Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  I’m willing to accept full responsibility for picking a fight with him. I was pissed he didn’t tell me he hooked up with Remy, and maybe if I’d stayed sober, we could have talked it out. And I probably shouldn’t have insulted his dad like that.

  But still, I never would have stooped as low as Brent did when he said I wasn’t over Isabella. He was one of the ones who helped me solve her murder—and now he’s just like everyone else who thinks I ruined his school’s precious legacy?

  “Anne, I know you’re in there.” Remy knocks again.

  I swallow. “I’m naked.”

  “Oh, come on. Let me in.”

  I slip into my bathrobe and open the door for her. I didn’t think it was possible to look worse than I did earlier, but Remy looks terrible. Her eye makeup has downgraded to raccoon-mask status, and she smells like booze.

  “You need to shower,” I say, as politely as I can.

  “I wanted to talk to you first.” She motions to sit on my bed. I lay my towel down first.

  “Are you mad at me?” Remy asks, her doe eyes not completely hidden behind last night’s mess of mascara. “When we got to the party, you were weird all of a sudden.”

  I can’t look at her, because all I see is her and Brent together. Doing things we did. Doing things we never got to do. “Remy, I know you and Brent hooked up earlier this year.”

  Remy’s mouth opens a little. “Is that why—?”

  “No, it’s not. We were about to break up anyway.” Tears build in my eyes as I realize how true that is. “But I’m upset neither of you told me.”

  “Anne, I swear, it was nothing; we were both just drunk at a Halloween party—”

  I hold up a hand. “I don’t want the details, Rem.”

  “I wanted you to like me so badly.” Remy has tears in her eyes, making me want to believe her. “It was so obvious you were into him, and I thought you wouldn’t want to be my friend if I told you.”

  “I’m not like that,” I say.

  “I know that now, but the more time went on, the less sense it made to tell you. You guys are like meant for each other. Everyone knows it. I didn’t want to screw that up over a stupid hookup.”

  I let her hug me. Some of the coldness in my chest begins to thaw. I can’t be mad at her for not wanting to hurt me. I didn’t tell Remy I broke into her room to find the video Alexis stole from Isabella, because I didn’t want to hurt her. Most of the time when we say we don’t want to hurt someone, we don’t want to screw ourselves in the process, but I guess you have to do whatever you can to get by.

  Remy wiggles her bare toes and tucks her feet beneath her. “Who … did tell you?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You should talk to Brent.” Remy drags out each word as if she’s still afraid I’m pissed and will tell her to stay out of it. “Maybe you can work through whatever happened.”

  I think of Brent’s face when I accused him of being like his father. “I doubt that, Rem.”

  * * *

  I sleep through the afternoon and until nine Sunday morning. The throbbing in my head is gone, but my body still feels wrecked. I make a cup of coffee—food is still too ambitious—put on my sunglasses, and walk to the pharmacy on Main Street. The photo I took from Shepherd’s office is in my bag. After I buy a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, I sit at the do-it-yourself photo kiosk.

  I choose “enlarge” from the machine’s photo-editing options. I put the picture facedown on the scanner and watch it load on the screen in front of me.

  Tears sting my eyes as the faces come into focus. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think it was Brent in the photo, not Mr. Conroy. The only thing that’s different is their hair. Brent has soft brown waves, while his father’s hair is dirty blond and cut close to his head.

  But I’m not here to cry over Brent. I do not cry over guys. I get over them. Even ones like Brent. No, especially ones like Brent.

  When the picture is done loading, I choose my new size: 10 × 12. I want to get a better look at the box on Matt Weaver’s desk. I swipe my credit card through the kiosk and wait for the picture to print.

  I keep checking my phone, forgetting that it’s not operational. And by not operational, I mean not even Gandalf the White could bring it back to life. I’ll have to wait until I feel better tomorrow to take the T into wherever the nearest Verizon store is.

