Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (30 page)

Only a seriously brain-damaged person would even consider snooping around after what I’ve been through tonight. With a police officer right outside the door, no less. But I just know Harrow is blackmailing Senator Westbrook, and if I can prove it, I can blackmail Harrow.

The more I think about it, that’s a terrible plan, but I don’t have much else to go on right now.

I strain my ears to check for the muffled voices in the hallway. Harrow is still talking to the police officer. I snatch the envelope from Senator Westbrook and glance inside. It’s empty.

I turn my attention to the next envelope on the stack. It’s from a bank, and there is a statement inside. I scan it quickly; someone deposited a check for five hundred thousand dollars into an account registered to the Wheatley School. There’s also a form declaring the Wheatley School a 501(c).

I shove the bank statement back into the envelope. I have a strong hunch that the check was another “historic gift” from Senator Westbrook.

I remember something my economics teacher said at the beginning of the year at St. Bernadette’s: All nonprofit institutions have to disclose publicly how they spend their money. That’s what 501(c) status is about. St. Bernadette’s is a registered nonprofit institution, so after my teacher told us the rules, we all had fun looking up how much money the teachers and Bailey made. (Hint: almost as much as the president of the United States.)

If the Wheatley School is a nonprofit institution, I should be able to access records detailing how Senator Westbrook’s money is being spent. If Harrow did something like give himself a salary boost, it could prove he’s blackmailing the senator, presumably over the video that could tie Alexis to Isabella’s murder.

My head is swimming and my face is stiff with dried tears. But I have renewed energy. I can do this. I can prove someone other than Anthony killed Isabella.

The door clicks behind me, and I straighten in my seat, throwing a glance at the stack of envelopes to make sure I left them as I found them, even though there’s nothing I can do now if I didn’t. Harrow steps back into his office, alone.

“Where’s Officer Deligatti?” I ask.

“Heading back to the police station. As you can imagine, there’s a lot going on there at the moment.” Harrow eyes me. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions of my own.”

“Am I in trouble?” I ask.

“That depends.” Harrow sits at his desk, and a ball of panic rises in my throat. I hope he doesn’t catch me as I glance at the stack of envelopes again. “How long have you been involved with Anthony Fernandez?”

“Involved?” I blurt. “We met at Isabella’s funeral. We’re just friends.”

Harrow holds up his hands and presses his fingertips together. “Is this the first you’re hearing of him stealing from his sister?”

“Yes, of course. How would I know about that?”

“I’m trying to help you.” Harrow’s eyes are ice blue in the dim light of his office. “The only way that can happen is if you’re honest.”

Anger surges through me. I’ve heard this little speech from him before. Is he trying to help me the same way he’s “helping” Alexis Westbrook? Does “helping” at this school mean protecting guilty people from getting what they deserve?

“I don’t need your help.” I stand and pick up my bag. “I had nothing to do with Isabella’s death, and neither did Anthony. So if you’re done with me, I’d really like to go back to my room.”

Something flashes in Harrow’s eyes, but he gives me a small smile. “I admire your resolve. I only hope it doesn’t get you into trouble.”

I tighten my grip on my purse strap. I can’t decide if there’s a threat veiled by his words.

“Anne,” Harrow says as I’m halfway out his door. “Security saw someone through a window in the administration building. You weren’t there this evening, were you?”

“No, sir,” I say, keeping my voice even.

“Good.”

His frown is the last thing I see before the door closes between us.

CHAPTER

FORTY-TWO

By morning, everyone knows Anthony’s name, thanks to a mass e-mail titled “A Message from your Headmaster.”

I applaud the work of the Wheatley Police Department in bringing Isabella Fernandez’s killer to justice so that, as a school community, we may begin to move on and cherish her memory.

I click out of the e-mail. If I read any more, I’m going to punch something. The last e-mail I received before this one stares back at me from my inbox.

Molly. I hurry to type out a response.

Molly,

I got the letters. I’m not sure how they’ll help just yet, but I found something better. Are you all right? I heard you’re in Rhode Island. Please call me if you can.

