Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  “So that was it?” I ask after a moment. “Case closed?”

  Pat clears his throat. “We were understaffed and overworked back then. Too many other active cases, and the Weaver one had no real leads or suspects. I never stopped working on it, but the more involved I got, the more I magically found new cases popping up on my desk.”

  Pat sets his fork down on his plate with a clatter, his expression clouding over. “In the early nineties, people started losing their heads over rumors that satanism was involved. Same time as the witch hunts for teachers abusing kids. I used it as a guise to look at the guys again. That’s when the captain offered me two options: Take a generous retirement incentive or get transferred to Roxbury.”

  “They wanted you to back off,” I whisper.

  It takes him a minute or two to respond. “Thirty years on the force, and that’s how they chose to get rid of me. By paying me off. I shouldn’t have gone down without a fight.”

  So that’s what Anthony meant about his uncle regretting how he handled the Weaver case. The security guard’s statement was his white rabbit, and it wound up becoming his downfall.

  With a chill, I wonder if the photograph will be mine.

  “Hey,” Pat says, as Anthony and I are about to leave. He’s talking to me. “Whatever it is you’re looking for with this case, I hope it’s not a happy ending.”

  * * *

  Anthony is quiet until we’re out of the diner. “So do you think any of what he said is connected to The Drop?”

  I shake off memories of the other night. The betrayal in Brent’s eyes. The sound of the recruits hitting the water. I describe what I saw to Anthony.

  “He couldn’t have been killed that way, though,” I say. “It’s dangerous, but it’s only for new recruits. If Matt’s first year on the team was his sophomore year, then he would have done The Drop before he disappeared.”

  When I’m finished, Anthony looks angry.

  “What?” I cross my bare arms in front of my chest.

  “They caught you? How could you be so careless? You should have let me come with you.”

  “Because it would have been so much better if they caught both of us,” I say.

  “Why?” Anthony snaps. “Afraid of what your boyfriend will do if he catches you with me?”

  I’m stunned. Anthony shakes his head. “Don’t think I don’t know why you’ve been avoiding my calls.”

  “That’s not it,” I hiss. “You lied to me. I didn’t know if I could trust you.”

  “Then prove it.” Anthony thrusts his helmet at me. “Let me drive you back to campus. And drop you off right in front of your dorm.”

  I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Exactly,” he says. “I’m tired of being your dirty secret, babe.”

  “Babe? You should know why I can’t parade you in front of him,” I explode.

  “No, I don’t. Enlighten me.” Anthony takes a step toward me, and I’m terrified by the look on his face, because it’s the same one he had the first time he kissed me. Even worse, I can’t convince myself to back away from him.

  But he stops short, inches from me. “I’m over this. Maybe you should wait to call me until you are, too.”

  Before I can respond, he’s on his bike, tearing away from me. Pressure builds behind my eyes, and a phantom sensation comes over my lips. Almost as if I still feel his on mine from so long ago. I want to kick myself for not being quicker, smarter with him and letting him have the last word. Again.

  The worst part is he’s right: I’m not over what happened between us.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SIX

  Brent, Cole, and Casey Shepherd leading the men’s 8 team to victory Saturday morning only lasts a day or two as a water-cooler topic: The spring formal is on Friday night, and everyone is buzzing about that. Apparently some freshman’s parents own the Park Plaza Hotel in Boston, and they agreed to let Wheatley have the dance there as long as no one disturbs the wedding going on in the ballroom next door.

  Anyway, what everyone is really freaking out about is Goddard’s new decree that anyone planning not to return to campus after the formal needs written permission from their parents. Also, we have to sign a form saying we promise not to get drunk, high, naked, or some combination thereof and wreak havoc on the city of Boston.

  Most of my friends convince their parents that Casey Shepherd is having a small, G-rated get-together on the Cape. My mom even agrees to write me a note allowing me to go, as long as I don’t tell my dad. But it’s Kelsey’s parents who take issue with April driving us to the Cape in her mom’s SUV.

