Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel

by Kara Taylor

  “At the end of the day, I didn’t think Matty’d tell anyone,” Shepherd continues. “He cared too much about being a ‘Wheatley Boy.’ About being the first person in his family to go to college. To be able to afford the things his parents couldn’t. Then I realized he’d taken Sonia’s necklace. The bastard actually dug it up. Leverage, I suppose. He was biding his time until he wasn’t afraid of me anymore.

  “I didn’t appreciate that. I told him to meet me at the quarry that night. I made him believe I was ready to confess about Sonia, and that I needed him to testify it was an accident. He was supposed to bring the necklace.” Shepherd’s eyes are cold, as if Matt’s withholding Sonia’s necklace is the worst part of this whole story. “If he’d simply brought me the necklace, he might have walked away that night.”

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  “Do you realize how lucky you are? After all these years, you’re going to get the real story,” Shepherd says. “Lawrence followed us to the quarry. The stupid ass never knew when to listen. He saw Matty push me, so he intervened. I don’t remember which of us shoved him off the cliff, but does it really matter now?”

  I stare at Shepherd, letting his face splinter through the tears in my eyes. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”

  Shepherd reaches over and pats my hand. I jerk it away. “Anne, I’d like the photo you took from me. If you don’t hand it over, I’m sure I won’t have any trouble finding it later.” After I kill you.

  Whimpering, I fish around in my bag. “I’ll give it to you. Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Of course not,” Shepherd says, through a smile.

  I whip my pepper spray out of my bag. There’s just enough left to make Travis Shepherd double over in pain when I release the contents onto his face.

  I fly out of the office and down the stairs. A tall figure leaps out of the shadows when I reach the bottom, covering my mouth before I can scream. Travis Shepherd’s angry footsteps sound on the stairs.

  The man holding me turns me around so I can see his face.

  It’s Steven Westbrook. He’s holding a gun.

  He holds his finger to his mouth before he shoves me into a closet.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SIX

  “Steven?” Travis Shepherd’s voice is surprised. And, I’m happy to note, pained. I pull out my phone and text Anthony. Call the police.

  I peek out the closet door, which is slightly ajar. Steven Westbrook stands five feet away from Shepherd, a handgun pointed at his chest.

  “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Shepherd laughs. “Going to kill me, Steven?”

  “That depends.” Westbrook’s voice shakes a little. “Was it really you who killed my family?”

  “Of course not.” Shepherd’s face is red and swollen. He squints at Westbrook. “That was Larry.”

  “Liar,” Westbrook roars, spit flying everywhere. “I know Larry doesn’t shit without you telling him to. Did you tell him to kill Cynthia?”

  Shepherd tries to point his rifle at the senator. Westbrook’s gun clicks. “Drop the rifle.”

  Shepherd lowers it. “I had no reason to kill Cynthia.”

  “Me,” Westbrook says. I realize he’s crying. “You were trying to kill me. You thought I’d tell that I saw you and Larry sneak into the dorms and throw out your clothes. The night Matt disappeared. I knew—”

  Westbrook’s free hand curls into a fist. He presses it to his mouth to suppress a sob. “I always knew you would come after them. But I won’t put my daughter in danger any longer.”

  He raises his gun again. It clicks, and I swallow away vomit. Alexis got my voicemail and warned her father about Shepherd. That’s why he’s here. I’ve inadvertently put us all in danger.

  “What would you have done?” Shepherd holds up his hands. His voice is pleading, trying to talk Westbrook down. “You were a rising star. Typical Wheatley ‘Good Old Boy.’ Bound for the White House. I knew you’d come clean about what you saw so you could become senator with a clear conscience. What happened to you, Steve?”

  Westbrook lets out a wail that brings a lump to my throat. He sobs for his wife. For his son. “How could you, Travis? How could you?”

  I break out into a cold sweat as Westbrook raises his gun. Shepherd seems to shrink. “Steven. Remember what they say. You take your revenge on me now, you better dig a grave for yourself, too.”

