Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  “Um. I don’t think so,” I say.

  Detective Phelan’s radio blips. He turns it off. “Are you sure there was no one in the elevator with you?”

  “I took the stairs.” I study Phelan’s face. It’s expressionless. I try to picture what he saw on the security tape: me leaving Amherst. Kowalski entering Amherst. Me taking off after him, and Kowalski leaving Amherst again shortly after that. “I was heading to the convenience store, but I forgot my wallet. So I ran back to the dorm to get it. I didn’t want to wait for the elevator.”

  Phelan nods. I can’t tell if he’s buying it. He must know by now that the fake electrician was Jeff Kowalski. All he had to do was cross-reference JR’s Electric and make the connection with the robbery, like Dennis did.

  “Actually, I think I did see someone.” I grip the edge of the table. “An electrician. A younger guy. I didn’t think anything of it until now.”

  The detective raises an eyebrow at me. “What was he doing?”

  “I dunno. Wasn’t really paying attention.” I feign a yawn, hoping Phelan will take the hint that he’s not getting any more out of me.

  “Thanks, Anne.” He motions to get up. “We think we know who the man is, but we’re not sure what he was doing here. We thought you might have some insight.”

  He holds my gaze. I command myself not to look away. “Is he dangerous?”

  Phelan is the one who finally blinks. “Not to you.”

  It kills me that I can’t tell him he’s wrong again.

  * * *

  Brent’s phone goes straight to voice mail in the morning. I decide to wait until after breakfast to swing by Aldridge to check on him; I need time to figure out what I’m going to say. I don’t know what prompted him to tell me I was right about everything, but I have to warn him about Tretter.

  I meet Remy, April, and Kelsey downstairs. I know they must have been discussing Brent’s little performance last night, because Remy switches to her Let’s change the subject voice when she sees me.

  “Ugh. Finishing that wine was an awful idea.” She slips on a pair of oversize sunglasses as we head outside. “I’m never drinking again.”

  “You always say that.” April yawns and stretches. “Then you forget.”

  Kelsey grabs a copy of The Boston Globe from the dining-hall lobby. Wheatley kids are superneurotic about reading the news. At my old school, the kids were the news. When you’re the son of the owner of the New York Jets and the daughter of a notorious rapper, it’s headline worthy if you get high and try to free the macaques at the Bronx Zoo.

  “Did you guys see this?” Kelsey’s nose twitches. It’s her nervous tic when she’s not wearing her glasses. She holds the front page of the paper for us to see.

  “Oh my God,” Remy says.

  I snatch the paper from Kelsey. I almost black out when I read the headline:

  HUMAN REMAINS FOUND AT BRODY LAKE HOUSE OWNED BY LATE MEDIA MOGUL MAXWELL CONROY

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-TWO

  Matt Weaver is the name on everyone’s lips Monday morning.

  “It has to be him,” I hear Dan Crowley whisper to Zach Walton in Matthews’s class. “They’re saying the remains are wicked decomposed.”

  “Mr. Crowley,” Matthews snaps. “If your conversation is so riveting compared with my lesson, please feel free to finish it outside.”

  An awkward quiet fills the room. Yelling is not Matthews’s style. His upper lip quivers as he stares out at us, daring someone to bring up Matt Weaver or the Conroy family again. When he resumes his lecture, I check my phone for a message from Brent that I know isn’t there.

  I have to know if he’s okay. I heard the guys saying this morning that Brent went home yesterday morning. Cole looked right at me as he said it, as if to tell me he knows this is all my fault.

  I bite the inside of my cheek, hoping the pain will distract me from the urge to lose it in the middle of class. Brent was right. I didn’t care whose lives I ruined. But I never actually believed his father was capable of murder.

  A fifteen-year-old girl is buried in the backyard of a house that Brent’s dad owns. Matt Weaver knew about it—he might have even helped him put her there. Did Sonia Russo fight back, unlike Vanessa Reardon?

  When I’m confident Matthews isn’t moving from his spot in front of the blackboard, I pull up the news article on my laptop. I practically have it memorized by now.