  “Does she think I’m a bad driver or something?” April asks, stabbing her potatoes a little too manically at dinner Monday night.

  Everyone looks at one another.

  “Whatever.” April slams her fork down. “I only failed the road test the first time because the lady hated me for no reason.”

  “What were your excuses the other two times?” Murali mutters into his soda.

  “Hey,” Brent says, as April growls at him to shut up, “we can’t all fit in Apes’s car anyway. I’ll borrow my sister’s car for the weekend and drive half of us. Kelsey can come with me.”

  And that’s how that gets settled.

  I am not buzzing with excitement, however. Everything that happened with Anthony has left me in a permanently foul mood, and Brent’s intense practice schedule has left little time for us to get past the weirdness of The Drop debacle. As a distraction, I throw myself into full-on Weaver mode.

  In my downtime Wednesday night, I pull out the notebook in which I have the crew team picture and Matt Weaver’s key hidden. I think about Pat’s story about the security guard’s version of the night Matt disappeared.

  Three voices. But four guys in the basement, allegedly. What if Matt were the phantom fourth guy? The woman said she saw him go into the woods around the same time. He could have met up with the guys who were playing poker, then left to meet his doom. The only question is Which of the guys was waiting for Matt in the woods? And why would the others lie to cover for him?

  I wish I had access to the official statements Matt’s friends gave about that night, but I have a feeling they were “lost” when the police department switched to digital records. How else could Steven Westbrook run for senator twice without any of his opponents digging up the connection between the hazing charges and Matt Weaver’s disappearance? Unless he’s paying people to be quiet—which isn’t exactly a stretch, considering his record.

  But even if Westbrook paid someone to make sure his adventures at Wheatley never came out, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s capable of murder. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever believed the senator had it in him to kill someone. He certainly would have had the motive to kill both Dr. Harrow and Isabella, who were trying to blackmail his family.

  I pull up a picture of Steven Westbrook on Google, trying not look at one of the most popular hits: the picture of him and Alexis at Cynthia’s funeral. In his latest campaign photo, he looks exactly as he does in person. Bleached teeth, overstretched smile. Milky brown eyes and blond hair. Golden tan that probably came out of a hose.

  As fake as he looks, there’s also a wimpiness to the way he carries himself. As if he’s someone else’s puppet—which I guess is the same for all politicians, if you think about it. I bet he never imagined he was involving himself in a murder investigation when he paid James Harrow not to go public about his affair.

  Travis Shepherd was right. Westbrook doesn’t have the balls.

  My brain is about to shut down from information overload. None of these theories accounts for Sonia Russo’s disappearance or the mysterious Vanessa Reardon.

  And my only link to Vanessa Reardon is not going to be a willing participant in this investigation.

  I reach for my phone. My throat is suddenly dry. Calling Alexis can end one of two ways: with her telling me to eff-off and hanging up, or with her not answering at all.


  With trembling hands, I scroll to find her number. I almost drop my phone when it starts to vibrate with an incoming call.

  “Hey,” I say to Brent, over the sound of my heart thumping.

  “What does your dress look like?” he asks.

  “Why? You don’t want to get the same one?”

  “Ha-ha. I’d like to match my tie, so we don’t look stupid.”

  I glance over at the dress draped across my bed. It’s silver, with long sleeves and a low back. I ordered it online because I’m basically a shell of my former self. “Go with black.”

  “I’m intrigued,” he says. “Okay, gotta finish this physics lab. Love you.”

  He hangs up before I can process the last two words. Or respond. I sit back in my chair, using my feet to spin myself in little half circles. I can’t help the smile blooming on my face. As if I didn’t have a million other things to obsess over, now I’ll be overanalyzing the last sixty seconds for the rest of the night. Did he hang up because he was afraid I wouldn’t say it back? Or does the fact he said “Love you” and not “I love you” make it not that big of a deal?

  But most importantly, does it mean we’re okay now?

