The Complete Private Collection: Private; Invitation Only; Untouchable; Confessions; Inner Circle; Legacy; Ambition; Revelation; Last Christmas; Paradise ... The Book of Spells; Ominous; Vengeance (275 page)

My nostrils flared. “I haven’t been treating you like—”

“Yes,” she said with a bitter laugh. “You have. Avoiding me? Shooting me looks? Refusing my lip gloss like I have herpes or something? And now this?” She whipped her toiletry kit down off the shelf, where it slammed against the sink with a loud clatter. “You didn’t even tell me you were thinking about breaking up with Josh. You didn’t even talk to me about it, and I thought we were supposed to be best friends.”

I blinked. For the first time since she’d walked through the door, I started doubting whether she even knew Noelle was really missing.

“Ivy, you don’t under—”

“No. I don’t want to hear it,” she said, lifting her free hand. “I’m done, Reed. Don’t talk to me again until you’ve had your inner bitch surgically removed.”

Then she turned around and stormed out, slamming the bathroom door behind her.

“Hey, Reed. How’s the extra-credit project going?”

I blinked a few times, slowly pulling myself out of my deep, dark daze. Tiffany, Portia, and Rose all hovered around my marble-topped table in the solarium, toting steaming coffees and yummy-smelling scones. Slowly, I looked down at my laptop. There was nothing on the screen in front of me other than a lonely, blinking cursor.

“Um, not good,” I said.

Portia pulled out a chair and placed her plate down. “How NG are we talking? VNG or BNG?”

My brow knit. Sometimes, talking to Portia was like trying to decode a secret spy message from the CIA.

“Um, BNG?” I said. “That’s beyond not good, right?”

“What can we do to help?” Tiffany asked, taking the chair across from Portia. Rose sat down across from me, her diminutive frame pretty much disappearing behind my laptop screen.

“Oh, you guys don’t have to—”

“It’s due tomorrow, isn’t it?” Rose asked, sitting up straight so I could at least see her blue eyes over the monitor.

“Yeah,” I said miserably. Where had the last week gone? Oh yeah. It had flown by with me running around at the beck-and-call of some crazed lunatic who didn’t even feel the need to reward me for my efforts by telling me how to save my friend.

“Then let us help,” Tiffany said. “History’s Portia’s best subject.”

“Aside from finance,” Portia said, lifting her chin.

“It’s true. Mr. Barber worships her,” Rose put in, taking a sip of her coffee. “Remember that presentation you did on the influence of first ladies on international policy? I thought he was going to drop down on one knee and propose to you right there.”

“Okay, ew,” Portia said with a shudder.

“Girl’s holding out for a bona fide prince, remember?” Tiffany said, her eyes sparkling as she lifted her coffee mug to her lips.

“Preferably a western European one,” Portia confirmed. She shrugged out of her fur-lined jacket and rested her elbows on the table, her gold necklaces glinting in the light from overhead. “But Rose is right. I am the only person in the history of Easton Academy ever to earn an A-plus from the Barber.”

I frowned, duly impressed.

“Come on, Reed. No one could be expected to concentrate on extra credit at a time like this,” Tiffany said, referring to my breakup with Josh, of course, not to Noelle’s suspended fate. “Just tell us what you need and we’ll do it. Delegate.”

“You’re sure?” I said, sitting up a bit straighter.

“You need to learn how to accept a little help,” Portia said, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. “You don’t have to do everything yourself, FYI.”

“And what else is the Billings Literary Society for?” Rose asked slyly, arching one eyebrow. “I mean, if not to support one another academically.”

I felt a smile tug at my lips and the sensation was very odd, but very welcome. “Okay, I’m supposed to write an article as if I’m a reform journalist, covering the breakup of the Standard Oil Company,” I said. “So first . . . I need to find out what, exactly, the Standard Oil Company was. Also, it’d probably be good to know why it broke up.”

“Wow. You really do need help,” Portia said. “I’m on research!”

She pulled her own laptop out of her bag and moved her coffee and blueberry scone to the next table to make room for it.

“I’ll pull up some of Ida Tarbell’s articles so you can get an idea of the writing style of the day,” Rose offered, producing her laptop as well.

“Okay, we’re getting a little crowded here,” Tiffany said. She got up and moved all her stuff to the next table, then pulled out her sleek, silver MacBook. “I’ll do photo research.”

