by Kara Taylor
I close the archives door behind me and head down the tunnel. The sound of voices freezes me to where I’m standing.
They’re male voices. Security guards? They don’t come down here often. But of course they chose tonight.
The voices come closer, cornering me. Crap. I squeeze my eyes shut and flatten my back against the wall, praying they don’t sweep their lights over the pitch-dark curve where I’m hiding.
“Cole, get your ass out of my face.” The voice is unfamiliar. But not old enough to be a security guard’s.
“Get your face out of my ass. Who has the flashlight?”
“Only use it if you have to.” Brent’s voice makes my heartbeat accelerate. “We can’t risk being seen down here.”
“By who?” This time it’s Casey Shepherd’s voice. “We’re the only ones who know about the tunnels, and Coach said the guards wouldn’t be down here tonight.”
I freeze, waiting for Brent to tell him he’s wrong, that I’ve been down here many times before. He doesn’t, and I swallow away guilt for doubting him.
If they say anything else, it’s drowned out by the sound of something scraping against concrete. Something heavy. I peer around the corner.
It’s dark; I can only make out the outlines of four bodies because one of them is using his iPhone for a small radius of light. The fourth figure is larger than the others, even Cole. There’s only one guy I know of at Wheatley that’s his size: Casey’s friend Erik.
I strain my eyes to see them disappearing into a room across the hall. At their feet, I can see large blocks of some sort. Their voices are almost indiscernible. But I know what room they slipped into.
The crew team lair where I broke the picture frame. I break a sweat as I wait for them to notice the glass on the floor, get angry that someone trespassed into their hangout. A minute or so passes before they emerge from the room.
“Well, this was fun,” Casey snaps, closing the door behind him. “Let’s do it again real soon.”
“I’m sorry. Did you have a better idea?” Brent asks. “Besides trying to sneak six cinder blocks in our rooms while Kyle is on duty.”
“He wouldn’t say anything to me,” Casey retorts. “Not after I saw him at a movie with another dude.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Cole says.
Casey laughs. “Sure it doesn’t, Mr. I-Like-When-Girls-Put-Their-Finger—”
“Can you just shut the hell up so we can get out of here?” Brent says.
“What’s your problem, Conroy?” Casey’s voice again. “Think you’d be getting plenty of your own, dating the hottest girl in the junior class.”
My face heats up. Really, I’m flattered, Casey, but you’re a swine.
“Don’t talk to me about Anne,” Brent snaps.
“Why? Haven’t fucked her yet?” Casey sounds gleeful, like a sadistic little boy standing over a bunch of ants with a magnifying glass. “Or do you prefer to sit back and watch? I heard your dad was into some freaky shit like that in his day—”
Casey is cut off by the sound of scuffling. One of the guys yells, and I break out into a cold sweat, picturing Brent’s hands around Casey’s neck.
“Knock it off, Shep.” I’m relieved to hear Cole’s voice. “Save the asshole routine for when we face Ellison Prep, all right?”
My heartbeat reaches my ears as the footsteps come closer to me. It’s dumb luck I didn’t wear perfume tonight, or else they would for sure be able to tell I’m hiding. Their voices disappear around the corner leading back to Aldridge, and I allow myself to breathe again.
I should run to Amherst and never look back, but I can’t help it—I stop at the crew team room. The door is locked. Either the guys have a key or someone on the team is as skilled as I am. I don’t appreciate the thought.
Once I’m inside, I shine my light on the wall where I’d left the photo I’d knocked down. In its place is a stack of cinder blocks.
The glass from the broken frame is gone. Swept up.
Someone definitely knows I was here.
No-no-no. I yank open the filing cabinet where I found the letter about the 1980 hazing. Please still be here.
“Crap.” I resist the urge to kick the filing cabinet. Someone has erased all evidence of Wheatley Rowing. The drawer is empty except for a manila envelope that wasn’t there the other night.
My brain screams at me not to touch it.
Leave. Get the hell out!