  The kiosk announces my photo is ready. I don’t have to hold it close to my face to see the details now. The quality is still far from perfect, but I can determine two important things from the picture:

  The room is Matt Weaver’s dorm at Wheatley.

  The box on his desk has a padlock on it and the stamped initials M.L.W.

  * * *

  There are about a million places Matt Weaver’s lockbox could be, but at least now I know with a reasonable level of certainty what the key from his room opens. I don’t know if there’s anything inside the box that could be a clue to why he was killed. If the box didn’t have something important inside it, though, Matt wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of hiding the key so well. At least that’s what I have to believe.

  It’s dinnertime when I get back to campus, but I’m not ready to face Brent yet. Or Remy. I could sneak in and sit by myself, but it’ll be hard to go unnoticed with so many people still away from campus, milking the term after-party for all it’s worth.

  I notice him waiting on the bench outside of Amherst when I look up from getting my ID out of my wallet. He jumps up when he notices me, and I nearly drop my bag. My whole body warms when I see his face. He’s here. For me.

  Not Brent. Anthony.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask. I can’t let him see how I happy I am to see him. Not after the way we left things off.

  “I’ve been trying to call you since Friday night. I was worried…, but I also have to talk to you.”

  “Anthony—”

  “No, hear me out.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes and motions as if he’s going to put his hands on my shoulders, but he catches himself and puts them in the pocket of his hoodie. “I was a dick to you. Not just the other day, after the diner. Way before that. I should never have just left that night without explaining why I had to do what I did to my sister.” He runs his hands down his face. “I—I’m not good at this stuff. But I’ve been thinking, and I think I treated you like that because I wanted you to be pissed at me. Like making you mad would have been easier than letting you down.”

  “Anthony—”

  “No, there’s more. I don’t want to pretend I don’t give a shit what you think of me. Because I do. I don’t want to be the waste product you think I am. It’s all I think about lately.” His eyes are pleading, begging me to understand what he’s really saying. “You’re all I think about, and I can’t stop.”

  I can’t breathe. It’s not that I haven’t imagined him coming back and saying that to me. Part of me even wanted him to. Desperately.

  I step toward him, taking his face in my hands. “Then don’t.”

  He stares at me, stunned. “What…”

  “It’s over.” I’m choked up, as if saying it finally makes it true. “And before you ask, it’s not because of you. But you left me there that night, with Brent. You made the choice for me. I’m still pissed about it. And I’m probably stupid for forgiving you … so please just kiss me before I change my mind.”

  So he does. His lips are even better than I remember: smooth and full of heat. I keep holding his face, tracing the side of his jaw up to his sideburns. I run my fingers through his hair and pull as his tongue finds mine. His hands move to my lower back, pressing me into him.

  His lips move to my ear. “Are you sure you want this? Because I don’t know any other way to be around you.”

  Losing Brent is still raw, but this is definitely what I want. I’ve wanted it for longer than I admitted to myself. But the thrill of kissing Anthony again dulls the guilt flooding me. Seriously, not even an Adele album
can cover the range of emotions in me right now.

  And I can’t help but feel that this was supposed to happen. That the picture was supposed to lead me back to Anthony so we could finish what we started. So we could solve the case his great-uncle couldn’t. So we could help Mr. Weaver bury his son.

  Brent was wrong: It’s not that I can’t let Matt Weaver go. I just don’t want to.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-NINE

  Anthony and I lie facing each other on my bed. For the record, we’re fully clothed and have been since I brought him up here an hour ago. For once, he’s doing most of the talking. He wants me to know the truth about Isabella, he says. Not because he wants to speak ill of the dead, but because he thinks I should understand how different they really were and why he had to do some of the things he did.

  I trace the tattoo on his neck as he tells me things were different before his father got sick. Mr. Fernandez worked for a construction company in Boston. Their family used to drive to Hyannis every summer and rent a cabin. Anthony’s father liked to hunt, and he took Anthony all the time. Isabella would get jealous, so eventually they brought her along. Iz was the center of her father’s world, Anthony said.

