by Kara Taylor
“Anne,” he says, firmly, “We’ll discuss this later.”
“You mean you’ll discuss it with Mom. While I’m locked up in my room.” I don’t even know why I’m doing this—trying to pick a fight I’ll never win. I don’t even know why I’m on the verge of tears, or feeling like my lungs are going to collapse.
Maybe it’s because the only thing that scares me more than the thought of being kicked out of Wheatley is going back there.
* * *
By the time Friday rolls around, there still haven’t been any hang-up calls to the office. I know, because I made it a point not to leave my desk at all this week. Not even to pee.
“Are you okay?” Leah asks me around noon. “You seem antsy.”
I shrug, not realizing I’ve been gnawing at my thumbnail until all of the pewter polish on it lifts off. “Just nervous. About school and everything.”
It’s not a complete lie: My parents still haven’t reached an agreement on how to deal with Tierney’s invitation to take me back. Every night, they close their bedroom door, and I hear murmuring.
I shoot a glance at the clock, hoping Dr. Muller got my e-mail about meeting today. I can’t help but gnaw the rest of the polish off my fingers. I really think my father may consider military school or electro-shock therapy if he catches me sneaking out for lunch with a man twice my age.
And for what? The last time I got involved in something I shouldn’t have gotten involved in, I lost my boyfriend, my parent’s trust, and a man died. There’s absolutely nothing to gain from trying to find out what’s going on with Ms. C.
She was my favorite teacher, and I want more than anything to know she’s okay, but if Dr. Muller thinks she’s in danger, I’m not the person he should be going to. He can’t make the same mistakes I did.
But what is he supposed to tell the police? Hello, I’d like to report a missing person, and by the way, she’s sort of been dead for eight years. I know better than anyone that it would be a lost cause.
I should probably hear Dr. Muller out.
It doesn’t take much to convince Leah we should order Japanese. When I say I could go for a red dragon roll, her eyes glaze over. Sushi is her catnip.
“Call in an order to Matsuki in fifteen minutes,” she says. “Ask for extra soy sauce.”
I trace an invisible circle on the corner of her desk. “Ugh, their eel sauce gave me such a stomachache last time. Can we do Wajima?”
She looks up from her computer. “But they don’t deliver.”
“I could pick it up.” I shrug, as if I could care less either way. “I mean, I finished reading these case studies so I’m just sitting around.”
Leah contemplates this. Normally letting me leave the office would be an automatic no, but my father is in court all day. It’s just us in the office. And if she gets rid of me for half an hour, she can go buck wild and call her boyfriend or do whatever it is she does when the office is empty.
“Okay.” She passes me the company credit card. “Just no side excursions.”
Am I that obvious? I salute her, making sure I avoid her eyes.
At ten minutes to one, I’m waiting outside Wajima with our takeout order. I settle in for the wait, but before a minute or two passes, I spot a tall, dark-skinned man at the opposite corner of 52nd and Lexington. I crane my neck to get a better look at him as he waits among a gaggle of tourists to cross the street.
I can count how many times I’ve seen Dr. Muller on one hand, so I’m not sure it’s him. If it is, he buzzed his hair recently. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a salmon polo. Not many men can pull off salmon, but Dr. Muller can.
“Anne?” He extends a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”
I have to swallow away a smattering of butterflies that rises in my stomach. He’s totally a perfect specimen, and I don’t use that term lightly. “Hi.”
His amber eyes move to the bag at my feet.
“I can’t stay more than fifteen minutes,” I say. “I’m kind of under house arrest.”
Dr. Muller massages his chin with his thumb and forefinger. I can’t tell if he knows what I did to get suspended. “Alright. Shall we go somewhere a little more private?”
We wind up at the sushi bar. Dr. Muller orders a lunch box special and I get a green tea so I have something to do with my hands.
“So,” I say, after a moment of uncomfortable silence punctuated by the sushi chefs shouting over each other. “What the hell is going on here?”
Muller smiles with half his mouth. “I wish I could tell you.”
“You were dating her, weren’t you?”
“We were … friendly.”
“So, yes.”
“Yes.” Dr. Muller allows himself a small smile. “You know, she talked about you often.”
This catches me by surprise. “Really?”
“You reminded her of herself, when she was your age. She said you were extremely bright. But unlike her other students, you didn’t equate money and brains with the right to be a jerk. Her words.” He winks at me.
Stop blushing. Stop blushing. “Oh.”
Muller takes a sip from his tea. “I would have told you all this when she left, but I was still employed by Wheatley at the time. I’d hoped they would hire me permanently, but they found a more experienced candidate.”
“So you’re not going back there in the fall?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve completed my Ph.D. at MIT, so my visa is expiring soon. I’m staying in Queens with a friend from university for a few weeks until I return home.”
I want to curl up and live inside Dr. Muller’s South African accent. He even makes Queens sound actually regal.
“The obituary.” I swallow. “I don’t understand. Did she fake her own death or something?”
Muller blinks at me. “That wasn’t her in the obituary. You know that, right?”
I will away my embarrassment. “Yeah, I mean, duh. But the details … it seems like it was the same person.”
