Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

“Swing a leg over the top now,” Anthony says.

  “But I’m wearing a dress.”

  “Anne. Seeing what kind of underwear you’re wearing is the last thing on my mind right now.”

  I don’t point this out, but he kind of implied it’s one of the things on his mind, at least. I swing a leg over and let myself do a little roll-fall into Anthony’s arms. He sets me down and picks up the shovel.

  We survey the backyard together, although it seems as if Anthony has already scoped it out from this angle. He points to the garden extending from the patio to the far corner of the fence.

  I inch closer to it, examining the plants. The fence is lined with bushes covered in delicate yellow flowers shaped like four-pointed stars. “Forsythia,” I whisper. “Perennial. Not a good place to bury something.”

  Anthony raises an eyebrow at me.

  “My mom is the editor of a garden magazine,” I explain.

  Anthony’s eyes sweep across the garden. He kneels down and cups a handful of dark brown wood chips in his hands. I kneel down beside him, examining the pansies planted in a row. I run my hand over the wood chips, exposing a few rocks arranged in a circle.

  “Check this out.” Anthony reaches for one of the rocks. Someone has painted the name JINGLES on its smooth, tan surface.

  Anthony and I look at each other. He stands up and plants the head of the shovel in the garden. A whimper catches in my throat. I can’t believe we’re doing this.

  “It’s okay.” Anthony steps on the base of the shovel and tosses a pile of dirt and wood chips aside. “Why don’t you keep watch, make sure no one pulls into the driveway?”

  I know he’s just trying to get me out of his hair so he can focus on digging, but I nod and walk the perimeter of the backyard. I try to peek over the fence and into the yard of the house on the other side—at the same moment a screen door slams on the porch.

  I press myself against the fence. Anthony looks over at me, frozen.

  I don’t breathe as the sound of jingling metal comes toward me. A dog collar.

  Anthony presses a finger to his lips and keeps digging. I nod and stay still against the fence. I look down at my feet to see a black nose peeking out from the space between the fence and the ground.

  The dog sniffs my feet. And barks.

  I look over at Anthony, who mouths, Don’t move. He drops the shovel and gets on his knees, clawing at the ground. He found something.

  The dog barks at me again. “Nice puppy,” I whisper. “Nice, nice puppy.”

  The nose disappears from under the fence, followed by a howl. I run over to Anthony.

  “Now might be a good time to wrap up over here.”

  “Look.” Anthony wedges his foot in the hole he’s dug. More dirt falls away, exposing the corner of a metal box. I drop to my knees and help him dig. The wall of soggy earth surrounding the box collapses.

  Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark.

  Someone opens the screen door over at the Weavers’ old house. A male voice calls out, “Chiefy! Get inside.”

  Anthony puts his hand on my back. Don’t move. By the light of the half moon, I can make out the letters stamped on the metal box: M.L.W.

  The dog next door scratches at the wooden fence and whines. The man on the porch is quiet. I can almost hear him think: Is someone out there?

  I yank on the sleeve of Anthony’s flannel shirt. He hands me the box while he grabs the shovel and kicks some dirt back into the hole. Chiefy barks his head off as Anthony mouths, Go!.

  We run for the chain-link fence, making Chiefy go berserk. A light flickers on in the house. Anthony throws the shovel over the fence and climbs over in two fluid movements. I hand the box off to him, but for some reason, I can’t get a good grip on the fence this time.

  “Come on,” he urges me. “You did it before.”

  I lift one leg over the top of the fence at the same time I lose my footing with the other. I fall sideways, my dress getting caught on a gnarled piece of chain link. Pain slices through my side, but I don’t stop to look down. Anthony holds his hand out to me and we run.

  * * *

  “Do you think anyone’s coming?” I can barely get the words out as Anthony starts the car and peels away

  “Depends on if he saw us.” Anthony tugs at his ear, leaving a streak of dirt behind on the lobe. I examine my own shaking hands. The spaces under my fingernails are filled with dirt, my thumbnail almost torn clean off.

  The metal box on my lap isn’t heavy. When Anthony makes a wide turn, something slides around inside.