  Brody, Massachusetts—Human remains were uncovered behind a home on Lake Brody Saturday night. Authorities say they received a “credible” tip about a body buried at the location. Few details are available at this time, but sources say preliminary decomposition estimates posit the remains are at least twenty years old.

  Late Saturday night, the Boston Herald confirmed that the property on which the remains were uncovered was owned by media mogul Maxwell Conroy from 1959 until his death in 2003. Pierce Conroy, owner of the Boston Times, released the following statement this morning:

  “The Conroy estate was shocked to learn of the discovery of human remains on a property that has been in our family for decades. In response to initial allegations that my father is somehow connected to the existence of said remains, I feel compelled to point out that hundreds of persons have had access to the lake house and its adjoining property over the years. Lake Brody is located within five miles of a well-known Native American burial site. Conroy Media denies any involvement with this discovery and is cooperating with Brody authorities completely at this time.”

  Authorities have not commented on early speculation that the remains belong to missing Wheatley School student Matthew Weaver. Weaver disappeared from his dormitory in 1981. His body was never recovered. The Brody Police Department is working with local precincts to compose a list of active missing-persons cases in light of Saturday’s discovery.

  It’s only a matter of time before the media hears about the box, and Sonia’s necklace, and the note in Matt Weaver’s handwriting. And then where will that leave Brent’s family? If Tretter, Shepherd, or any of the other guys in the photo were involved, they’ll be on their private jets to Europe before you can say subpoena.

  Pat Carroll’s words haunt me: Whatever it is you’re looking for … I hope it’s not a happy ending.

  I don’t know what sort of ending I was looking for, but it wasn’t this one. It wasn’t Brent’s father being the one who killed Matt, and Sonia, and God knows who else.

  I get up and push my chair in. The sound is so loud Matthews stops lecturing. But he doesn’t try to stop me from packing up my things and leaving.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I have before someone realizes I’m cutting all my classes and sends Dean Snaggletooth after me. I don’t even know what the punishment is for cutting at Wheatley: It’s kind of an unwritten rule that when you live at school, you have to show up for class every day.

  I sneak past security and head into Wheatley. Once I reach the bottom of the hill separating campus from the townie plebs, I call Anthony. I have to bite back tears when I hear his voice.

  “Can I see you?” I ask.

  “Now?” He pauses. “I kind of can’t leave until tonight.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Wait. I’ll give you directions to my house. I’m a quick walk from the T.”

  The air rushes out of my lungs. Anthony’s house. Isabella’s house.

  * * *

  Anthony lives in a brown ranch-style house surrounded on all sides by rhododendron bushes. There are four wooden birdhouses on the porch alone. It looks like someone carved them all by hand.

  I ring the bell and Anthony calls for me to come in. I don’t know what kind of scene I was expecting to see inside, but it wasn’t Anthony and his father sitting at the kitchen table eating mini pizza bagels.

  Mr. Fernandez is in pajama pants and a Denver Broncos sweatshirt. He’s thin, with ghastly white skin. His hair is thick and curly like Isabella’s was.

  He takes me in and looks over
at Anthony. “Is she here to wipe my ass, too?”

  I stand in the kitchen archway. Anthony looks at my face and bursts into laughter.

  “Apparently you found Dad’s sense of humor on your way here,” he says.

  I take a tentative step toward Anthony’s father. He closes the rest of the distance between us by wheeling himself toward me. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Fernandez,” I say.

  He surprises me by clasping my hand between his. He doesn’t speak. His soft brown eyes probe mine. Does he know who I am? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I squeeze his frail hand as tears slip down his cheek.

  I can’t bring myself to give Isabella’s father the empty condolences I was raised to say when something terrible happens. I can’t do anything to change the fact that it should be his daughter holding his hand right now, and I can’t drive away the cloud of darkness that will follow him for the rest of his life.

  So I hold on to Mr. Fernandez and let him cry, for I don’t know how long, before I feel Anthony’s hand on the small of my back.

