Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (28 page)

“Then the work he gave me started getting weirder,” Sebastian says in a hushed voice. “He started giving me cryptograms to solve. I asked him what it had to do with his area of nuclear research, and he only said
Don’t concern yourself with that,
in this bizarre voice.”

My insides go cold.

“That was in October. I went to Isabella, asking if Andreev had her doing the same thing.”

“What did she say?” I probe.

“She said I should quit right away,” Sebastian whispers. “She said the cryptograms were only a test, to see if I was ready to try and crack a more complex code. When I asked her what was so wrong with that, she said she thought Andreev was having us do something illegal. Something he couldn’t figure out how to do on his own.”

Sebastian lowers his voice again, so I have to lean in until our foreheads are nearly touching to hear him. “Isabella said she looked into it, and she suspected the code was hiding some sort of military information. She told me she thought Andreev stole it from the lab where he used to work and wanted to sell the intelligence overseas.”

I think of the fake passport and cash stored in Andreev’s desk. The room seems to spin beneath me. “Sebastian, why didn’t you go to the police after Isabella was killed?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sebastian asks. “I was afraid I would wind up just like her.”

This hangs in the air between us, as I think of what to say to him.

“You’re a coward,” is all I can manage.

“It’s not that simple. Put yourself in my place!” Sebastian says as I motion to get up. “What would you do?”

I want to yell
Something! I would DO SOMETHING, unlike the rest of you,
but I can’t. It’s so easy for me to pretend I’m better than all of them, right? But if everything were on the line for me, my
life
even, would I throw it all away for a girl I barely knew?

Sebastian is right. It’s not that simple. But I still can’t look at him, so I hike my purse up my shoulder and stand up.

“Anne, wait,” he pleads. “There’s something else.” He swallows and glances around the café. “Two days ago, I heard Andreev on the phone. The person on the other end was speaking another language … something I’d never heard before.”

“That could mean anything,” I tell him.

“Yes. But then Andreev marked something on his calendar.” Sebastian licks his lips. “He’s meeting the guy next Tuesday at three thirty.”

I know why he’s telling me this: He knows I’m going to look into it. But I don’t have time to overanalyze his motives. My phone tells me I have an e-mail from Molly.

And the subject line nearly makes me drop my phone.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-EIGHT

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
they’re watching

Isabella’s dead and Nothing can change That just stop please and leave me alone i never thought he would hurt Her Everything is Messed up And It’s my fault Leave it alone i’m not coming back

And then, at the bottom:

molly

268 21187

When I look up from reading the e-mail, Sebastian is gone.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, rereading Molly’s e-mail. My hands are trembling, I realize. Molly’s message is bizarre, and disoriented. With a wave of panic, I think of the scars on Molly’s arms. Could she have meant something else by “i’m not coming back”?

I immediately dial the phone number at the bottom of the e-mail, praying that Molly included it because she wants me to stop her from whatever she’s planning to do. My brain can’t even form the word. Can’t process the possibility that I made whatever guilt Molly feels over Isabella’s death worse when I confronted her and asked her if her scholarship was worth not going to the police.

“I’m sorry; your call cannot be completed as dialed.”

I stare at the screen of my phone. Of course it can’t. This phone number is eight numbers.

Which means it’s not a phone number at all.

I claw at my scarf. It’s about a thousand degrees in this café. Through the window, I see a cab idling at the corner of the street.

I hurry outside and tap on the window. The driver looks up from his newspaper and nods for me to get in the backseat. I can’t help looking at the front page of his paper first.

There’s a photograph of two men with microphones shoved in their faces. The younger man’s mouth is open, as if he’s in midsentence. And I’ve seen him before. He’s Isabella’s cousin—the one Anthony punched at her funeral.

Family of Slain Student Calls for Federal Investigation

Looks like mistrusting the Wheatley Police runs in Anthony’s family.

The driver rolls down the window. “You getting in, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He doesn’t say anything when I ask him to drop me off at the Wheatley School. Good, because I’m not feeling particularly chatty.