  Isabella never had a lot of friends at public school: She was smarter than the other kids and didn’t have anything in common with them. The school wouldn’t let her skip ahead a grade, so her parents pulled extra shifts to send her to precollege programs at MIT. Isabella worked her ass off to get into the Wheatley School. That was the year her father was diagnosed with MS.

  That’s when she changed, Anthony said. He dealt with his father’s illness by getting angry and fighting anyone who looked at him the wrong way. Isabella went off to boarding school and rarely came home. Anthony thinks it was too difficult to see her father’s deteriorating condition.

  “I was in denial about her and the vice-principal.” Anthony’s eyes are on my ceiling. “My sister was too smart for that. But she needed someone. And we weren’t there for her.”

  “Why did you steal from her?” I whisper.

  Anthony faces me. “You’re going to think I’m an idiot.”

  I shake my head and take his hand. It’s warm, and he relaxes into me. I missed the way he smells up close—like hair gel, Eclipse spearmint gum, and a hint of motor oil.

  “Okay.” He sighs through his nose. “I’ve always been kind of good at poker…; my cousin taught me. I play every week with these guys at the firehouse. It’s how I met Dennis. Before he became a cop.”

  I nod. I never actually believed the first version—that Dennis is the older brother of one of Anthony’s friends from school.

  “So I started winning almost every week,” Anthony continues.

  “Sounds like you’re more than ‘kind of good,’” I say. “Were you counting cards?”

  “Jeez, can I finish my story? It’s almost impossible to count cards in poker.”

  “Okay, so maybe I don’t even know how to play poker.”

  A smile twitches at the corner of Anthony’s mouth. “So, a couple of the guys got pissed I was winning every week. But this guy Tank came up to me one night. Asked if I wanted in on a higher-stakes game.”

  “Sounds sketchy.”

  Anthony gives me a look. “Sorry,” I say. “Go on.”

  “The buy-in was a grand. Fifteen people. The winner would get ten grand,” Anthony explains. “I knew I had a shot at it. Or at least second place. Do you know how much that kind of money could have helped my family? I could have helped my mom with mortgage payments, or gotten someone to come take care of my dad.…”

  I run my thumb over his palm, feeling all of the ridges and hardened skin. I still can’t believe he’s here. “You asked Isabella for the money?”

  He nods. “I didn’t have the cash. Most of my paychecks went toward groceries, gas, and stuff. My mom was too caught up in her own shit to realize how much I was paying for. She’d kill me if she knew. Isabella didn’t even know. When I asked her for the money, she laughed in my face. So I took it. I lost it all in the tournament … the same night she was killed.”

  Anthony’s face is stony. All of the anger I’m used to seeing in his eyes isn’t there, though. He’s not the same person I met after his sister’s death. Or maybe he’s always been this person and I never looked closely enough.

  I don’t know what to say. I can never understand what Anthony’s been through—the responsibility of keeping his family afloat, the pain of losing his sister, and the crushing knowledge that his father is next.

  I’ve been so lucky by comparison. I’ve always had it all—popularity, friends, parents that would forgive me for just about anything—and I threw it all away by almost burning my old school down. I press my lips to Anthony’s cheek and whisper in his ear, “I’m never going to be good enough for you.”

  “Stop.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me, slowly, deeply. I let him.

  Being sent to Wheatley was my fault, but it was also my chance to do something right for once in my life. I thought that was getting justice for Isabella, but now I see that was just the beginning.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY

  Sunday morning, Anthony comes by to drive me to the Verizon store, but since I’m not the account holder, I have to wait for them to call my dad and get permission to give me a new phone. Apparently, being a dumbass and spilling Smirnoff on one’s phone is not covered by insurance.

  We decide to walk around on Boylston Street after, because I can’t stomach the thought of going back to campus. I update him on my weekend—leaving out the epically ugly breakup.