I’ve never believed in out-of-body experiences. But I can’t remember picking up the envelope and opening it. It’s as if someone else took over my hands and made me do it, while I looked on, trying not to scream at the photo inside.
It’s of Isabella’s face, white as snow. Her lips are an ashy gray. The rest of the photo is red. So, so much red.
The wound in her neck is so deep that it’s a miracle Dr. Harrow didn’t take her head clean off.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Occam’s razor: It’s a theory of logic stating that the simplest explanation to a problem is usually the best one. It’s my father’s worst nightmare in the courtroom. Example: His client’s wife is killed, and the guy doesn’t have an alibi. Occam’s razor says the best explanation is the husband did it. It’s always the husband.
What I know: Someone is trying to stop me from digging into the crew team’s past.
What I wish I didn’t know: Brent and the other guys were in the tunnels earlier tonight.
The simplest explanation is that they were the ones who left me the photo.
I left the photo in the drawer. How could I bring that into this room, the room she and I shared together before Dr. Harrow did that to her? What kind of sick son of a bitch could do that to a person and claim it was an accident?
I hug my pillow to my stomach, hoping it will block out my nausea. The picture was obviously a crime-scene photo—one that the public wasn’t supposed to see. The only people who should have access to it are the police, the prosecutors and attorneys, and maybe the media, if someone from the first two leaked it.
Cole’s father is the attorney general of Massachusetts. Brent’s owns the biggest newspaper in Boston.
Have I completely underestimated what the guys are capable of? I close my eyes and picture the burns on Zach Walton’s back. The cinder blocks the guys were dragging through the tunnel, to do God knows what with during The Drop.
If that’s how they treat their own recruits, I doubt they’d think twice about using a photo of Isabella’s corpse to scare an outsider.
It’s the simplest explanation: Someone on the team left that photo for me to find.
* * *
I wake up in a pool of blood. In a panic, I search my body for the source. The pain never comes. Just fear.
I’m staring down the barrel of Dr. Harrow’s gun. I look up, but a black mask covers his face. He says nothing as he pulls the trigger this time.
When I sit up, my body is wracked with chills and a cold sweat. I have to get out of bed and turn on the light to make sure I’m awake for real this time. Still shaking, I look out my door’s peephole into the hallway. Everything is quiet.
But I never fall back asleep.
My terror eventually evolves into anger. Whoever left me the photo wanted to scare me, but I’ve been nightmare-free for so long that now I’m just pissed off and determined to figure who could have gotten their hands on the photo.
By breakfast time, I have a plan. Which absolutely does not involve telling Anthony what happened last night. I don’t know if he knows about the crime-scene photo, but I’m not going to be the one to tell him.
Regardless, the photo qualifies for responsible adult involvement, and since I can’t exactly go to Dean Snaggletooth or anyone who works at school, there’s really one person left.
Anthony gave me Dennis’s cell phone number a couple of months ago, for emergencies. Like my personal line to the cops, without having to call 911. I walk to breakfast with the girls and tell them to sav
e me a seat; I have to call my mom quickly.
Dennis picks up on the fourth ring with a gravelly voice that suggests I woke him up. “Dennis. Who’s this?”
“Hi. It’s Anne. Dowling,” I add. “I’m, um…”
“Yeah, I remember you,” he says. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
The question lands on me like a thousand-pound weight. Don’t think about what you saw. Just describe it. “It’s not an emergency or anything, but I found something at school. Something … I don’t know how someone could have been able to get.”
Dennis is quiet. “You mean like a gun?”
“No, nothing like that.” I sigh. “A picture. A really, really bad picture. Of Isabella.”
“Shiiiit,” Dennis says. “Where’d you see it?”
“That’s the thing. I think someone left it for me?” My voice slides up an octave. “Like as a cruel joke.”
“Man,” Dennis sighs. He doesn’t offer anything else, so I press on.
“Were the crime-scene photos leaked anywhere? Like somewhere a student might be able to get them?”