“Photo research?” I asked.

“Yeah. You need to set this up so it looks like an actual article,” Portia said, as if this was entirely obvious to the world. “Barber will
love
that.”

“It’s too bad we’re not in with Constance anymore. She could
typeset it at the newspaper office and make it look really authentic,” Rose said, screwing up her mouth.

“I could always ask Marc,” I interjected, feeling an actual flicker of academic excitement. It was dim, but it was there. “Maybe he could even print it out on newspaper stock.”

“If you can get him to remove his lips from Kiki’s for more than five seconds,” Portia replied, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Those two are totally gunning for the PDA award.”

I sat back in my chair as the three of them feverishly got to work. Suddenly my heart was full to overflowing. My friends were the best. Hands down, the best friends on earth.

“What am I supposed to do?” I asked, feeling a tad guilty.

“Here.” Tiffany handed me her plate, which was full of chocolate biscotti, never taking her eyes off her screen. “Eat chocolate, read up on the Standard Oil Company, and try to come up with a snazzy headline.”

I laughed and placed the plate down on top of my keyboard. I could take a break for the amount of time it took to devour one biscotti, couldn’t I? I took a bite, the chocolate coating melting in my mouth. For a split second I started to feel better, like maybe I could actually pull this off, but then Mr. Hathaway had appeared as if from nowhere. He stood right behind Rose, holding a steaming to-go cup of coffee.

“Ladies,” he said, his expression suspicious as his gaze slid from one computer to another. He’d already tried to bust the Billings Literary Society once, and he seemed to get tense whenever he saw more than two or three former Billings Girls hanging out together.
After my outburst in chapel and Noelle’s continued absence, he was probably starting to suspect that he was somehow being snowed by a bunch of teenage girls. Which, let’s face it, he was. “What’re we working on?”

“Extra credit,” Portia said, unfazed. She reached for her coffee and took a sip, crossing one leg over the other as she gazed up at the headmaster, all cool. “What’re
you
working on?”

Tiffany hid a laugh behind her hand. The headmaster gave Portia a tight smile.

“A cinnamon latte,” he replied, lifting his cup.

“Nice choice,” Portia replied. “I like a man with a sweet tooth, Double H.”

For the first time since I’d known him, Mr. Hathaway looked flummoxed. “Thank you, Miss Ahronian, for that entirely inappropriate comment,” he said, his face all red.

“DMI,” she replied. Then she turned and got back to work.

“Don’t mention it,” Rose translated helpfully.

“Ah, well. It’s nice to see our students being so industrious,” Mr. Hathaway said, looking directly at me. “Remember, ladies, if you ever need any help with anything, my door is always open.”

My heart skipped a beat as he held my gaze for a long moment. “Good night, ladies.”

“Night!” my friends called after him as he strolled off.

As soon as he was a safe distance away, they all cracked up over Portia’s brazen behavior.

“I don’t think Double H has any royalty in his blood, P,” Tiffany said.

“But my, is he hot,” Portia said, watching him go. “For a geriatric,” she added, earning another round of laughter.

Meanwhile, my eyes followed Mr. Hathaway, my breath coming short and shallow as he wove his way around the crowded tables, stopping to talk to a group of students. It had been two days since I’d completed my fourth assignment for the kidnappers. Two days and no word. Two days Noelle might have spent out there somewhere alone and scared, clinging to life by a thread.

Maybe Josh had been right all along. Maybe I needed to tell someone what was going on. Especially now that I’d done my part and it had gotten me nowhere. So what if the kidnappers had warned me not to tell anyone? They’d also told me that if I completed four tasks for them, Noelle would be fine, and they hadn’t exactly come through there. And Headmaster Hathaway had said I could trust him.

But could I? I hadn’t exactly proven to be the best judge of character in the past.

He was at the door of the solarium and was about to walk out. My heart made the decision for me as I suddenly found myself jumping to my feet. My chair scraped against the marble floor as I shoved it behind me.

“I’ll be right back,” I told my friends, ignoring their surprised looks.

I caught up to the headmaster in the wide, carpeted hallway just outside the solarium. A group of sophomore girls milled around on the other side of the hall, texting and laughing as they checked out one another’s phones.

“Headmaster!” I blurted.

He turned around, his eyebrows raised, surprised to see me gasping for breath behind him.

