Chasing Secrets: A YA mystery thriller (Gregory Academy Mysteries Book 1)

by Jill Cooper

Mom glances back at me, and I shake my head. “No problem.” My voice shudders, and I push my jaw together.

  Evans nods. “All right. Well, have a good night. Ms. Chase, the next time the police try to stop you, don’t run. It won’t go well for you.”

  It won’t go well for you.

  I wrap my arms around myself. I don’t know how any of this will go well for me. “Sure. Sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, officer,” Mom says. “She should be up in bed by now.”

  “No harm. Just want to make sure everyone is safe. I’ll be seeing you both. Real soon.” He adjusts his hat, and he’s on his way down the stairs.

  Crap. What am I going to do now?

  Mom shuts the door, and we’re quiet for a moment until we hear the footsteps retreat. She glares at me. “What the hell is that all about? Are you in trouble? What have you done now, Jessica?”

  My heart clenches with grief. “It’s not like that.”

  “Well, you’re going to need to tell me how it is like soon. Do you hear me?” Mom tightens her robe and reties it shut. “You have until tomorrow night to think about it before I’ll demand answers. Do you understand?”

  I nod and stare down at the ground. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Good.” Mom hisses. “I’ll be at work tomorrow, but you’re going nowhere until we’ve talked. Relax, and figure out what you’re going to tell me.”

  “Winnie and I have a school project,” I remind her.

  Mom shrugs. “She can come by here. Now go to bed. Rest up. And we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Bed? Who can sleep at a time like this? I have a killer to catch.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Jessica: September 12th, 2020

  Mom’s pissed, and I can’t say I blame her.

  There’s nothing I can do about it right now, and I only have one full day to get things done, but catching up on sleep isn’t one of them.

  I raid the kitchen and grab a can of soda and a bag of chips before escaping up to my room. I settle onto my bed in my clothes and unzip my backpack, pulling out the manila folder I stole—er, nabbed—from the police station.

  I start with the autopsy folder and read it over.

  It’s filled with medical mumbo jumbo, but I’m able to glean a few facts from it: Amber was dead when she hit the water. She died from having her skull bashed in, and there were strangulation marks around her neck. She had struggled based on the blood under her fingernails.

  It also mentions her pelvis area and expanded hip joints but I don’t know what that means yet.

  I place the paper down and wonder what the implications are. She clearly hadn’t drowned, and she hadn’t been in a car accident. There were strangulation marks around her neck, and her head had been bashed against something.

  The bruises on her back and arms might’ve indicated she was dragged, but from where? Grass and debris were found in her hair, but it could’ve been picked up in the ocean. The scarring of her leg joints meant what exactly?

  I’m not sure, but I will have to ask someone who knows about this sort of thing. I can’t trust anyone in town, so I decide to use the Internet to find out the answers.

  But first, I have a date with the Blackberry phone.

  I turn it on, and the small screen illuminates blue before fading to a clear color. It’s trippy to use technology that’s so old. It takes a few minutes for me to find the text messages and how to access them since tapping the screen with my finger isn’t working at all.

  I use the arrow keypad and go through Amber’s texts. Some are clearly from acquaintances, but several from Jackson and Martin draw my attention. Was Amber playing both boys against each other?

  Jackson: Why haven’t you been answering my messages?

  Amber: I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. Things are stressful over here.

  Jackson: I hope I’ll still see you at homecoming. You’re still my girl, aren’t you?

  Amber: Always and forever. I can’t wait.

  Then there are some from Jenny.

  Jenny: Are we still meeting?

  Amber: Yes. After homecoming. Don’t tell anyone.

  Jenny: Never! We have your back.

  Amber: I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.

  You guys? I wonder who she’s talking about.

  There are a series of pictures in her photo album, and it’s like looking through a time capsule of the past: smiles, good times, grins. There’s a picture of her smiling at the beach and another of her sitting in a convertible car. The top is down, and she’s wearing glasses on top of her head. She waves to whoever borrowed her phone to take the picture.