A few clicks sound on Dennis’s end. Keyboard keys. “Someone hacked into our database and leaked the pic you saw to a few news outlets. Offered the rest for cash. No one published it, though.”
“So how would someone still have the picture?”
“Someone who saw it must have leaked it again,” Dennis says. “I’ll run a search online.”
“Thanks,” I say, nauseous. There’s no doubt someone in Brent’s dad’s office would have received the picture.
“Anne.” Dennis’s voice is gentle. “Sorry you had to see that.”
I am, too. “Thanks. Also for what you did for Anthony the other day.”
I don’t bring up the Weavers by name, so I’m not surprised when Dennis says, “What did I do for him again?”
“You know.” I lower my voice as the line to get inside the refectory gets thicker and closer to where I’m standing off to the side. “The address.”
“Address? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dennis says. “I haven’t heard from Anthony in over a month.”
“Oh. Thanks anyway.” I hang up, unable to process the fact that Anthony lied about where he got the Weavers’ address. Brent and the guys have arrived, and he’s heading right for me.
“Everything okay?” Brent wraps his arm around my waist. “You looked upset on the phone.”
“It’s nothing. Just my mom.” My mouth doesn’t respond when Brent leans and presses his lips to mine. He pulls away, hurt flitting across his eyes before he tugs my hand toward the line. I can’t hear what he, Cole, and Murali are talking about over the sound of my own thoughts.
Brent may have left that photo for me.
Anthony definitely lied to me about how he got the Weavers’ address.
The Drop is tomorrow night, and unless I figure out who I can trust before then, it looks like I’ll be flying solo.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
It’s almost nine o’clock. There are little more than twenty-four hours until The Drop. To distract myself from going sick with worry, I’m making brownies with Remy, April, and Kelsey in the common-room kitchen. That’s when Brent calls.
“Come over,” he says.
I lick a stripe of batter off my finger and glance at the girls. They’re arguing over how to deal with the oven, which refuses to heat above three hundred degrees.
“That might be a tough sell,” I say. I don’t know if I’m talking about just the girls. The image of Isabella’s throat, cut and bloodied, is still fresh in my mind.
“Not them. Just you.”
I decide I can’t be neurotic about this. I haven’t doubted Brent’s intentions since we started dating, and I’m not going to make that mistake based on a coincidence. Thousands of people working in the media could have been able to access that leaked photo. “Okay.”
We hang up. “I’m going to hang out with Brent for a little while.”
None of them ask to come, since two-thirds of them hate our guy friends at the moment anyway. I sign out at the front desk since I’ll be back before eleven, the weekend curfew.
Brent is waiting for me in the lobby of Aldridge. A smile spreads across his face as he sees me through the window. I hold up my fingers and wiggle them at him.
Cole, Phil, and Murali barely look up from the TV when Brent and I get up to the suite. I thought Cole was still pissed at Phil, but I guess in guy world all arguments can be put on hold for the sake of Mario Kart.
They grunt hi as Brent and I go to his room. While Cole’s side of the room is all New England Patriots and Wheatley crew paraphernalia, Brent’s walls are mostly bare, as if he’s a guest in a hotel room. There’s a Led Zeppelin poster and a frame with pressed flowers inside. When I look more closely, I see that they’re four-leaf clovers.
“I used to collect them,” he says from behind me. I turn and kiss his cheek, shamelessly scoping out the rest of his room. We always hang out in mine, since I don’t have a roommate anymore. His bookshelf is what really catches my eye: It’s not the small school-issued one above the desk, but a real, proper bookshelf. I do a quick scan and spot Persepolis, The Hobbit, As I Lay Dying, and a Spanish dictionary.
“Quite an eclectic taste you’ve got,” I say.
He shrugs. “I try.”
I trace his freshly shaven face, my body warming at the realization he did it for me. Brent can’t be the one who left me that picture of Isabella. He’s the guy who gets embarrassed when I tease him about the time he and Cole watched Love Actually together. He’s the guy who will be a complete jackass in public if it means getting a laugh out of me.