  * * *

  I’m in Anthony’s room, sitting on the edge of his bed. He has flannel sheets.

  He doesn’t say anything as he climbs behind me and brushes my hair away from my neck. I close my eyes, feeling guilty at how much I’m enjoying his lips on the area right below my ear. He hooks a finger in the back of my collar, pulling my sweater down so he can trace kisses along my back.

  I turn enough for my mouth to meet his. “What are we doing?”

  He ignores my question and kisses me. I put a hand to his chest and push him away, gently. “No. Really.”

  Anthony stares at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “All of this … fooling around,” I say. “Does it mean anything to you?”

  Anthony takes a lock of my hair between his fingers. His eyes flick downward in a way that makes my heart sink. He can’t even look at me.

  “I like you,” he finally says. “And it scares me.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  “No.” A smile plays in his eyes. “It’s just that most things I like aren’t good for me.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just compare me to a cheeseburger.” I hold his gaze. “There’s something you should know.”

  “Oh, really?” Anthony’s voice is playful. He leans in to me, but I put a hand to his shoulder to stop him. His smile lilts.

  “When people were accusing you of … those awful things, I didn’t stop caring about you.” I take a breath. “I still do. A lot. But Brent…”

  Anthony stiffens at his name. I force myself to keep going.

  “I care about him, too. Maybe in a different way, I don’t know. Everything is so screwed up and confusing, and I shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now, but you need to know I care about him,” I say. “And if there’s any chance his dad isn’t involved in this, I want to prove it.”

  Anthony’s eyes are on his wall. I knew he wouldn’t understand, but I can’t tell if he’s angry. He inhales as if he’s going to reply, at the same moment a crackling sounds from his dresser.

  “Eighty-nine Glendale Drive … officers on the scene.”

  I look at Anthony. “Is that a police scanner?”

  “Yeah. Got it this week to see if I could pick up anything,” he grunts.

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Man, you say that like you haven’t broken three different laws since you woke up today.” Anthony goes over to his dresser and picks up the scanner. It looks like a car radio.

  “Guy who called us is Dwight Miller … isn’t he that nasty son of a bitch?”

  Another voice on the scanner responds: “Yep. Usually his wife is the one making the calls. What’s his problem?”

  “Dwight Miller,” I say. “That name sounds familiar.”

  “Sonia Russo’s foster father,” Anthony deadpans.

  There’s more crackling on the scanner: “Complained about a disturbance. Woman started banging on his door and screaming at him to come outside so she could kill him. She seems to think the body they found over in Brody is her daughter.”

  “She still there?”

  “Yeah. Officer Manfrate’s talking her down.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Russo,” the voice crackles. “Antonella Russo.”

  * * *

  According to White Pages, there’s one Antonella Russo in the Wheatley area. She lives in Harrison, which is about twenty minutes from here. Anthony sets his father up in front of the television and tells him we’ll be back within the hour and to call Mrs. Hanley, the neighbor, if he needs anything.

  We have to get gas for Anthony’s motorcycle, so we don’t leave until almost half an hour later. Antonella Russo lives in a federal low-income housing development on the outskirts of Harrison. As soon as we pull into the development, I want to leave.

  Antonella’s neighbor, a nosy elderly woman, tells us she’s not home. “She works afternoons at the salon on Main Street.”

  We thank her and head back the way we came, getting lost twice before we wind up on Main Street. There’s only one salon—a dumpy little place called Hair Razers. Anthony slips a few quarters into the parking meter as I stake out the salon.

  “I don’t see what she’s gonna be able to tell us,” Anthony says. “Dennis said she’s been in and out of jail for years.”

  “She obviously knew Dwight Miller was Sonia’s foster parent.” My patience with Anthony is wearing thin. “Maybe she had more contact with Sonia than we think. Look.”

  A sickly-looking woman stubs out a cigarette on the sidewalk outside the salon. She’s wearing a black apron, which does little to conceal the sharpness of her limbs. I glimpse her face before she enters the salon.

  “I think that’s her.”