  The next series of photos are ones Amber took of newspaper headlines and clippings about her parent’s case. I wonder why she took them, but from the headings, it seemed her parents were being let out on bail. They’d return home.

  I wonder what they know. I wonder if I can get in to see May Chetwood and what she’ll tell me if I can. She’ll probably tell me to screw off, but I’ll have to try.

  There are photos of her friends at school. I recognize Jenny and Carolyn. Must be weird to have been friends with Amber and then marry her former boyfriend. It might be painful for her. I remember how she closed the door on me the moment she saw me.

  Ouch.

  But I have an in with Winnie. I’ll use it to get into the house, see Carolyn, and ask her uncomfortable questions.

  Amber took a lot of selfies, and back in those days, there was no front camera, so the angle is wrong on most of the pictures.

  Amber took one of herself in a nightgown in her bedroom. The full-length mirror is behind her, and it catches her side profile. There’s something about it that is unsettling. She looks like she put on weight in her middle region. Maybe she was bloated or eating more, but it sends alarms blazing off inside my head.

  I flip back to the autopsy and look for a line that I had glazed over because I thought it was unimportant. I fold the papers over and read the final lines.

  Amber’s uterus was an abnormal size and position—was Amber pregnant when she died? Had there been a miscarriage? A stillbirth? Or was it something worse than that?

  Something far worse.

  I don’t know what it means, but tomorrow I’m going to find out. I’ll find out all of it as I go through each of the suspects and find out what happened leading up to Amber’s death:

  Carolyn, Jenny, Jackson, Martin, and May Chetwood. Before Mom turns into a prison warden and never lets me out of her sight again.

  I put the files and evidence I have under my bed, but the phone I slip under my pillows. Keeping everything safe is imperative. If the murderous cop is out to snuff out the evidence that can solve Amber’s case, well—I can’t be too careful. My life is in danger, and Mom breathing down my neck might be a good thing.

  When everything is safe, I make sure the window behind my bed is locked. Then I move over to the window by my desk. I open the curtains and catch the reflection of Amber in the glass. I yelp and jump back.

  I always run. That’s what I told Ryan that day in the Chetwood estate. What would happen if I didn’t?

  The ghostly face begins to fade. “Wait!” I scream and spring forward and push my hand up against the glass. Amber’s specter reappears, growing stronger. Her face lunges for me out of the glass.

  I fall onto the ground with fear and push myself up on my elbows, drawing a deep breath. As her body appears over mine, her hair dangles down toward my face. I shrink back. Will she hurt me? Can she?

  “I want to help you,” I cry out. “Let me help you.”

  Amber’s face relaxes, and her hands draw back. “Run,” she whispers. “Go.”

  A gust of wind pulls her back toward the glass, and sparkling orbs appear to go with her. She’s gone, and I’m left alone. All this time, I thought she was trying to get me to help her. But instead, what if she’s warning me?

  She’s warning me to go. Not to engage.

  Amber doesn’t want help.

>   She wants to help me.

  I get very little sleep after my encounter with Amber that night. I see her face in my dreams. I wake along the cliffs, and when I draw closer to the water, she appears and places a finger to her mouth. When I try to get closer, she disappears into a mist of fog, floating on up to the Sinclair Estate.

  Her secrets must be up there, even if it’s something I can’t understand. Do I believe a dream? A few short weeks ago, I would’ve said no. Now, I’m not so sure.

  I dress in a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings. My hair is loose around my shoulders, and I try to give off the aura that I’ll be lounging around the house all day. I pack up what I’ll need into my backpack and keep it under my desk. The old key I found is safe in my pocket as I head down the stairs. I hear the sizzle of breakfast cooking, and I can smell the crisping of bacon. Mom must not be so mad at me, after all.

  “Hey,” I say when I push the door open and gaze at her. Mom pulls a pan from the oven. Bacon. I called it.

