Prep School Confidential (A Prep School Confidential Novel) (33 page)

“Of course you can, Dr. Harrow.”

CHAPTER

FORTY-SEVEN

Remy is waiting for me in the first-floor lounge. “Anne, where have you been?”

I check the screen of my cell phone. Class has been over for more than three hours, and I have five missed calls from Remy. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t find my ID,” Remy tells me. “Student Services wants to charge me fifty dollars for a new one since I’ve already lost two cards this year.”

My throat constricts. “Oh. That sucks. Is that what you called me about?”

A giggle sounds from the corner of the lounge. I look up to see Alexis and Lizzie hanging posters titled
RESIDENT COUNCIL PRESENTS: SPRING FLING ICE CREAM SOCIAL!
Lizzie appears completely absorbed in telling Alexis a story, but I can tell Alexis has one ear on us.

“Well, I know I had my ID before I stopped by your room Friday night,” Remy says. “Could I check to see if I dropped it there or something?”

Across the room, Alexis freezes. She picks her head up and locks eyes with me. I look away and back to Remy. “Sure, Rem. Wanna come up now?”

“Yeah, that works.” Remy smiles with relief. “Thanks, Anne. I’m sure it’s in there somewhere.”

I can’t tell Remy her ID is currently making its way through the school’s waste disposal system. My ears ring and my breathing becomes shallow as we leave the lounge. Alexis watches me the whole time, smacking the stapler in her hand against her opposite palm.

I know what you did,
her expression says.
I know what you did, and you’re dead.

It’s only a matter of time before Alexis goes through her stuff to see if anything’s missing. I have to decide what I’m going to do with the video. Now.

*   *   *

I call Brent as soon as Remy leaves my room, distraught and muttering, “I just don’t understand how I lost it
again.
”

“We have a problem,” I say to Brent.

“You said ‘we.’ I kind of like the sound of that.”

“Brent, I’m serious.” I shoot a glance at my door. “Harrow knows what I’ve been up to. And I think he knows Alexis killed Isabella.”

“Wait, wait, slow down. Why would he cover for Alexis?”

“So he can extort the shit out of the Westbrooks,” I say. “I’ve got to do something.”

“By ‘something,’ I hope you mean go to the police.”

“I will. After I confront Alexis.”

“Are you high?” Brent’s voice slides up an octave.

“No. It’s the only way I’ll get answers out of her. I’ll have my phone in my pocket, recording what she says.”

“Alexis isn’t dumb. And if you really think she killed Isabella, what’s gonna stop her from hurting you?”

“I’ll be ready. That’s the difference between me and Isabella. And it’ll be hard enough to get Alexis to talk without you there. Please, Brent.”

“Anne, I—”

He’s interrupted by a beep telling me I have another incoming call. I nearly drop my phone.

Anthony.

“Brent, I have to call you back.”

My heart is beating so fast, I’m seeing black spots. Where is Anthony, that he’s able to call me?

“Hi.”

“Hey.” His voice is panicked. “I thought you might not pick up.”

“Of course. I mean, I could never … what they say you did.” I can barely get the words out, I’m so happy to hear his voice. “Where are you?”

“My uncle’s house. He posted my bail.” Anthony’s voice is broken down. “My parents are at the hospital. My dad … this hasn’t been good for him.”

“I’m so sorry.” The corners of my eyes are getting moist.
Keep it together, Anne.

“I can’t talk for long.” Anthony pauses. “A detective came to my uncle’s house this morning and asked about you.”

My stomach plummets. “What do you mean, asked about me?”

“He asked if I thought you might have found something in Isabella’s room you weren’t telling me about,” Anthony says. “I told him no, but he wouldn’t leave. Like he thought I was lying.”

I immediately think of the security box beneath my bed. “Anthony, wait. I did find something I never told you about. I thought it was just something really personal she wanted to stay hidden—”

“What
is
it, Anne?”

“A security box. An electronic one, with a code. Do you know about it?”

“No.” Anthony is quiet for a moment. “Did you open it?”

“I couldn’t. You think this could be what the detective was looking for?”