  “Did you bring the key?” Anthony asks.

  “No. I hid it in my room.” I run my finger across the initials, feeling the grooves in the metal they form. M.L.W.

  “Guess that’s where we’re headed, then.”

  Normally, the thought of Anthony coming to my room would invoke a different reaction in me, but all I can think about is the pain in my side. “We have to sneak in through the tunnels,” I say. “I never signed out of the dorm earlier. Don’t want to make anyone suspicious.”

  “How are we going to get in?” Anthony asks.

  “Parking garage entrance. I wedged a bobby pin in the lock when I snuck out of it earlier.” As an afterthought, I add, “My friend Remy taught me that.”

  Anthony smiles a little. “At least you learned something at school.”

  * * *

  There is someone in the laundry room when Anthony and I reach the Amherst tunnel entrance. The pain in my side is so bad and I want to open Matt Weaver’s box so badly that I find myself on an angry rant as Anthony and I wait in the dark basement, listening to the sound of someone turning the ancient dryer dials on the other side of the wall.

  “Who the hell does laundry this late on a Friday night anyway?” I hiss. “I swear to—”

  Anthony presses a finger to my lips. His irises are a brilliant gray in the dark. He stares at me. I kiss the tip of his finger, not caring that it’s caked with dirt. He drags it down my chin and neck, tracing down to my belly button, pulling me to him.

  I set down Matt Weaver’s box so my hands are free. Anthony grabs them and wraps my arms around his lower back. He lifts me by my thighs so I’m back against the wall, legs wrapped around his waist.

  Our tongues meet, and I slide my hand up the back of his flannel shirt. The smoothness and warmth of his skin shocks me. I want to feel every part of him, and he presses his waist into mine, letting me know he feels the same.

  He doesn’t pull away at the sound of a dryer door slamming and footsteps barreling up the laundry-room stairs. “Let’s go,” I say into his mouth.

  “No.” He kisses me, his teeth pulling gently at my lower lip. I sigh and tilt my head back as he pushes the hem of my dress up my thigh, his hand moving from my hip to my rib cage. His touch feels so good I don’t even care about the dull throb in my side from where I scraped the fence.

  Anthony freezes.

  “What?” I say breathlessly.

  He shows me his hand. It’s covered in blood.

  * * *

  I’m lying on my bed, eyes closed. Sneaking Anthony up to the third floor through the stairwell and into my room took a lot of out me. Also, it feels like someone may have taken a cheese grater to my body.

  Anthony unzips my dress slowly. I suddenly feel warm in places I’m not comfortable feeling warm at this very moment.

  “How bad is it?” I ask, eyes still closed.

  His lack of a response makes my heart skip a beat. “Anthony!”

  “Shh.” He helps me out of the dress, and I should be mortified, but all I can think of is the blood on his hand and the throbbing in my side.

  I look down, taking in the bloodied mess on my side: a five-inch scrape from my rib cage to my hip.

  “It doesn’t look deep.” Anthony examines the cut, his fingers on my hip. “But we need to clean it now.”

  I sit up, wincing, thinking of the old rusted links in the fence. I really need some sort of ointment to stop it fro
m getting infected, but if I ask the RA on duty to use the first-aid kit, that’ll invite a lot of unwanted questions.

  The campus convenience store—they’re open until midnight on the weekends. I’ll run there and buy some bandages and disinfectant.

  Anthony watches me pull on a V-neck and pajama pants. “I’ll be right back.” I nod to Matt Weaver’s box, which is on the floor by Anthony’s feet. “The key is under my desk drawer, but wait for me to open it.”

  I hurry downstairs, wishing I’d brought a jacket. I break into a run, hoping I can make it in and out of the convenience store without running into any of my friends buying late-night snacks.

  I don’t make it past the quad. I see a van idled at the curb outside of Amherst. There are no plates on it.

  I turn and look at my dorm building. Through the lobby window, I see the driver of the van flash some sort of ID at Emma and scribble something in the sign-in book as she smiles at him. The back of his uniform says JR’S ELECTRIC.