  She’s in a business casual skirt and a casual long sleeve top. Her hair is braided off one shoulder, and she appears relaxed. When she turns, I make out lines around her eyes. I guess I’m not the only one who hadn’t slept well last night. She wipes her hands on her pants. “Morning, I made breakfast.”

  Clearly. “Thanks. I’ll have some in a bit. Right now, I just want some coffee.” I move past her toward the fridge and grab the cream and a red coffee mug off the counter. I pour myself a cup and stare out the window into the backyard. The sun is out, and I hear birds chirping. Inside the house, though, everything is frosty. Mom’s boring holes into my back with her glare, and I struggle to find the right thing to say.

  “I’m sorry about last night. I don’t mean to cause trouble.” I frown and sip my coffee. Being vulnerable makes me feel regret and sorrow. I hate being an almost adult.

  “I hope that’s true.”

  Mom’s voice sounds so bitter I’m taken back by it. I turn around and hold my mug close. Suddenly it’s my receiving blanket like I really am a kid. “I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am. I just want you to use better judgment.” She sighs and pulls her sleeve up to check her watch. “I don’t want the police knocking on our door, Jess.”

  I nod. “I know. I’m…sorry.” Why is it so hard to say that word?

  “I have to go. Tonight, remember, we’re having it all out. But I love you.” She kisses my cheek. “Be good, please, Jess.”

  I nod but find I can’t say anything. Can I really blame Mom for mistrusting me? I mean, I’m planning to leave and sneak around town, piecing together a decades-old murder. All the while, I think the murderer will be waiting for me.

  Who needs common sense?

  “Have a nice day.” I force the words out, and I don’t breathe again until Mom is out of the kitchen. I eat the bacon right out of the frying pan, my ears picking up the sound of the car backing out of the driveway.

  I wipe my hands on a tea towel, the bacon grease coming clean. Mom’s gone, and that means it’s time to put on my Nancy Drew shoes. Here goes nothing.

  The day is crisp and bright, a stark contrast to how I’m feeling inside. I take my bike on over to the Serenity Treatment Facility, and it’s not what I expect to find. It’s a sprawling Victorian estate set far from the downtown area. The outside is painted a soft and calming yellow, and all the accent pieces are a vibrant white. The perimeter is lined with perfectly manicured bushes, and collections of colorful flowers grow in pots on the steps leading up to the main door.

  Two giant oak doors lead me into an air-conditioned lobby that smells like honeysuckle and lavender. There’s a grand white staircase, and to my left is a service desk. To my right are two white French doors propped open, leading into a sitting area with a fireplace. With no one at the desk, I step toward the sitting area.

  Inside are a collection of people. Someone young like me plays chess by himself. His hair is tidy, but his shirt is only tucked in on one side. An older woman sits in a yellow and white overstuffed chair. She’s knitting, mumbling to herself, and when she looks at me, I see recognition in her eyes.

  “Oh,” she whispers. “May, your daughter is here. Isn’t that nice? You know,” she leans toward me, “she only ever gets one visitor on Sundays.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, a woman shifts on the sofa. I step toward her as she stands up with the help of a cane. Her frame is demure, but she appears brittle in her long, purple dress, cinched around a tiny waist. She holds a white shawl around her rounded shoulders, and I hold my breath as she turns toward me.

  Her hair is completely white, and wisps of it frame her angular face. There’s a broach at her neck, and in it is an ivory seagull with wings spread. Her lips pinch together in a frown, and her eyes glaze over me before settling on my eyes. They flash from recognition to sadness to anger. They’re not the eyes of a crazy person, I’m sure of it.

  “Mrs. Chetwood,” I start.

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “You cannot be here, child. Do you understand?”

  “I just want to ask you a few questions. I’m sorry if my appearance is upsetting to you, but I need to know—”

  “No.” She slams her cane down hard. “You cannot be here,” she repeats. “You must leave Bay Harbor. Immediately.” May hisses the last words, and she sits back down on the sofa. Clearly, there’s no room for us to quibble.