“Maybe. Depends what’s inside. Try one-two-seven. That’s Isabella’s birthday. Our birthday.”

“Hold on.” I flatten myself onto the floor and reach for the security box. I type in Isabella’s birthday, but the red light flashes red still.

“Anthony, what else could it be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe one of our parents’ birthdays. She couldn’t remember shit, so it’s gotta be something obvious.”

Of course. I picture Isabella the day I first met her, with her dimples and sheepish smile as she unlocked our door: 4-3-2-1, because of her awful memory.

With trembling hands, I type 1-2-3-4 into the keypad. Something inside the box whirs, and the light turns green. “I’m in.”

Anthony is silent as I open the box. A photograph of Steven Westbrook stares back at me. He’s at a street corner with a blond woman.

I bring the photo closer to my face. It’s not just any blond woman: It’s Mrs. Redmond.

There are two more photos in the box. One of Steven Westbrook entering a hotel, alone. Then Mrs. Redmond entering it, also alone. All the photos are time stamped. March 14, last year.

Cole’s mother and Alexis’s father. Are they having an affair?

“Anne, are you there?” Anthony asks.

We had an agreement.

Elaine Redmond.

You dragged Lanie into this.

“Shit,” I say. “Anthony, are you sure the guy who came to your house was a detective?”

“He had a badge.” Anthony is quiet. “But I guess I didn’t look close at it.”

“What did he look like?” The room is shrinking around me.

“Tall. Probably midthirties. Dark brown hair, blue eyes, I think. Had an accent like he’s definitely not from Boston.”

“Anthony, I have to go.”

“Why?”

“That guy’s not a cop.” I swallow. “He’s my vice-principal.”

CHAPTER

FORTY-EIGHT

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
(none)

It’s time for a chat, just us girls. I have something you need, but luckily you have something I need, too. Let’s meet up tonight and we’ll discuss … or I’m taking the video to the cops.

To:
[email protected]

From:
[email protected]

Subject:
Re: (none)

8
P.M
., in the forest across from the parking garage. Come alone or I won’t talk.

I go to the bathroom and throw up. When I get back to my room, Brent is calling.

“Sorry,” I whisper, then hit ignore. Then I program 911 into my speed dial and send Brent a text.

If you don’t hear from me by 9:30, call the police. And open the security box under my bed. Code is 1-2-3-4. Room’s unlocked for you.

I check my bag to make sure the video is still in there, since I’ll need it as leverage. I leave the photographs of Senator Westbrook and Mrs. Redmond in the box for Brent to find in case the unthinkable happens.

But it won’t. I have a pepper-spray key chain and a possibly overinflated sense of confidence that I could take Alexis down if it came to it.

I sit on the edge of my bed.
Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth.
I’m really doing this. Doing what might easily become the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Even stupider than lighting that report on fire and getting kicked out of St. Bernadette’s.

But this is different. This is the type of stupid that matters. The type of stupid that could actually change something.

I have no other option. The police won’t believe me: It’s my word against a senator’s daughter’s and the vice-principal of the most prestigious prep school in New England. I could run away, back to New York, but everything will catch up with me eventually. I know too much.

I owe Isabella too much.

Brent keeps calling. I silence the call and send him one last text message.

I really wish I had just kissed you the night of the party.

I don’t wait for his response. I know he’s probably outside Amherst, waiting to stop me, so at 7:50, I move the bookcase in the laundry room and descend into the tunnel.

After I emerge in the parking garage, I move deep enough into the forest so I can’t be seen, but still leave a clear path of escape. In my pocket, my phone is ready for me to hit
record sound.
In my other hand, I clutch the pepper spray.

Then I wait. A pair of yellow eyes glows at me from the tree overhead, sending a chill down my spine. Spastic fluttering sounds behind me, as if something has frightened the birds.

“You shouldn’t have come here, Anne.”

The voice behind me isn’t Alexis’s. I turn, feeling cold metal press against my temple. Then hear the click of the gun.

“Don’t scream,” Dr. Harrow says into my ear. “Then maybe I’ll consider leaving you a vegetable instead of killing you flat out.”