“Reed,” he said.

I swallowed hard, just hoping . . . praying I was doing the right thing. “I was wondering . . . can I talk to you about something?” I glanced sidelong at the gigglers. “Somewhere . . . else?”

The headmaster squared off with me, rounding his shoulders. “Sure. Everything okay?”

“Yes, I just . . . wanted to take you up on your offer,” I said.

“Good. That’s good,” he replied. “Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks,” I replied, already wondering what I was going to tell my friends about bailing on my own homework assignment. Not that they would mind. Clearly, they were all about helping me. And hopefully, what I had to tell Mr. Hathaway wouldn’t take long. Hopefully, once I dumped my whole, sad, sordid story on him, he’d jump into action and my work here would be done. Ideally, by the end of tonight, the police would be involved and Noelle would be back home, safe and sound.

Five minutes later, I raced across the frigid, deserted campus, my hands clasping my collar closed under my chin, keeping my eyes on the shoveled cobblestone pathway to avoid icy patches. I’d been so distracted that I’d gone out without my hat, scarf, or gloves and now, every inch of my exposed skin screamed out in protest. But even in my discomfort, I already felt at least a hundred times lighter, a hundred times more awake, a hundred times more alive. And at least I was still wearing my big, old, warm boots.

In minutes, I would be unburdened. Hathaway would know all. And yes, I might get punished for forming the Billings Literary Society, but I hardly thought that would be his main focus, what with Noelle’s life hanging in the balance and all. Besides, as long as she was found and she was okay, I didn’t care if they expelled me from this stupid school.

Sniffling and gasping for breath, I sprinted up the outdoor steps
to Hull Hall. My hand had just grabbed the metal door handle when I heard scuffling footsteps behind me. Then, out of nowhere, a large gloved hand reached past my shoulder and shoved the door closed again. I whirled around and found myself face-to-face with a big, burly police officer. The fleece collar of his dark blue jacket was flipped up around his stubbly cheeks and he wore a wool hat low over his brow. His badge was pinned to the left lapel of his coat, and it shone, thanks to the security light above the door.

“Reed Brennan?” he said gruffly.

Behind him, two other officers scurried up, out of breath. Had something happened to my family? To Josh? Was this about Noelle?

“Yes?” I said.

The officer whipped out a pair of handcuffs, grabbed me by the arm, and swung me around in one, swift motion. I was so surprised I went temporarily blank, my vision blurring over and my head going weightless. He lifted my bag off my shoulder and tossed it down the stairs, where one of his buddies caught it. Then the cold metal closed around my wrists.

I was being handcuffed.
Why
was I being handcuffed?

“Wait!” I blurted, finding my voice. My heart spiraled around in my chest like a tilt-a-whirl gone horribly off the track. “What’re you doing? What’s going—”

“Reed Brennan,” the cop said in my ear, “you are under arrest for the murder of Noelle Lange.”

Noelle is not dead. She’s not. She’s not, she’s not, she’s not.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the cop said, grasping my shoulders and flinging me around. My stomach swooped as my foot slid off the top step in front of Hull Hall. I stumbled forward, down the stairs, and right into the waiting arms of the other two officers. One was short, fat, male, and whose breath smelled like cheese. The other was a scrawny woman with dark hair and a zit on her chin the size of Plymouth Rock. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“No, no, no, no wait!” I shouted. My mind reeled in ten different directions as the cops dragged me to my feet by my upper arms. I looked around for someone, anyone, to see me—to help—but there was no one around. “What happened? Where did you find her?”

“Kid, I’m not supposed to say this,” the gruff cop said, straightening his gloves as he descended the stairs after me. “But you really might want to remain silent.”

Cheese Breath and Zit Lady pulled me forward, manhandling me around the corner and to the back of Hull Hall, where an unmarked police car waited, idling in the small, faculty-only parking lot. I wrenched my neck, trying to look over my shoulder at the window of Headmaster Hathaway’s office. I could see that the light was on and I willed him to look outside. To save me just like I’d been hoping he’d save Noelle.

But now, Noelle could not be saved. Because now, Noelle was dead.

Just like Thomas. Just like Cheyenne. Visions of funerals and wakes and black clothes and dark limousines and bawling friends flashed through my mind. Visions of a life without Noelle. It wasn’t possible. It was not possible.