  “Please.” I go around toward the fireplace, and I kneel in front of her. “I found your daughter’s phone. I found her bus ticket. I know something happened leading up to homecoming. Something that wasn’t your fault. Something else was going on. Just tell me what it was.”

  Her shoulders round and her face puckers, but she refuses to look at me. She only stares off past me like I’m not there.

  “Amber disappeared that night of homecoming, but she was still alive. I think she took that bus ticket and went somewhere. Do you know why? Someone must’ve helped her. Do you know where she went?”

  May takes a breath, her lips pressing together even harder. She turns her head away from me and tears gather in the corner of her eyes. May Chetwood knows what I need to know, but how can I make her tell me?

  “Don’t worry, May,” the knitter says from her window seat. “The nice policeman will be here in a few days. He always makes you feel better.”

  Policeman? “Chief Evans?” I whisper, sounding far more ominous than I should.

  May’s head sharply turns toward mine, but she says nothing. Instead, she inhales, and I have my answer.

  “Chief Evans,” the knitter nods with a big smile on her face. “Nice guy. Sweet. Always brings May chocolate.”

  So, Chief Evans covered up a crime and possibly got May committed so she wouldn’t be able to talk. He must keep her quiet by visiting regularly and putting the fear of God into her. She must be terrified. I would be if I were her. I take May’s hand, and she startles. “I have your daughter’s phone.” My voice is ripe and determined. “I have it, and now he’s coming for it. Someone was already killed for it.”

  May’s face puckers, and I see her strain for control. She squeezes my fingers, and I return the grip. “I…” She sobs and glances down.

  “Tell me what to do next. Please.”

  “Cathy Summers,” she whispers. “You have to find Cathy Summers.”

  Amber’s birth mother. “Where do I find her?”

  “Acorn Creek. Start there.”

  “I will.” I stand up straight, but May won’t let my hand go, she stares into my face while a look of peace washes over her.

  “You look just like her. I almost didn’t believe it.”

  I open my mouth to speak when we’re interrupted. A woman storms in. She’s wearing a simple black skirt with a blouse and over the top is a soft blue sweater. “What is going on here? Who are you?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  May lets my hand go, and I march through the sitting room. The administrator follows after m
e and grabs my arm. “What did you talk to her about?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to see her. I know I wasn’t supposed to visit, but there was no reason for someone to lie about why.”

  The administrator’s eyebrows furrow. “Excuse me?”

  “Her chauffeur told me that she had lost her mind when I met him. I get my resemblance to her daughter is upsetting but—”

  She shakes her head. “Ms. Chetwood hasn’t had a driver or any staff since she was released from prison. She came directly here. I don’t know who you talked to, but it wasn’t her driver.”

  A chill races through me. Who was it that I spoke to at Amber Chetwood’s grave?

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Amber 2003

  Homecoming dance has arrived. The night of my big plan has been set in motion. Now that it’s here, though, I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I’m even ready to be in such a large group. It’s my graduating class, but I feel like half of them hate me while the other half is laughing at me.

  The party venue at the Princeton Boat Resort is done up with magenta, baby pink, and white balloons that match my pink taffeta dress. Its bodice is heart-shaped and sparkles with glitter. My hair is pulled back from my face and pinned to the side so the curls roll down my back. I step onto the stage.

  A tiara is fitted onto my head, and a sash is draped across my chest by Mr. Davis. I’m homecoming queen, and I don’t know how or why. There’s no way everyone voted for me. I’ll never know how Carolyn kept her word to get me voted in.

  But she did.

  Jackson takes my hand as the crowd erupts into applause. My king, the man of the ball, kisses my hand and stares deeply into my eyes. I reflect on everything we’ve said and promised one another over the last few days, and I feel as deeply for him as I ever have. Maybe even deeper.

  We step off the stage as a couple and take the center dance floor. We join hands, our eyes lock, and when the music swells, we dance for what will be the last time. He holds me close, and we kiss. We’re forever. I just need time to prove it.