CHAPTER

FORTY-NINE

I collapse into the leaves beneath me. I should be trying to use my pepper spray, but my limbs won’t work. I am a puddle on the cold forest floor. I am going to die here, just like Isabella did.

They say your entire life is supposed to flash before your eyes. My head is empty, though. I can’t form the words to plead, beg. All I can do is whimper.

“Shh, shh,” Harrow says. His voice is comforting, which is a million types of fucked up, considering he’s pointing a gun at me.

“You killed her,” I choke out.

Harrow actually looks surprised. “But you knew that already, didn’t you? She must have told you about us.”

About us.
Suddenly, everything makes sense. The way Zach said Isabella had a boyfriend but wouldn’t tell anyone who. The way Dr. Harrow was surprised Isabella didn’t tell him about Andreev.

“You … and her?” I squeak.

“Before you judge me, you should know your roommate wasn’t as innocent as she pretended to be. She had me rough Andersen up. She wanted it. She wanted
me
.” Harrow’s eyes are manic. “I was the one who tried to break it off. She threatened to go public with the photos if I did. She was going to tell everyone I was blackmailing the senator.”

A choked, high-pitched sound escapes my throat. “You didn’t have to kill her.”

“I didn’t mean to.” The hand Harrow holds the gun in shakes a little. “She’s the one who brought that knife along whenever we met here. She said it made her feel safe. I never wanted to kill her.”

Harrow’s voice is pleading, almost as if he’s trying to convince me. It might just be a way for me to buy more time.

“How could you
accidentally
cut her throat?” I ask. My hands press into the cold earth behind me. My elbows ache, and I want to sit up, but I’m afraid he’ll shoot.

“She thought I was blackmailing Senator Westbrook over her video,” Harrow says. “She confronted me because she was afraid she’d get expelled if something went wrong and people found out she made it. That’s why I told her about the photos.” Harrow licks his lips. “After I tried to end things with her, she stole the photos. That night … she said she needed to see me. She said she had the photos and was going to Goddard with them. I grabbed her. She got scared. When she pulled out the knife, something snapped in me. I didn’t even realize what I was doing.”

I’m crying, and Harrow is telling me to be quiet, but I can’t. “Where’s Alexis? She’s supposed to meet me here.”

“Alexis was smart and came to me when you e-mailed her. You, Anne, were
not
smart.”

My chest heaves, as if I’m going to be sick. I roll over and gag. That’s when I get the words out: “Please don’t kill me.”

“You should never have gotten involved, Anne,” Harrow says, his voice mournful. “I didn’t want her to die. I don’t want you to die, either.”

“I don’t want to die,” I say, loudly and hysterically, hoping there’s someone out here who will hear.

“You should have kept your mouth shut then, like everyone else,” Harrow growls, taking a step toward me. I crawl backward, wincing as my palm presses down on something hard.

A rock.

“I’m sorry, Anne.” Harrow’s face is contorted as he points the barrel of the gun at me. Something clicks into place. “But you know too much.”

Harrow is raising the gun as a blistering holler sounds outside the woods. His head jerks to the source of the noise, and I grab the rock. In the split second it takes him to turn his attention back to me, I lob it at his face.

The rock hits Harrow in the jaw. He stumbles backward, dropping the gun—but not before it goes off. I dive forward and reach the gun before Harrow does. I point it squarely at his chest.

His hands immediately fly up. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth, which is twisted in a half smile. “Going to kill me, Anne? I wouldn’t count on a self-defense plea with your record.”

My hands are trembling around the handle of the gun. I’ve never even held a gun before. Harrow is smirking at me as if he can tell what I’m thinking.
I can’t do this; I can’t do this.

A voice splits the silence. “ANNE!”

Rustling sounds through the trees, and Brent emerges, breathless. “Holy shit.” He bends over, holding his chest. “I heard a gun go off. I thought you—”

“It’s okay.” I try to keep my voice even. I look over at Brent, trying to give him a reassuring smile. “It’s all going to be okay.”

I look away from Brent just in time to see Harrow pulling the knife from his pocket.