I don’t know how he could go along with all of the messed-up things Casey Shepherd and the other guys are doing to the new recruits, but I know he’s not the mastermind. And even if he suspected all of the hazing rituals played a part in Matt Weaver’s death, he would tell me, right?
I don’t know who kisses who first, but we’re moving to his bed; his is made, Cole’s isn’t. Brent sits up, his back against his pillow, and I sit on his lap facing him. He kisses my neck, and when I kiss his earlobe his whole body contracts into mine.
“GODDAMNED SPIKED SHELL!” Murali screams from the living room.
Brent rolls his eyes and turns to the iPod dock on his nightstand. He chooses a U2 album and raises the volume.
“I always wanted to kiss a girl to this song,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s reversed and I’m the brown-eyed boy and you’re the blue-eyed girl.”
“Stop talking,” I say into his mouth.
His kiss is more urgent after that; his tongue finds mine, and I slide my hands up his shirt. He breaks away from me and takes his shirt off, holding my gaze the whole time. I trace his bare chest, letting the heat from his body linger on my fingertips.
I know where this is going the second his hands move up my back and rest on my bra clasp. “Is this okay?” he asks.
I lean into him again, this time gently tugging on his lower lip with my teeth until a shudder escapes his throat. “Seriously,” I say. “Stop talking.”
“Okay. I do that when I’m nervous.”
I laugh and let my hand move down his stomach, feeling the smooth skin and trail of hair below his bellybutton. “You? Nervous?”
He nods. “I mean, not that I haven’t thought about this. Because I have. A lot. It’s just, maybe your room is quieter.”
Is he saying he doesn’t really want to do this? I freeze. He’s never acted this nervous when we’ve hooked up before. Is this about what Casey Shepherd said in the tunnels? Does Brent feel pressured or something?
The frantic knock at the door makes us both jump. Brent curses at the sound of Cole’s voice.
“Let me in!”
“Busy!” Brent yells, his cheeks flooding with color.
“MAYDAY! Surprise room check!”
“Shit.” Brent scrambles into his jeans as I fumble for my shirt. “Shi
t shit shit.”
When I’m dressed, I follow Brent into the living room. Murali is pouring can after can of beer down the kitchen sink, and Phil is tearing down the photo of Kyle the guys use as a dartboard. On the other side of the room, Cole is turning around the giant tapestry with all of their beer-pong scores for the year written on it. The other side bears a giant Wheatley School crest.
The whole thing is very methodical, as if ridding the dorm of contraband is a science the guys have perfected.
“Should I go?” I ask Brent.
Brent swears underneath his breath. “I mean, you’re allowed to be here until eleven.…”
We both know there won’t be time to pick up where we left off, though.
“It’s okay.” I kiss him. He hooks a finger in the collar of my sweater when I try to pull away, kissing me deeper.
“Text me later.”
I don’t feel like waiting for the elevator, or worse, running into Sebastian in there. So I take the steps two at a time to the first floor. I have to sign out, or Brent will get in trouble for having a female visitor after curfew.
I freeze when I see a beefy man talking to the RA at the front desk.
Larry Tretter.
“Just make sure he picks it up in the morning,” he says to the RA.
I can’t just stand here, watching them, so I wait behind Tretter as he signs himself out. Since Isabella’s murder, protocol for entering and leaving the dorms has gotten stricter. Even teachers aren’t off the hook—especially since Isabella was sleeping with one of them.
Tretter finishes signing his name and turns around. He locks eyes with me.
“Hi,” he says.
It’s a totally uncomfortable hi—the type superawkward people use when they don’t recognize someone but don’t want to be rude about it.
I give Tretter a polite smile. Then he’s heading for the door.
I rush to sign myself out, scrawling “10:30” in the OUT box next to my name. I have no idea if it’s actually ten thirty, but weekend curfew is eleven, so I assume I’m close.