  I run across the street and ask the girl at the reception desk if I can speak with Antonella.

  The girl narrows her eyes, which are thickly rimmed with liner. “You her probation officer?”

  “No. Please tell her I need to speak with her about her daughter.”

  I wait outside after the girl disappears into the back room. Anthony watches me from across the street, his satisfaction tugging at his mouth as the minutes tick by. Antonella Russo is not coming to talk to me.

  I’m about to go back inside the salon when the door swings open. The most frightening woman I’ve ever seen stares back at me. At one time, she was probably beautiful, like her daughter. Now her cheeks are sunken like something from a Tim Burton movie.

  “You askin’ for me?” Antonella Russo is missing more than a few teeth. The rest are brown and chipped. I’m speechless.

  With trembling hands, Antonella Russo lights another cigarette. Her skin is tissue-paper thin. “Thought you might be the cops, come to tell me they found my baby girl.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Russo.” Across the street, Anthony watches us. “I think I may have some information about your daughter.”

  Antonella coughs into the crook of her arm. I find the yearbook photo in my bag—the one where Vanessa Reardon and Sonia Russo stand together to the side, talking as if they’re both in on a secret.

  I hand the photo to Antonella. Her eyes go straight to Sonia. An animal-like cry slips out of her. “Where’d you get this?”

  “A yearbook at the Wheatley School.”

  Antonella grips the picture and speaks as if I’m not even here. “My baby girl. My beautiful baby girl.”

  I look over at Anthony. His eyebrows knit together and he motions to step off the curb. I shake my head at him.

  “How old are you?” Antonella Russo asks, taking me by surprise.

  “Seventeen,” I say.

  She lets out a phlegmy laugh. “I was your age when I had her. My daddy threw me out. Doctors called Sonia my miracle baby. Even with all the poison I put in my body, she was perfect.”

  Antonella hands me the picture. “They took her from me. I spent the first ten years of her life in an�
� outta jail. Court said I couldn’t see her. She found me, after they sent her to live with that monster.”

  She must mean Dwight Miller. It occurs to me that Antonella is speaking to herself.

  “She was fifteen and so beautiful. She loved to read. Gonna get a job at the library that summer, she told me.” Antonella wipes her eyes. “She was seeing a nice boy. One of them Wheatley kids. Bought her a name necklace, real diamonds and everything. Told her he’d marry her when they were old enough. My baby girl was so, so happy.”

  My throat tightens. “Did she tell you the boy’s name?”

  Antonella shakes her head. “She was real secretive about it. But she showed me his picture.”

  My blood pounds in my ears as I shuffle through my bag. I find the picture of the crew team and show Antonella. “Is he in this photo?”

  Antonella’s eyes sweep over Matt Weaver. Over Pierce Conroy.

  “That’s him,” she says, pointing to Travis Shepherd.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-THREE

  “Do you believe her?” Anthony asks. We’re still outside Hair Razers. Antonella Russo is inside, sweeping the floor as if we never spoke.

  “She’s definitely not playing with a full deck,” I say. “But it fits. Most of Matt’s letters to Cynthia say he needed to tell her something. He must have known Travis was cheating on her with Sonia. He was going to tell her.”

  “So Shepherd killed Matt Weaver to stop him?” Anthony’s voice is skeptical. “Seems a little extreme.”

  “He wasn’t going to tell her he was cheating,” I say. “Think about the box. Sonia’s necklace. The note inside.”

  Realization dawns on Anthony’s face. “You think Shepherd killed her? And Matt knew about it?”

  I run through the facts in my head, trying to fill in the story’s holes. “The woman who witnessed a boy going into the woods the night Matt disappeared … maybe she didn’t see Matt after all.” I show Anthony the picture, pointing to Travis Shepherd. He and Matt are the same height. Around the same weight. Both have brown hair.

  “Holy shit,” Anthony says. “But what about Jeff Kowalski and Grabiec? If Shepherd was going to pay someone to kill Westbrook’s wife, he had the money to do it right. And why would he wait almost fifteen years to get rid of her if she knew something?”