  He turns and heads for the elevator, giving me a full view of his bearded profile.

  The man from the train platform.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Who was that guy?” I yell at Emma.

  She actually backs away from me. Looks at me as if she’s trying to figure out what sort of drugs I took tonight. “The guy who’s supposed to fix the light that’s out in the elevator.”

  I grab the sign-in binder. The guy signed in as Thomas Petrocelli. I make a quick slash across the next free space in the log and take off for the elevator, but it’s already ascending. Please don’t stop at 3. Please don’t stop at 3.

  Bile rises up my throat as the light overhead blinks 1, 2, 3. I run for the stairwell and take the steps two at a time. It feels as if there is a knife lodged in my lungs.

  I burst through the stairwell door to see him at the end of the hall. Outside my door, jiggling the handle and pulling a metal tool out of his back pocket. He swings his head toward me as I force my on-fire lungs to form the word: “Stop!”

  The guy curses and looks at the elevator. Looks at me, blocking the stairwell entrance. The door to my room swings open and Anthony steps out, exclaiming “What the—?”

  As if in slow motion, the guy grabs Anthony by his collar and throws him to the ground like he weighs as much as a rag doll. I cry out as he uses his foot to stop my door from swinging shut and shoulders his way into my room.

  Anthony is on his feet before I make it halfway down the hall. The fake electrician flips the light in my room on, and seconds later I hear a grunt.

  I freeze in the doorway, watching Anthony swing at the guy’s stomach. He absorbs the punch and comes back with an uppercut that nearly sends Anthony sprawling. In the half a second it takes Anthony to rebound, the guy’s gaze lands on me.

  “What did you dig up from the yard?” he demands, lunging for me.

  Anthony sidesteps him, throwing another punch at his throat. As if in slow motion, the guy winds up and charges at Anthony, throwing him up against the wall. He presses his arm to Anthony’s throat.

  “Where is it?” The man’s voice surprises me. Anthony lets out a choking noise, which only makes the intruder jam his arm into his throat harder.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to look at the box on the floor by my bed. “It’s a key. I’ll get it,” I stammer. Anthony wriggles in protest. “Just don’t hurt him.”

  “Now!” The guy barks with a glance at the door. There’s a line of sweat at his forehead. Please don’t notice the box. I scramble to my purse, willing my hands to stop trembling long enough for me to find the battery-sized can at the bottom. I pull the tab out of the top and lunge at the guy, unloading a steady stream of pepper spray into his face.

  “You fucking. Little. Bitch.” He breaks away from Anthony, who swiftly kicks him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The guy calls me a few more names I’ve never been called before in my life and bolts from the room, his hands pressed to his face.

  Gasping for air, Anthony and I take off after him. The stairwell door slams at the exact moment the elevator door opens. Remy lets out an “Oh!” when she sees Anthony standing in the middle of the hall.

  At the opposite end of the hallway, someone shuts off the music. I spin to face Anthony. “Get back in my room” I say. “Now.”

  Darlene pokes her head out into the hall, staring back and forth from me to Remy. “Did I hear yelling?”

  “Yes,” I blurt. “I was sleepwalking, and Remy tried to wake me up, so I kind of freaked out.”

  Darlene looks to Remy for affirmation, but she just stares at me blankly. “Yeah,” she finally says. “That’s what happened.”

  Darlene glances at me skeptically. “Are you okay now?”

  “Yup.” I wrap my arms around my middle, hoping Darlene didn’t notice the bit of blood on my T-shirt. “Sorry.”

  Remy blinks at me as Darlene disappears into her room. “Anne, what the fuck is going on with you?”

  I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve ever heard Remy curse, so I’m dumbstruck. “What?”

  She jerks her head toward my door. “What is he doing here? Did he hurt you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I heard, like, a commotion before. Doors slamming.”

  “We had a little argument.” Even I don’t sound like I believe what I’m saying.

  “Anne, he’s trouble.” Remy’s voice is barely above a whisper, as if Anthony will hear and come out of my room and do unspeakable things to her.

  “Jesus, Remy, judgmental much?”