  “I already have,” Westbrook says.

  The sound of glass shattering jolts me. Anthony calls my name. I begin to scream as Shepherd lifts his rifle and points it at the front door.

  I don’t realize the shot came from Westbrook’s gun until I see the hole in Travis Shepherd’s chest. Blood flowers around it. On the floor. Everywhere.

  “Oh my God.” I push my way out of the closet and into Anthony’s arms. He drops the baseball bat he used to smash the glass pane on the door. Steven Westbrook stares at the gun in his hands. At Travis Shepherd’s lifeless eyes.

  I know what he’s going to do before he raises the gun to his head.

  “Don’t,” I scream. “Alexis. Please don’t do this to Alexis!”

  Westbrook’s eyes meet mine. They’re gray, just like his daughter’s. He drops the gun and falls to his knees. He tilts his head upward and cries out—a horrible, guttural sound. Anthony holds me closer to him until I can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose. Sirens sound in the distance.

  Westbrook looks at me. “Get out of here.”

  “But—”

  “You were never here,” he says. “Leave.”

  So we do.

  * * *

  Travis Shepherd is dead. I can’t erase the image of him, lying on the floor of his foyer with a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

  By the time Anthony gets me back to the Wheatley School, everyone knows Travis Shepherd is dead. It’s breaking news, interrupting Monday-night sitcoms. Steven Westbrook confessed to breaking into Travis Shepherd’s Cape Cod home and shooting him to death.

  There are police cruisers outside the athletic building. I tremble as I watch the officers come out without Larry Tretter. Security guards and RAs usher the gawkers back to their dorms.

  “I can’t do this,” I say. “I need to talk to Detective Phelan. Tell him what we saw.”

  “Anne.” Anthony rests his hands on my shoulders and looks down into my eyes. “We broke into Shepherd’s house moments before he was murdered. We cannot tell anyone what we saw. Ever.”

  “But I screamed at Westbrook. What if someone heard me?”

  I’m shaking as Anthony puts a hand on my neck and pulls me to his chest. “It’s going to be okay. It’s over. We’re okay.”

  I’m not going to be okay after what I saw. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hearing Steven Westbrook’s cries of How could you, Travis?

  I hear Brent before I see him.

  “Anne?”

  I pull away from Anthony, wiping at my eyes.

  “I got your voice mail.” Brent’s eyes are on Anthony, even though he’s talking to me.

  “Brent,” I say.

  “Thanks.” He interrupts me with a wry smile. He’s still looking at Anthony. “I heard about Sonia Russo’s necklace. Coach Tretter just gave a statement to the police that Travis Shepherd bought it for her. I know it was you who found it. So thanks, for clearing my dad.”

  “Brent. Please look at me.”

  He does. But I can’t find the words to tell him how sorry I am.

  “I just need to know if this”—Brent gestures to me and Anthony—“was going on when we were together?”

  “What?” I can’t breathe. I can’t believe Brent could think that. I look to Anthony to help me out, but he looks away.

  “It wasn’t.” I don’t even know whom to direct my rage at anymore.

  “Goodnight, Anne,” Brent says. When he’s walking away, Anthony tries to wrap an arm around me. I shrug him off.

  “Why didn’t you back me up?” I demand.

  “Why does it matter?” he
snaps.

  “It does matter.” I will not get hysterical. I will not get hysterical. “It’s always going to matter when it comes to him, Anthony. So take it or leave it.”

  I’m crying, wishing I felt as sure of myself as I sound, because I know he’s going to leave. Again.

  But when I open my eyes, he’s still there.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Darlene is pounding on my door at 6:00 A.M., telling me to get dressed. Dean Tierney needs to see me in her office.

  The secretary barely looks up at me. Her eyes are glued to the TV in the office. A news anchor is reporting live from the edge of the Wheatley School campus. Apparently Larry Tretter turned himself in to the police last night.

