by Kara Taylor
She’s sitting on a nearby bench, her back to me. By now, I’d recognize that three-tone blond hair anywhere. I talk myself out of turning around, and suck in a breath before sitting next to her.
“Hi, Alexis.”
She doesn’t look at me. “You showed up.”
“Please drop the CIA movie script. I hope you’re not wasting my time.” I can’t help my escalating level of annoyance now that I know I came all the way out here for Alexis Westbrook. I don’t believe that she has proof of what happened to Matt Weaver, and I’m nervous about what sort of payback she’s plotting.
“I’ll leave, if you want.” Alexis’s voice is calm. “I can also make a call to the Wheatley School and let them know you’ve been harassing me about a thirty-year-old case my father had nothing to do with.”
I’m silent. She has me where she wants me, and I hate her for it. But what does she want from me? To screw up my life as bad as I’ve screwed up hers? “One phone call isn’t harassing, Alexis.”
“Trust me, Goddard won’t agree. He’s dying to expel you, but he’s waiting until Dr. Harrow’s trial is over so he can do it quietly,” Alexis says.
I’m not surprised at this, but it still brings an acrid taste to my mouth. “Yeah, well, I bet you’re all sorry Harrow didn’t kill me, too, then.”
“Shut up.”
I don’t know what I expected her to say, but it wasn’t that.
“My father had nothing to do with Isabella,” Alexis hisses. “Dr. Harrow manipulated him and destroyed our lives. None of us knew he killed Isabella, so if you’re going to keep flinging accusations around, at least get your story straight.”
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “You think I want to accuse your dad of killing Matt Weaver?”
Alexis opens her mouth slightly, sticking her jaw out and making her I can’t believe I have to deal with you face. “Matt Weaver’s been gone for over thirty years. Why are you interested in him all of a sudden?”
“Why do you think I’ll tell you that?”
An annoyed sigh escapes Alexis’s nose. Her eyes are angry slits. All she needs is a ring through her nose to look like a bull. She motions, and I think she’s getting up to leave. Instead, she pulls a manila envelope from the Vera Bradley bag next to her.
“My dad and his friends … they were all cleared. They were never even suspects,” she says. “But if you’re going to cause problems, you should know the truth, at least.”
I raise an eyebrow, but I have to admit I’m curious now. “And what’s that?”
Alexis hands me the manila folder. “No one killed Matt Weaver. He killed himself.”
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
I don’t trust people easily. It’s yet another trait I can blame on my dad, who listens to criminals and their bullshit all day. But Alexis Westbrook also tried to frame me for Isabella’s murder and succeeded in breaking up Brent and me, so I trust her as much as I’d trust a pit bull if I’d just rolled around on top of raw meat.
The manila folder in my hands is clean, with a string tied tidily around the circle fastener. It reminds me of Alexis, actually. Neat and perfect on the outside. Probably vile and dirty inside. “What’s in here?” I ask.
“When you called me, I started looking for proof my dad was even friends with the dead townie.”
That’s Alexis for you. Such a beautiful way with words.
“I found these in the attic of my old house. They were in a box of my mom’s things.” Alexis’s sapphire eyes are actually glassy. I didn’t know she had working tear ducts. She looks away from me.
Carefully, I untie the fastener and look inside the envelope. It’s like one of those little Russian dolls: There are about twenty more envelopes inside. I look over at Alexis, who nods.
I take one of the yellowed envelopes out and peek inside. There’s a folded letter on loose-leaf paper torn from a spiral notebook. The handwriting is dark and slanted. On the outside of the envelope, someone has scrawled Cyn.
“Your mom.”
Alexis nods. I scan the letter quickly, noticing words like I hate myself and I don’t deserve to live. At the bottom, he signed his name: Matt.
I’m scanning back up to the line I never meant to hurt Vanessa like I did, when Alexis snatches the letters out of my hand.
“Hey. That’s evidence,” I say.