  Remy recoils as if I’ve slapped her, but I’m too exhausted and too scared of what that guy could have done to me and Anthony to feel guilty. Frustration at Remy I never knew I had boils to my surface: I need someone to blame for the past few weeks, and she makes it so easy with her doe-eyed I didn’t know every guy here is in love with me! expression.

  I can’t stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. “You didn’t know Isabella, and you don’t know Anthony. He’s not trouble just because he doesn’t summer on Nantucket or play tennis at the country club, so just leave us alone.”

  I can hear her crying as she runs off to her room, but I can’t make myself care. Just like I couldn’t stop the Old Anne from slipping away from me—the girl who didn’t care about anything but whose party she was going to go to over the weekend, because she never had to. She never had real problems or even knew people with real problems. People like Anthony.

  He’s sitting on my bed massaging his neck when I storm back into my bedroom. “That was harsh,” he says. “But thanks to her, that dickhead is long gone by now.”

  I didn’t expect him to thank me for sticking up for him. I sit on the bed and run my fingers over his collarbone. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine,” he mutters. “Was he—”

  “The guy from the T platform? Yeah.”

  “You never lost him. He must have followed us to the Weavers’.” Anthony rubs his eyebrow, where a bruise is blossoming. “Do you think the chick at the desk downstairs suspects anything?”

  I shake my head. “But it’s only a matter of time before she realizes that there was never a broken light and reports him. We’ve got to find him before they do if we want to figure out who sent him.”

  “You definitely don’t know who he is?”

  “I’ve never seen him before tonight.”

  Anthony considers this. “I don’t know if Dennis will help us with something like this, Anne. Not if we don’t tell him what it’s really about.”

  I don’t realize I’m shaking until Anthony puts an arm around me. All I can see is the bearded man throwing Anthony against the wall … the look in his eyes that said he would have killed him. “Do we have any choice now?” I ask.

  “I’ll call him in the morning,” Anthony says. “I’ll sneak out early, before anyone is up. I just don’t want to leave you here alone in … after that.”

&nbs
p; “You were about to say ‘in case he comes back,’ weren’t you?”

  Anthony touches my jaw, pulling my face to his. “He won’t. He thought no one was here before. We caught him off guard.”

  I close my eyes and try not to feel anything but Anthony’s warm breath on my face. But my mind keeps circling back to ten minutes ago.

  Someone knows I have Matt Weaver’s box. He, she, or—even worse—they sent that fake JR’s Electric guy to get it. He could have seriously hurt either of us. I’ve put Anthony in danger—myself in danger—for a person who has been presumed dead for over thirty years. A person I never knew.

  Brent was right. I’m not over Isabella.

  I push the thought away and move over to my desk. The key is right where I left it: taped to the underside of my bottom drawer. I hold it up for Anthony to see.

  “Time to open Pandora’s box?” He smiles.

  The handle on Matt Weaver’s box is rusted into place. I run a finger over the initials again. “We’ll see if what’s in here is really worth killing over.”

  I get the key stuck in the lock; Anthony has to take over and work his mechanic magic. I’m worried we have the wrong key until there’s a popping sound. The lid is also rusty, and warped with age, so Anthony has to pry the top open.

  I forget to breathe as I re-position myself to see inside the box.

  “Oh my God.” Five gold letters spell out a name:

  SONIA.

  I reach for the necklace but Anthony grabs my wrist.

  “Fingerprints. We don’t want the cops to trace anything back to us. Do you have gloves?”

  “You’re killing me, Anthony,” I mutter as I rummage through my top drawer. I purposely pick a magenta pair for Anthony. He gives me a dirty look.

  I hold up the necklace to my lamp.

  I look over at Anthony. He’s wearing an expression that says he sees something I don’t. He takes the necklace from me and holds the nameplate part of it closer to the lamp. The ridged edges of the letters are caked with brown.

  Anthony points to the bottom of Matt’s box. It’s hard to see them, but they’re there. Small, rust-brown flakes barely larger than dust particles. It doesn’t match the almost-black dirt on the outside of the box.