  Suddenly, I wish he hadn’t hung up. I wish I had the chance to say it back. To cling to this good thing, which sometimes feels like the only good thing I haven’t screwed up completely yet.

  I’ve spent too much time obsessing about Anthony. Wondering what could have been. Holding on to something that never existed, when I have the real thing right in front of me. Brent, a boy who cares what color dress I’m wearing and loves when I tease him and pushes all of my buttons in the best possible way.

  I can’t let our relationship be the thing my white rabbit destroys.

  I breathe in through my nose and try to distract myself by starting my reading for Matthews’s class. Halfway down the page, my eyes go to my phone again.

  Instead of calling Brent back, I dial Alexis’s number.

  It rings once, twice, then two more times before I sigh with relief.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Alexis. I’m unavailable at the moment. Please leave a message, and I will be happy to call you back.”

  I wonder if her father’s speechwriter scripted that little bit for her. In any case, I doubt Alexis will be happy to call me back, so I hang up before the voice mail beeps.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Remy opens her bedroom door and squeals when she sees me. “Get out! I love it!”

  She lets me in and makes me do a twirl for April and Kelsey, who are sitting on Remy’s bed. I catch a look at myself in the closet mirror. The dress does fit great. The material is shimmery without being tacky, and the back is just low enough to prevent me from getting kicked out for indecency. I did my own hair—a high bun—and chose a pair of dangly rhinestone earrings I borrowed from my mom.

  April and Kelsey get up and coo over my dress. They’re both in black: April’s dress is short and one-sleeved, and Kelsey’s is strapless and long. Remy’s is blush-colored and down to her feet. The sweetheart neck is made of lace, and her hair is in the braided chignon she wanted. She looks like a woodland fairy.

  We all do the last-minute primping thing and make sure our bags are packed for the Cape. A shuttle will take us from school to the formal, where April’s parents and Brent’s sister will have dropped the cars off. We’ll leave our stuff in there and head straight to Casey’s house from the dance.

  I wiggle my toes in my pewter heels. I made a promise to myself to have fun at the dance and not obsess over what I might find at the Shepherds’ house until later.

  * * *

  The DJ sucks, the hotel ballroom is about a hundred degrees, and Remy’s Enchanted Forest theme is more like Central Park Crack Den, but I’m having an amazing time. Brent actually likes to dance, and my friends seemed to have forgotten the petty drama of who was going to the dance with whom, now that we’re here and that doesn’t even matter anymore.

  I take my shoes off and step on Brent’s feet. He spins us around a few times before we collapse in laughter over the awful techno. “This is serious fist-pumping music.”

  He pulls me to him and kisses me, despite the fact everyone can see us. I shiver as his gaze travels down the front of my dress and he traces the small of my back with his thumb.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask.

  “Things. I’ll tell you about them later.” Brent grins at me, showing off his slightly uneven two front teeth. During pictures earlier, he told me how he chipped his tooth—falling off a bike when he was little. He got it fixed, then broke the bond again on a beer bottle when he was drunk last year.

  “Be right back,” he says.

  Cole and Murali come over and start doing some awful dance, like they’re in a Saturday Night Live skit. I laugh, because at least they realize how lame this all is. From the corner of my eye, I see Brent approach the DJ. The DJ looks skeptical as Brent gestures with his hands, clearly trying to make his argument more convincing.

  Brent heads back toward us, looking pleased with himself. I figure out why when the DJ fades the techno song out and starts Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl.” Everyone on the floor stops dancing. They look around, confused, before shrugging and finding someone to spin around to the music.

  “This is for you,” Brent shouts over the music. His smile is so big it looks like it’s going to split his face in half. I laugh and grab him. Next to us, Murali and April are trying to show Cole and Kelsey how to swing dance.

  As Brent spins me around, it hits me. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Not happy as if I haven’t known happiness before, but as if I never knew it could be like this. That I could feel like this with another person. I’m searching for the words to tell Brent this when my clutch purse begins to vibrate.