  “The Wheatley rowing coach alleges he and Travis Shepherd are responsible for missing teen Matt Weaver’s death.…”

  “Good God,” the secretary says, oblivious to our presence. Dean Snaggletooth opens her office door and gestures for me to come in. Her hair is frizzing at the crown, and she forgot her makeup.

  “Casey Shepherd claims you assaulted him and Coach Tretter,” she says, before my ass is even in a chair.

  “Casey Shepherd has bigger problems than being beat up by a girl.”

  “I’m sorry. Is there something funny about your classmate’s father being shot to death in his own home?”

  I feel as if Tierney has slapped me. I close my eyes, hoping I’ll see anything but her face, but all I see is the pool of blood on Travis Shepherd’s floor. The shocked look in his eyes as the life left his body.

  But worst of all is the sound of Steven Westrook’s cry of despair before he killed him.

  “No,” I manage to choke out. “There is nothing funny at all.”

  Tierney shuffles the papers on her desk. “Your father is on his way to Massachusetts.”

  “I had nothing to do with what happened last night,” I blurt—forcefully, as if saying it will help me convince myself Anthony and I didn’t see the horrible things we saw.

  Dean Snaggletooth nods absently. “Anne, I have to let you know that Headmaster Goddard has recommended you for expulsion.”

  I knew this was coming. But I still feel as if I’ve been hit in the head. Recommended for expulsion.

  “He doesn’t have the final say?” My throat is dry.

  “Your case will go to the board of trustees at the end of the month. Until then, you are temporarily suspended. You will be expected to complete your schoolwork from New York, via online correspondence with your teachers, until your hearing.”

  “Do I get to defend myself?”

  Tierney shakes her head and lists my crimes: “Breaking curfew. Unexcused absences from class. Unauthorized entry into restricted areas on campus. Assaulting a fellow student. Assaulting a faculty member and a fellow student” (again).

  I barely hear her over the buzzing in my ears. I can’t believe it. I’m going home.

  * * *

  My father is going to be here in four hours. I spend the time packing, since everyone is in class anyway. I don’t even know who I have left to say good-bye to.

  There is one person. I head to Ms. C’s office before lunch.

  I know something is wrong the moment I see that her door is closed, the light off.

  I rap on the door because I don’t know what else to do.

  “Excuse me,” I ask a teacher across the hall. He looks up from his desk and blinks at me.

  “Is Ms. Cross sick today?” I ask.

  “She no longer works here,” the teacher says.

  “What?”

  The teacher blinks at me, as if I’m some sort of simpleton. Forget him. There’s one person who may know what’s going on.

  I race-walk all the way to the sciences building and look up Dr. Muller’s office number.

  His door is closed, a note taped to the outside.

  I am currently at Boston Common for a surveying trip with my PHY101 class. I will return at the end of the day.

  Panic creeps up my spine. I don’t have until the end of the day. I scroll through my phone until I find the number Ms. C gave us for “emergencies only,” like being really late to class or our Blackboard app crashing in the middle of a take-home test. I don’t think this is what she had in mind, but I call her anyway.

  “The number you have dialed is in not service.…”

  My nightmare has only gotten worse. Ms. C is gone, and I know in my gut it’s because she helped me.

  * * *

  My feet carry me all the way back to the administration building. Goddard’s secretary does not look pleased to see me.

  “I need to see the headmaster.”

  “He’s not in.”

  “When will he be in?” I demand with the force of someone who has nothing left to lose.

  “The headmaster won’t be back,” the secretary snipes at me. “If you have a problem, you’ll have to wait until the interim headmaster arrives.”

  There’s a light on in Goddard’s office. I run up to the door and shout through it. “Where is she? What did you do with Ms. Cross?”

  That’s when the secretary calls security to escort me out of the building.

  “Don’t bother,” I tell her. “I’m leaving.”

  I pull up the news app on my phone as I’m leaving and search for Benedict Goddard. The first headline is from an hour ago.

  WHEATLEY SCHOOL HEADMASTER STEPS DOWN, CITING FAILING HEALTH IN THE WAKE OF SHEPHERD SCANDAL

  I almost scream. That bastard. He made sure expelling me was literally the last thing he did.