“Of what? There’s no crime if he killed himself. And no body.” Alexis puts the envelopes back in the folder, delicately.
“You can’t prove it was suicide if you don’t turn the letters over,” I say.
“Relax. I made you copies.” Alexis hands me a stack of letters.
“This is manipulating evidence,” I say. “How do I know you’re not holding back ones that mention your dad?”
“Stop with the lawyer garbage.” Alexis rolls her eyes. “None of them mention my dad. He didn’t even date my mom in high school.”
Alexis interrupts me before I can begin reading the letters. “You’re so convinced my dad is the bad guy here. Why don’t you ask your boyfriend where his dad was when Matt Weaver groped my godmother while she was passed out drunk?”
I feel as if she’s punched me. Casey Shepherd’s words to Brent come back to me:
Or do you prefer to sit back and watch? I heard your dad was into some freaky shit like that in his day.
Oh my God.
“Face it,” Alexis continues. “Just like your roommate, your darling little friends aren’t who they think they are.”
“Because you’re so perfect yourself,” I mutter.
“I’ve spent my entire life acting like some trained pony for my father to show off. Why shouldn’t I be allowed to be a normal human being and vent a little bit?” She spits. “I didn’t even mean the things I said.”
“It sounded like you did. Or else you should be up for an Oscar.”
“Don’t act so high and mighty, Anne. Like you’ve never said something you wish you could take back?”
Her accusation isn’t pointed—there’s no way she could know what I said about Cole’s mother earlier—but it still cuts right through me.
“What do you expect me to do with these letters?” I ask.
Alexis gives a small shrug. “Be convinced. If you’re not, things are going to get really difficult for you.”
Her warning is clear: Leave her family alone. Again. This time, something tells me to heed the warning. Alexis picks up her bag and gives me a look that says she hopes she never has to see me again.
* * *
All I want to do is read the letters when I get back to campus, but I’m starving, so I swing by the refectory and make a salad to go. I check my phone for any updates from Anthony, even though I know it’ll be a few days before he can figure out the best time for us to dig up Matt Weaver’s box.
I dodge all of the usual suspects on the way back to my room, sharing an elevator with two chatty underclassmen who freeze up when they see me. I wonder what their problem is, until I see the heart-shaped birthmark on the shorter girl’s chin. These are the two sophomores I bitched out when I heard one complaining about not getting a day off after Isabella’s murder.
I don’t look back at them when I get off at my floor, despite the angry memories the shorter girl’s face brings back. When I get back to my room, I suddenly feel so exhausted I could puke. I lie on my back and let myself imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t gone to the party the night Isabella was killed. If I’d caught her sneaking out to meet Harrow, maybe she would have told me what was going on and I could have convinced her to stay. She could be lying on her stomach on her bed right now, reading the book she never got to finish.
I would never have met Anthony. I would never have found the picture of Matt Weaver, and maybe my life would have some shade of normality to it right now. I would still be the Trust Fund Fuckup from Manhattan whose daddy got her out of trouble and into the best prep school on the East Coast.
But because my roomma
te was murdered and I shot her killer in the leg, I’m the hero.
So why don’t I feel like one?
I curl on my side with the letters Alexis gave me.
“He killed himself.” I whisper it, trying the idea out. Why would he do it? Over his guilt that he assaulted Vanessa? Over the pressure of being on the team?
Matt Weaver committing suicide doesn’t seem to fit. Or maybe I just don’t want it to, because it means I broke up with Brent and alienated most of my friends for nothing. For an awful boy who molested a girl while she was drunk.
I read the first letter.
Cyn,
I wanted to talk to you about the other night but it seems like he’s always watching you. I don’t like it. I don’t think he’s good enough for you, and I know he’s hurt you before. I want you to know I’m not like him. You know I’m not and I would never hurt you. Please believe me about what happened with Vanessa. I never wanted things to be like this. I wish I’d never even met any of them and you and I could still be friends like we used to.
