ONLY.

And then the security SUV coming around the corner of the garage.

We run down a level, but we’ll never outrun the SUV back to campus. If we’re seen in the administration parking garage, security will put two and two together that we were the ones in the tunnel.

There are a couple of cars left parked in the garage. I slam into Anthony, taking us both down so we’re concealed by a huge, Secret-Service-looking vehicle.

The security SUV idles past as if the driver never saw us.

I allow myself to breathe, and realize I’m sitting on top of Anthony in a position that’s a little, uh, friendly. I motion to get up, but he puts his hand on my waist. I barely have time to process what the look on his face means before he’s grabbing me. Kissing me.

And I don’t just let it happen. I push it further, opening my mouth and letting his tongue find mine. I don’t care that my knees are digging into the concrete and the stubble on his chin is scratching my face. In this moment, every ounce of care I have in the world is replaced by desire.

His lips move to the area just below my ear and I lace my fingers through his hair, which is surprisingly soft. Just when I think I’m gonna go crazy, his voice is in my ear.

“Anne. We have to get out of here.”

And just like that, it’s over. We don’t look at each other as we get up, and I’m glad, because I can feel what a mess I must look like right now.

We don’t talk about what just happened as I walk him back to the visitor garage. I ask him if he can have Dennis look up where Margaret Watts—the missing dean—lives now, and he says he’ll call me when he hears something.

But I catch him looking back at me before he hops on his motorcycle, his expression matching what’s going through my head.

Holy shit. That was the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had.

*   *   *

Every nerve ending in my body is still going crazy by the time I walk back to Amherst. What is wrong with me? I’ve kissed lots of guys, but none have ever had this effect on me. It’s like someone doped me up, and now I can’t focus or stop touching my lips, replaying every second they were touching Anthony’s.

Guilt pokes through all of the giddiness I’m feeling, though. I just kissed my dead roommate’s twin. Isabella is dead—her killer still on the loose—and the best I can do is make out with her brother.