I reread Molly’s e-mail for what feels like the millionth time.
They’re watching.
She must mean the school, obviously, since we’re using their server. But what’s with the bizarre capitalization and lack of punctuation? It’s almost as if Molly’s trying to tell me something she doesn’t want whomever is watching to see.

I go back over the message, pulling out the capital letters. A small gasp escapes me.

They spell out IN THE MAIL.

This can’t be a coincidence. Molly knows something. And apparently it’s in the mail.

I checked my on-campus mailbox earlier this morning, though, and there was nothing from Molly inside. Then again, she could have mailed whatever it is today. The thought of waiting kills me a little.

Or maybe it’s not in my mailbox at all. I count out the numbers at the bottom of Molly’s e-mail. Eight. Three for the mailbox number, and five for the combination to open it.

“Can you let me off at the front entrance please?” I ask the cab driver.

I dig my nails into my knees as he pulls up to the student center. A security guard is stationed at the gate. It’s almost laughable how the school thinks this will convince people that the campus is safe. I’ve lived here a few weeks, and I already know about a million other ways to get around the gate.

And under it.

“Stay safe, hon,” the driver says to me as I slip him a ten. I slam the cab door behind me, flash my ID to the guard at the gate, and hurry to the student center. The mail room is in the basement.

I find box number 268 and try the combination 21-18-7. The lock clicks at the same moment it occurs to me I’ve possibly committed a federal offense. I tell myself it’s probably not illegal to open a locked mailbox if the owner wanted you to open it.

My heart sinks. Molly’s mailbox is empty, except for a slip of paper reminding everyone that there’s a Student Government Association town-hall meeting at 7:00
P.M.
this Wednesday in the student-center auditorium. This can’t be what Molly wanted me to find. I got the same stupid reminder in my mailbox this afternoon.

I reach into the box for the note, even though I know it’s about as useful to me as it was earlier this afternoon when I stuck my gum in it. As I’m placing the paper back in the tiny box, the top of my hand brushes against something.

I feel around the top of the box. There’s a letter stuck there. No,
taped
there.

Well played, Molly,
I think as I tug at the envelope, peeling it from the roof of the box. It’s a standard white letter envelope, and it’s pretty tightly packed. I don’t know what’s inside, but I’m not about to stick around and get caught finding out.

Once I get back to my room, I lock the door and tip the envelope and pull its contents onto my bed. I count six letters, all typed and printed on white computer paper.

Isabella, Arthur says you don’t want to talk to me anymore. I don’t understand what I did or why you’re afraid of me. Please talk to me, or I don’t know what I’ll do.

My throat feels tight as I read the rest of the letters. Some sound more desperate than the others. One sounds almost angry.

Revulsion builds in me. These are obviously from Lee. I can’t help feeling a little disgusted at Molly, too. How did she get her hands on these, and how could she not turn them in to the police?

Because these mean nothing, the rational part of my brain reminds me. To the police they’d mean nothing, at least. There’s no proof Lee even wrote these: There’s no signature or handwriting sample. To someone who doesn’t know better, it looks like anyone could have been Isabella’s stalker.

With shaking hands, I hide the letters under my mattress. I can’t risk any more “lost” evidence, even if the evidence doesn’t prove anything. For now. Molly wouldn’t have bothered leading me to the letters if she thought they were totally useless, right?

I swallow away the anxious feeling rising in my throat. Lee’s letters to Isabella prove what I’ve been afraid to face for a while now.

Lee. Andreev. Alexis. All of them wanted Isabella dead.

The only question left is: Who got to her first?

CHAPTER

THIRTY-NINE

I walk with Remy, Kelsey, and April to dinner. But I’m not really with them. My mind is in a million other places, so I barely hear Remy when she says my name.

“Huh?” I look over at her.

“I said you should come to Concord with me this weekend.” Remy’s eyes are hopeful. “I mean, almost everyone is going home, so you could come with me and we could hang out.”