Matt
PS: Please don’t tell him about this.
I trace the words I don’t think he’s good enough for you. Travis Shepherd, no doubt. From the paranoid postscript, it sounds as if Matt was afraid of him. It doesn’t exactly fit Pat Carroll’s story that Matt followed Travis around like a puppy … but then again, maybe something changed and Matt saw the real Travis.
I read through the rest of the letters, searching for an answer as to why Matt hated himself. He doesn’t give one. He begs Cynthia to forgive him in a way that makes me think he’s apologizing for more than whatever he did to Vanessa.
The last letter is the one Alexis showed me. The one she thinks proves Matt killed himself.
Cyn,
This can’t be the only way you’ll talk to me now. I watched you the whole time in class today hoping you’d look at me, but you never did. You hate me and I don’t blame you. I hate me. I hate who they’ve turned me into. I hate myself so much sometimes I feel like I don’t deserve to live. I need you to see all of them for who they really are. They made me like this. Pierce was the one who got Vanessa wasted and let her into Aldridge. He told me she wanted me to do all that stuff. You’ve heard the rumors about him, and Travis is even worse. There’s so much I need to tell you.
Matt
I get up from my bed and walk to the window. I have to lean against the ledge, hang my head to stop the blood from rushing to it. Pierce Conroy was there. Brent’s dad was there, and watched as Matt hurt Vanessa.
THEY KILLED HIM.
I’ve never been surer of it. Matt Weaver didn’t kill himself: Someone killed him to shut him up. To stop him from telling Cynthia whatever he wanted to tell her in his last letter. There’s so much I need to tell you. Did he ever get the chance, or did they get to him first?
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
I haven’t started my Latin project due tomorrow, my life is going down the crapper, but I really start to cry when my hair straightener breaks on Monday morning.
Sometimes it’s the little things that set you off. In any case, I’m about two seconds away from completely losing my shit, which only sucks more, considering I’m five hours away from everyone I love and trust.
I crawl into fetal position on my bed. Breathe, Anne. Probably, the wise thing to do would be to go to Student Support Services and say, “Hi, I’m losing my shit.” But I know what Student Support Services does to people acting like I am. People like Molly, Isabella’s friend. I think danger to herself is the phrase Dr. Harrow used to describe her. Anyway, Molly doesn’t go to the Wheatley School anymore, and the last I heard, she was in a psychiatric rehabilitation facility in Rhode Island.
I can’t trust anyone at this school.
Except for maybe one person.
* * *
Classes don’t start for another forty minutes, but Ms. C is in her office, like I expected. I peek in and see her eating a bowl of cereal at her desk, and for half a second I entertain the notion that maybe she lives here.
Ms. C looks wiped, her chin propped up on the hand she’s not using to eat with. I almost decide to leave her alone and turn around, but she sees me and smiles a little. “Hey. You’re up early.”
I enter her office and sit across from her. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulder, and she has no makeup on. Tired lines crease her eyelids.
I’m dedicated to telling her in a calm and mature manner that I need an extension on the project, but what comes out of my mouth is a serious of sobs and honks punctuated by “I. Can’t. Do. This.”
Ms. C says my name a couple of times and picks up her chair. She plants it next to me and rubs my back. “Is this about the project?”
I nod, wiping my eyes. “Yes. No. Kind of.”
“Are you stressed out?” Ms. C asks. “This is a rough time of year, with your class workload plus the SATs and everything.”
“Yeah.” My normal voice is returning. “I guess that’s it.”
“Take until next week for the project.” Ms. C pats my knee. She’s wearing one of those Irish rings with the heart and the crown that’s supposed to tell whether you’re single or not, depending on which way you wear it. Chelsea and I have matching ones, which we bought together from the market at Union Square. My stomach ties itself into a knot.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
Ms. C cocks her head and watches me, as if she’s curious why I don’t sound more relieved. “Anne, is there something else going on?”