I give her my phone number and click “send.” Not even a second later, my inbox says I have a new message.

How could she have responded already? I scrunch up my forehead and open the message.

Delivery failed. is not a valid recipient.

They’ve suspended Molly’s e-mail account. I have no way of getting in touch with her. My chest constricts a little. I lift my mattress to make sure the letters from Lee are still there. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see them and decide I should probably hide the recording device there, too, until I decide what to do with it.

I feel around in my bag for the device. For a second, I think maybe I forgot to take it from Goddard’s office. No, I definitely put it in my bag. I dump its contents on my bed, pushing aside tins of rosebud salve, hand sanitizer, and a mini tissue pack.

The recording device is gone.

My first reaction, especially after not being able to get in touch with Molly, is fear: Maybe I’m going crazy, or I hit my head after the fire at St. Bernadette’s and I’m not really at prep school in Boston but at a rehab facility. Somehow I made Isabella and the murder up, and everyone is playing along like in that movie where Leonardo DiCaprio is a crazy person.

Panicked, I take a mental inventory of the last eight hours. The only time I left my bag alone was when I got up from Harrow’s office to have my freak-out moment in the bathroom, while we were waiting for Officer Deligatti to arrive and explain what was happening with Anthony.

My heart stops. Dr. Harrow went through my stuff. There’s no way the recording device fell out of my bag. But I was only in the bathroom for max five minutes. He couldn’t have wasted any time deciding whether to look in my purse. It was almost like he knew what was in there.

Could Harrow be the one who bugged Goddard’s office? Maybe Harrow was watching Goddard’s office the whole time and was the one who called the police to report a break-in. But if that’s the case, and Harrow found the device in my bag … why hasn’t he confronted me or expelled me?

My phone buzzes, and I nearly jump out of my skin. Remy is calling me, no doubt to wonder why I’m not at breakfast yet. I hit “ignore call” and drag myself back to my laptop. I might be late to my first class, but I can’t wait anymore: Harrow is involved with Alexis and her father somehow. He may even be involved in Isabella’s death. And now that he knows what I’ve found, I’m a sitting duck.

I hunt down Brent before classes start.

“Let’s say I was in charge of a large amount of money and wanted to skim some off the top for myself,” I tell him. “What would be the best way to do that without getting caught?”

Brent blinks at me. He’s clean-shaven and smells like Dove soap. “You could put the money in a fake account. But you’d need to hide it among a bunch of real accounts so no one would notice.”

“Got it. Thanks.” I’m off to find a computer before he can ask questions.

It doesn’t take me long to find a PDF of the Wheatley School’s record of distributions of charitable contributions. I search until I find the most recent donation of five hundred thousand dollars, dated last November. There’s a list of the million different organizations and areas within the school the money went to.

I pause with my mouse hovering over the words
Wheatley School Advancement Fund.
Whatever it is, seventy-five thousand dollars of the donation went there—nearly twice as much as the other areas received. I type “Wheatley School Advancement Fund” into my search browser. It doesn’t turn up anything.

I thought I smelled bullshit.

*   *   *

My morning classes are unbearable. Listening to the rumors about Anthony’s arrest, it’s hard to separate fact from speculation. Most people seem to agree on two basic things, though: Isabella Fernandez was killed by her brother, and he will probably spend the better part of his life in jail for it.

By lunchtime, I have a killer headache. Plus, I want to call Anthony really badly. I can’t even entertain the thought of the stories being true.

When I realize why I
really
don’t want him to go to jail, my head pounds even harder.

Right before he got arrested, I was totally, completely falling for Anthony.

I mean, it never would have worked out: Aside from the fact that he lives in Massachusetts and I live in New York, we just don’t
go
together. Kind of like sweatpants and heels. But I still really cared about him. I still do. Thinking about him going to prison for a crime I know he couldn’t have committed makes me feel like my entire world is shrinking.

It’s time for lunch, but I don’t have the heart to go into the dining hall. I hover around the entrance for a bit, then find the number I entered in my phone this morning. I dial it, and someone picks up on the second ring.

“Wheatley Office of Alumni Affairs; Melissa speaking. How can I help you today?”