  * * *

  I sit on my bed, surveying my empty room. I feel like I should do something, perform some ritual to say good-bye to it for good. I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

  This is stupid. I roll on my side, reading more news articles on my phone. The media is going nuts, trying to piece together the details of what lead from an anonymous tip about the body at the Conroy’s lake house to Steven Westbrook killing Travis Shepherd. The latest story says Larry Tretter told police Matt Weaver’s body is under the driveway at the Shepherds’ Cape house.

  Matt Weaver is dead. So is Travis Shepherd, and Casey will have to deal with it for the rest of his life. I’m not sure he deserves that pain, even though if I had the chance to punch him in the face again, I’d do it harder. And although he destroyed so many lives, I’m not sure that Travis Shepherd deserved to die.

  I’m not sure of anything anymore. Sonia’s body being found at the Conroy lake house will probably damage Brent’s family’s reputation forever, even if his dad has been cleared. I put Anthony in danger by bringing him to the scene of Travis Shepherd’s murder. And I sealed my fate as the girl who can’t stay out of trouble long enough to graduate from high school.

  They say a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a tsunami on the other side of the world. None of this would have happened if I’d never started that fire at St. Bernadette’s and been kicked out. Probably the best thing to happen to the Wheatley School now is for me to go back to New York and bring my chaos with me.

  A knock at the door startles me. It can’t be my dad—it’s an hour too early.

  Through the peephole, I watch Brent outside my door. He curses under his breath and motions to walk away. Then he stops, ready to knock at the door again. I open it.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.”

  He doesn’t protest as I hug him. In fact, he rests his head on my shoulder. “This sucks,” I whisper in his ear.

  Brent pulls away, but he takes my hands in his. “You’re really leaving?”

  I nod. He pulls me in, and I think he’s going to kiss me, but instead he presses his cheek to mine. When we break apart, he looks at me.

  “I was wrong. About everything.”

  “I was wrong about stuff, too,” I say.

  Brent looks like he’s struggling with something. I wish he would say something, anything to make it feel slightly less shitty that this might be the last
time we see each other. He sighs and takes in the empty room. “There’s always a chance the board won’t vote to uphold your expulsion.”

  I laugh. He does, too. I realize I’ve missed the sound so much it hurts. In that moment I’d do anything to pick up where we left off, but a feeling of dread streaks through me as I remember the photo of Isabella’s body. The way Brent hesitated just now, as if there were something more he wanted to tell me.

  Casey said he wasn’t the one who left the photo. A few weeks ago, I never would have considered the possibility Brent would do something like that. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the scene in Travis Shepherd’s foyer.

  I’m not the same person I was a few weeks ago. And I’ll never doubt the terrible things people are capable of again.

  * * *

  My dad meets me in the lobby of Amherst, where Remy, April, and Kelsey finish their teary good-byes and promises to come see me in New York. I smile at them, even though I know by the expression on my father’s face that I’ll be lucky if I’m allowed out of our apartment ever again.

  He doesn’t say a word to me for the first three hours of the drive. This is worse than I thought. I spend the whole time thinking of how I’m going to defend myself, and when we get near the George Washington Bridge, I open my mouth.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me or even believe me, but I had a reason for all the things I did. I can’t tell you most of them, because it’s better if you don’t know. You have to trust me that I did the right thing, though. You always told me that that’s all that matters. I know it’s hard for you to believe that; you always say you hate your job because it’s hard to tell the difference between right and wrong sometimes. I understand you now. And I’m sorry I got expelled again, but I promise you that this time it’s because I did something right, for once in my life. I found my white rabbit, Daddy, and I didn’t let it go.”

  I think I see the corner of my father’s mouth twitch.

  “Also, I want to learn how to drive this summer,” I say.

  “Oh, Jesus,” my father mutters.

  I smile to myself and look out the window. The sight of the Empire State Building fills me up with a happiness that replaces my regret over everything I’ve lost.