I stare at my lap, watching the plaid on my skirt blur into zigzag through my tears. It’s easier than looking at her face and sensing whether or not she sees right through me.
“Anne, you can tell me.”
I look up at Ms. C. “Have you ever thought you knew someone … like really knew them in a way no one else did … and then they turned out to be not who you thought they were?”
Maybe I’m imagining it, but Ms. C tenses up. Her eyes probe mine with suspicion, almost as if she knows what I’ve been up to. But there’s something else behind them: fear. As if I’ve totally scared the crap out of her. I sometimes have that effect on people.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she says. “Is this about you and Brent Conroy?”
His name still makes me feel destroyed inside, but I’m also surprised Ms. C sounds like she knows we broke up. “You know about that?”
“We know everything around here.” Ms. C says it with a smile, like she’s trying to be funny, but it totally creeps me out. Even though I’m really counting on the fact that Goddard doesn’t know everything.
I hesitate. “It’s just … I’m hearing all this stuff. Rumors about things Brent’s dad did when he went to school here.”
“What kind of stuff?”
I shoot a glance at the door and lower my voice. “Do you think … back then … if a girl—a student—was raped, she wouldn’t say anything about it?”
Ms. C gets up and closes her office door. She’s quiet for a minute before she says, “Anne, that happens now, everywhere, and girls still don’t say anything.”
I think of Isabella and how she did say something when Lee was stalking her. A lot of good that did. I guess my face gives away what I’m thinking, because Ms. C puts a hand on the armrest of my chair.
“Dou you need to tell me something? Because I can help you. I’ll keep it between us until—”
“No, it’s not like that,” I say. “There was a girl named Vanessa Reardon. This guy … did stuff to her when she was drunk, and the school didn’t do anything about it. It just reminds me of what happened to my roommate.”
Ms. C’s mouth forms a line. I don’t need to tell her who my roommate was. “You mean … your roommate’s relationship with Dr. Harrow?”
I swallow away the sick feeling in my throat. For the first time, I need to tell someone Isabella’s story. Not the one everyone thinks they know. The one that Goddard doesn’t want anyone to know.
>
Ms. C hands me a room-temperature water bottle, and I tell her about Lee Andersen. I tell her everything, from his painting and the obsessive notes to the way Isabella had to switch her schedule around to avoid him. I tell her that Harrow knew Lee was stalking Isabella, because she told him—she trusted him—and instead of protecting her, Harrow bugged Goddard’s office and got him on tape telling Professor Upton to deal with Lee discreetly.
“I had the tape, but Harrow stole it back and got rid of it before he was arrested,” I say. “Now no one will ever know that Lee is a creep and may be dangerous. I mean, what if he finds a new Isabella and hurts her this time?”
Something blazes in Ms. C’s eyes. If she’s anything like me, she’s angry thinking about how Lee will never have to take the consequences for making a girl’s life a living hell. All because of who his father is. “Did you tell this to the police?” Ms. C asks.
“Of course. They never found the tape. I just don’t know why Harrow wouldn’t go public with it. He could have taken Goddard down with him.”
Ms. C squeezes the pencil in her hand so hard her knuckles turn white.
“This other girl … Vanessa…”
“Reardon,” I say.
“Reardon. Do you know for sure she was assaulted by another student?”
“I think so.” I shut my eyes. “It’s just that … if someone you lo—, cared about, if their dad was maybe involved in something horrible, you’d want to know it wasn’t true, right?”
I don’t know if Ms. C knows I’m talking about Brent, but her face softens. “I’d hope it wasn’t true,” she says gently.
The area behind my eyes tightens. “I need it not to be true.”
“I’m glad you came to me, Anne,” Ms. C finally says. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I promise I’ll try.”
“Thanks,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop owing her for everything she’s done for me. Guilt claws at me as I get up to leave. It’s not fair of me, leaving out that this whole thing is about Matt Weaver. If she knew, would she be so quick to help?