“Oh.” This catches me off guard. I hadn’t even thought about being on campus alone for President’s Day weekend until Brent brought it up. “Um, that’s really sweet of you, Rem, but I actually just bought an Amtrak ticket to go home.”

Remy smiles, but there’s the slightest trace of hurt on her face. “Awesome.”

I want to say something more to her, but I don’t know what. All Remy wants is to be my friend. Most girls here would probably kill for an invite to spend the weekend at Remy’s house, and I’m the bitch who’s planning on breaking in to her dorm room while she’s away.

As we pass the boys’ dorm, someone calls for us to wait up. It’s Cole, with Murali. Brent trails behind them, signaling for me to walk with him. The others share a knowing smile.

“Why did you take off on me earlier?” Brent asks.

I tell him how I followed Sebastian, and what he told me about Andreev. I’m getting to the part about Molly’s e-mail and the letters from Lee when I notice Brent is frowning.

“What?” I ask.

Brent lets out a breath through his nose. “I don’t know. This is all so crazy.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. “Once I figure out who this guy Andreev is meeting—”

“Are you out of your mind?” Brent asks. “You can’t get involved in that.”

“What do you mean?” I blink at him. “I’m kind of already involved.”

Brent shakes his head and sighs. “I know. But if Sebastian is right, and Andreev is dealing in that stuff … you have to tell someone, Anne. This is too dangerous for you to mess with.”

Anger flares in me. “I know it’s dangerous, Brent. Someone breaking in to my dorm is also dangerous, and I didn’t get much help with that.”

“Obviously, I’m not saying go to Harrow or anything. But I think we need to go to the police with what we have.”

“You really think they’d believe me? I don’t have anything solid.” I’m frustrated now, even though it’s not his fault. I’m frustrated because I can tell I’m close to figuring out who killed Isabella, but there’s still a missing piece I don’t have.

“I still think you should tell them what you know,” Brent says quietly. “You can’t keep putting yourself in danger like this.”

“I can’t sit back and do nothing, either,” I tell him.

“Anne.” Brent stops me and grabs my hand. “Please just listen to me. You have to tell someone what Sebastian told you.”

I study the lines of concern on his face. “Okay,” I lie. “Just give me some time, all right?”

He sighs. His breath ruffles the front of his hair. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I repeat.

“You’re not going to tell the police,” he says flatly.

“Of course not.”

Brent runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. “If something happens to you…”

“It won’t be your fault,” I say.

“That’s the last thing I’m worried about,” he says as he squeezes my hand again. And this time, he doesn’t let go.

*   *   *

Although I like having Brent around again, his newfound concern for my safety is really screwing with my plans. Ever since the other night, he’s been conveniently showing up to accompany me to classes and meals.

Luckily, the SGA town-hall meeting is tonight, and being the president and everything, Brent has to be there. It’s perfect: While everyone is at the meeting, I’ll use the tunnels to sneak into the administration building and break in to Goddard’s office.

Hopefully most of the security guards will be stationed around the student center for the town hall, because getting caught in the tunnels would seriously suck. Even worse is the thought that Isabella’s killer could be watching me, waiting for me to go down there alone.

That’s why I called Anthony and asked him to come with me.

I check the time on my cell phone. It’s almost quarter to seven; everyone should be heading over to the student center soon. When Remy knocks on my door and asks if I’m coming, I fake a cough and say I’m going to bed early.

The sound of Remy chattering with Kelsey and April in the hall fades away. I stick my head out in the hall to make sure they’re gone, then hurry into the bathroom, because there’s nothing worse than having to pee in the middle of a stealth mission.

I lock myself in the stall, and moments later, the bathroom door creaks open.

“Liz, I’m borrowing your lip gloss,” Alexis says.

I freeze as three sets of footsteps pause in front of the mirror. There’s the sound of a makeup bag being unzipped. Someone runs the faucet.

“Brooke said she saw them holding hands,” a husky voice says.