“Hi.” I shift the phone to my other ear, lowering my voice. “I’d like to make a contribution. To the Wheatley School Advancement Fund.”

There’s the sound of clicking on the other end. “I’m sorry, but I don’t believe we have a fund by that name. Did you mean the Wheatley School Association for Scholastic and Curricular Development?”

I hang up. It’s just like I suspected: The Wheatley School Advancement Fund doesn’t exist. The seventy-five thousand dollars that went to it definitely does, though. If Brent’s theory is right, Harrow set up a fake account for a fake organization so no one would notice him skimming money off the top of Steven Westbrook’s most recent donation.

And it’s a smart idea: No one would notice a fake school organization buried in with all of the real ones, unless they were looking for one, like I was. It’s not rock-solid proof Harrow is blackmailing the senator and pocketing the money, but it’s enough to warrant an investigation. Especially if someone came forward with compelling evidence Harrow has something worth blackmailing Steven Westbrook over: the video Isabella made of Alexis.

I’ve got to get my hands on it. But first I need to convince everyone I’m actually going to New York this weekend. I have a strong suspicion that if Alexis finds out I’m staying here after all, she’ll stay too, to keep an eye on me.

I convince myself to join my friends for lunch and act like nothing’s wrong. The table gets quiet when I sit down, then Remy grabs me and hugs me. “I’m so happy this is all over,” she says into my ear.

I hug her back, although she’s so wrong. This is far from being over.

Cole meets my eyes over Remy’s shoulder. When I realize he’s looking at someone past me, I turn to see Alexis at the table next to us. She avoids my gaze and turns to Jill, who’s sitting at the other side of her.

“I can’t believe you’re stuck with her this weekend,” Murali says to Cole, who reddens.

“It was my mom’s idea,” he mumbles into his French fries.

“Cole’s family is going skiing in New Hampshire with the Westbrooks,” Remy whispers to me.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth to Cole. This gets a smile out of him.

“What are you doing this weekend?” Murali nudges me with his elbow. “Want to come to
casa de
Thakur in Melrose?”

“She’s going to New York this weekend,” Remy says, a little possessively. “I already asked her if she wanted to come home with me.”

Murali grins at me, like someone who knew the answer to his question before he asked it. I’m suddenly very aware of how close Alexis’s table is to ours.

“Sorry, Murali,” I say, loud enough for Alexis to hear. “Remy’s right. I’m going to New York this weekend.”

Everyone takes this as a cue to share their weekend plans. April is in the middle of telling us her parents will be in London, when I sense everyone around me stiffen. I turn around to meet Alexis’s over-bleached, fake smile. “Hey, Cole. Ready to eat my dust on the Black Diamond this weekend?”

I can’t help it: I let out a half snort/half laugh, ’cause really, the phrase
eat my dust
is so stupid it should be illegal. Alexis’s head snaps to me. Something vicious flashes in her eyes.

“Oh, hi, Anne. Sorry your boyfriend got arrested.”

The back of my neck heats, and I swear I can feel the whole dining hall fall silent. Everyone’s eyes are on me, and their mouths are half open with shock. My mouth is dry, and all I want to do is slap the satisfied smirk off Alexis’s face, until a voice sounds from behind her.

“Fuck off, Alexis. And move; you’re blocking my seat.”

Alexis gapes at Brent. He stands there holding his tray, with a small smile on his face. “Oh, I forgot my manners.
Please
move. You’re blocking my seat.”

Alexis looks from him to me, her face flooding with color. She spins on her heels and takes off. Brent slips into the empty chair next to me and asks, “Who got the orange chicken?”—like this is the most normal situation in the world.

Everyone sits for a minute, stunned, before following Brent’s lead and engaging in pointless drivel until lunch is over. When it’s time to go back to class, he pulls me aside.

I preempt whatever he was going to say. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. I still wanted to.” His eyes search my face. “You okay?”

“Great.” I force a smile. “Never better. About what Alexis said—”

Brent holds up a hand. “It’s none of my business.”

Frustration floods me. “Anthony isn’t my boyfriend.”