  It has to be after ten. Who would call me this late? I ignore it and keep dancing with Brent. When the song is over, I break away.

  “I have to run to the bathroom,” I tell him. “Dance with Remy. She looks bummed.”

  We glance over at Rem, who is halfheartedly swaying with Phil. She’s watching Cole and Kelsey, like a puppy who didn’t want her toy until another dog ran off with it in its mouth.

  Brent rolls his eyes and heads over to them while I search for a bathroom. On the way, I check my missed call.

  It’s from Alexis.

  I hurry into the bathroom, past a freshman who is vomiting into one of the sinks. Her friend pats her back.

  I pause and watch them. “Really?”

  The girl’s friend shrugs at me. “We snuck vodka in.… Do you think she’ll be okay?”

  “Get her water,” I say. “There’s a vending machine in the lobby.”

  The girl nods and leaves. I lock myself in one of the stalls, hoping Pukey out there is too wasted to eavesdrop.

  Please pick up, Alexis, please pick up.

  She does, after the second ring. “Who is this?”

  “Alexis?”

  There’s silence on her end. Does she recognize my voice?

  “Yes.… Who is this?”

  “Don’t get mad,” I say. “Or hang up. I really have to talk to you. It’s important.”

  More silence, but I can practically hear her putting the pieces together. “Anne?”

  “Yes.” I squeeze my eyes shut as she hisses, “Are you freaking kidding me? How did you get this number?”

  “That’s not important. Please, just listen to me!”

  “About what? How you ran me out of my school and ruined my father’s life?”

  I decide it won’t help me to point out that her father ruined his own life. “I know you hate me. And you have every reason to. But I think your dad might be in trouble. Do you know someone named Vanessa Reardon?”

  Alexis is silent. “What does my dad have to do with my godmother?”

  “Don’t flip out at me … but I think your dad knows what happened to Matt Weaver. Your godmother, too.”

  “Matt Weaver?�
� Alexis lets out a sharp laugh. “You’re really something else, aren’t you?”

  “Alexis. Come on. I’m trying to explain.” My hands are sweating. “Someone might try to frame your dad for Matt Weaver’s death. Possibly the same person that scared your godmother into leaving Massachusetts.”

  Alexis is silent. She knows, then, that Vanessa is running from something. Or someone.

  “It’s true, then, right? Vanessa is afraid of them? The crew team.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alexis snaps. “If you call or come anywhere near me again I’m calling a lawyer.”

  Crap. I’m losing her. “Alexis, I never meant for you to—”

  “Spare me,” she seethes. “Have fun with your new friends. I can only hope they stab you in the back just like they did to me.”

  I swallow. My throat is dry. “I—”

  “I’m hanging up now, Anne. And one more thing: How does it feel to be screwing Remy’s sloppy seconds?”

  The call ends just as the phone is about to fall out of my hand. I tear off a sheet of toilet paper and dry my palms. There’s a horrible taste in my mouth. I’m suddenly aware of how small the stall is, how bad the bathroom smells.…

  I stumble out of there, managing not to throw up everywhere. My head is spinning in circles.

  Remy. Brent. What? That’s impossible.

  They would have told me.

  I hang in the hallway outside the ballroom and apply more rosebud salve. I think of happy things, like my dachshund, Abby, licking my nose, in the hopes it will lower my blood pressure. I can’t fall for what is probably one of Alexis’s bitchcraft tactics. She’s lied about Brent before, and she probably lied about Brent and Remy to mess with my head and screw up my night.

  I march back into the ballroom, committed to acting like nothing is wrong. But then I see them dancing.

  Remy whispering something in his ear.

  Brent laughing.

  I’m not going to let myself cry. I worked too damn hard on my eye makeup.

  * * *

  There’s a lump at the back of my throat the whole drive to Cape Cod. I’m in the front seat of Brent’s sister’s Jeep Wrangler. Cole, Kelsey, and Murali are in the back, laughing and recapping the night’s events as if they happened a week ago. I stare out the window onto Route 6, counting the lights passing us.