  “I can’t believe you were in Shepherd’s house.” Anthony shakes his head. “He’s the richest guy in Boston.”

  “Believe it, because I got a souvenir.” I hand him the photo I took from the office. Anthony peers at it. “Is that—”

  “Yeah, that’s Matt. But look closely at what’s on the desk.”

  Anthony and I stop at a crosswalk while he studies the picture. “M.L.W.… What’s Matt Weaver’s middle name?”

  I snatch the photo away from him. “Don’t you see? There’s a padlock on the box.”

  I watch Anthony’s face change as the gears turn in his head. “Oh…”

  “We’ve got to go back to the Weavers and see if they have that box.”

  The light changes. Anthony is parked across the street, and I start there with a new sense of purpose. He trails after me. “Anne, that box is more than thirty years old. Don Weaver looks like he has trouble finding his dentures every night. And if they’ve found it already, wouldn’t they have thought it might help the police? They left no stone unturned, remember?”

  “The stones they were allowed to touch, at least,” I murmur.

  Anthony studies my face. “You think the box could be somewhere on campus?”

  “Could be,” I say. “It was in his dorm room in that photo. In any case, we should find out if his parents have seen it before.”

  I go to check the screen of my phone, forgetting that it’s dead. Anthony smirks. “Time to get a watch.”

  I sigh. “What time is it?”

  Anthony glances at his wrist. “Early enough to make a detour.”

  * * *

  Joan Weaver is sitting in an Adirondack chair, facing her house. She looks up at the sound of a motorcycle approaching her curb. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat and garden gloves. There’s a stack of weeds next to her chair.

  Unlike last time, she doesn’t smile when she sees us. In fact, she looks like she’s been expecting us. I almost lose my nerve as Anthony presses a hand to my back, guiding me toward her.

  “Hi, Mrs. Weaver,” he says, as if sensing my hesitation. “I hope we’re not intruding.”

  Joan gives me a look that cuts right through me. “Did you need more for that newspaper article on Matty?”

  Anthony’s hand moves down my back reassuringly. Lie.

  “Mrs. Weaver…, I was hoping we could ask you a few question
s,” I say, “not for the paper.”

  Anthony stiffens beside me as Joan takes off her gloves. “You never were writing an article on him, were you?”

  “I’m so sorry I lied to you.” Pressure builds behind my eyes. “But I think I can help you and your husband find out what really happened—”

  “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that over the years?” She doesn’t sound angry. Just tired, which makes me feel worse.

  Anthony slips his hand in mine as Joan turns toward her house.

  “Wait.” I step away from Anthony, searching my bag. “I need to show you something.”

  Joan faces me, her mouth settling into a line. Before she can decide it’s not worth it to humor me, I show her the photograph I enlarged yesterday morning.

  “Have you seen this box before?”

  Joan peers at the photo, silent. The look of sadness on her face tells me she couldn’t care less about the box. Her wrinkled thumb moves over her son’s face. She swallows and hands the photo back to me.

  “Please, Mrs. Weaver. Do you have this box?”

  She shakes her head. “He kept his important things in there. Baseball cards, his coin collection. We never found it in his room. Figured he brought it to school and it got lost in the shuffle.”

  Or someone stole it.

  Joan Weaver retreats into her house without saying good-bye to us. I want to kick something.

  “Excuse me.”

  Anthony looks to our right, and I realize the voice is coming from next door. The woman there has a hose at her side, trickling water onto the driveway. She waves us over.

  I look at Anthony, who shrugs. We walk to the street, then up the woman’s driveway. She’s in jean shorts and a sweatshirt, her hair tied back with a bandana. She looks like she’s in her late thirties.

  “Couldn’t help but listen to you guys,” she says. “You know, Joan and Don don’t really like people coming around about Matty.”

  “We gathered that,” Anthony grunts. I jab him in the ribs.