“I think that’s the point. Let me back up a bit.” Muller sets his tea down and folds his hands together. “We started spending a bit of time together after I started at Wheatley. Both of us were new to the faculty. But we found we had a lot more than that in common, and, well …
“Anyway, I noticed that she was fiercely private. She never wanted to socialize with any of the other teachers, and she didn’t like to talk about her past. I didn’t think anything of it until early May.”
“What happened?”
“I’d invited her to sightsee in Boston a bit with me. We ate at an Indian place, and we were supposed to go to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. I thought we were having a great time … but when we left the restaurant, she was upset. Said we had to go straight home, and she wouldn’t say why.”
“After that, I started to pick up on other things that seemed … off. She didn’t have any photos or personal mementos around her apartment. Never got any mail, or phone calls. I supposed it was because she was new in town, but one night, I noticed she owned a Boston Bruins hockey jersey.”
A detail surfaces in my memory: Ms. C had a Bruins pennant hanging in her office.
“She says she’s from Georgia, she went to school in North Carolina … yet she’s a Boston Bruins fan?” I say.
“I thought it strange, too. I asked her about it, and she got very defensive. Said it was a friend’s. Then she didn’t call me for a few days.” Muller traces the rim of his teacup with his fingertip. “I knew something was off with her, then, but I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. We all have things in our past we’d like to hide from.” Muller hesitates. “But I’ll admit I was curious. I broached the subject with Jess. I didn’t accuse her of anything; I simply said I thought it was unusual. She was angry with me for insinuating she was hiding something, and said she needed time apart. Two days later I found out during a faculty meeting that she’d resigned.”
I’m quiet as I digest all of this. Muller must have
confronted Ms. C around the same time I’d asked her to help me find out what happened to Vanessa Reardon, the girl Matt Weaver assaulted. So Ms. C’s disappearance may have had nothing to do with helping me, like I initially thought, and everything to do with Muller figuring out that she was hiding something.
“I did some searching around, and found that there really was a Jessica Cross of Cliftonville,” Muller says. “So the woman we knew was an impostor.”
“Like identity theft?” I ask. “How did no one figure it out?”
“It’s actually quite simple to assume the identity of a deceased person,” Muller replies. “It’s called ghosting. All you need is his or her Social Security number. It’s even easier if you can obtain a duplicate of the person’s driver’s license or birth certificate.”
“But Ms. C—why?”
“It’s more common than you’d think,” Muller says. “There’s any number of reasons why someone would want to disappear and become someone else. Abusive ex-lover, massive amounts of debt, criminal charges—”
“That doesn’t sound like her.” I realize how dumb the words sound as soon as they leave my mouth. “I mean, it doesn’t sound like the person she pretended to be. Around us.”
“It just goes to show you can never really know a person.” There’s sadness in Muller’s voice. He must really care about Ms. C. My stomach clenches as Anthony’s face works its way into my mind. I know what it’s like to feel connected to someone, only for them to be gone as quickly as they came—to have that intense, staccato burst of feeling, followed by just … nothing.
“Do you think she’s okay?” I ask.
“I stopped by her cottage,” Dr. Muller says. “Everything looked secure. Nothing suspicious.”
I let out a breath. “So she’s not in trouble or anything.”
“Oh, I absolutely think she’s in trouble.” Dr. Muller’s eyes meet mine. “But in danger? That I don’t know.”
Frustration gnaws at me. “What are we supposed to do?”
“I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” he says. “They call it ghosting for a reason—how are you supposed to find a person who technically doesn’t exist?”
Ghosting. The word sends a chill up my spine.
I glance at Dr. Muller’s watch. If I don’t get back to the office soon, Leah may send out a SWAT team. I thank Dr. Muller for meeting me, even though I have more questions than I showed up with.
“It seems I have the rest of the day to myself,” he tells me as we release our handshake. “Any tips for a newbie in New York?”
“Stay far, far away from the people dressed as Elmo in Times Square.” I smile at him and turn to leave.
“Anne.” He’s holding up my takeout bag. I’d almost forgotten it.
“You know,” he says, his face thoughtful as he takes me in. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about her. Jessica. Sometimes the best we can do is stay in place and hope whatever we’re running from doesn’t catch up with us. Remember that.”
I think of the blood blossoming around the hole in Travis Shepherd’s chest. Of the promise Anthony and I made to each other not to tell anyone we were there that night. Of the fear that someone else already knows.
I don’t know if Dr. Muller would feel the same way if he knew what I was running from.
Also by Kara Taylor
Prep School Confidential
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
KARA TAYLOR is the twenty-something author of the Prep School Confidential novels. Recently, she signed a blind script deal with Warner Bros. Television. In the past, Taylor has worked as everything from a nanny to an ice cream scooper on Fire Island, New York. She lives on Long Island, New York. Visit her online at www.karamtaylor.com.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
WICKED LITTLE SECRETS. Copyright © 2014 by St. Martin’s Press, LLC. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Danielle Fiorella
Cover photograph by Barry David Marcus
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Taylor, Kara.
Wicked little secrets: a Prep school confidential novel / Kara Taylor. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-03360-4 (trade paperback)
ISBN 978-1-250-03361-1 (e-book)
1. Boarding schools—Fiction. 2. Schools—Fiction. 3. Mystery and detective stories. 4. Youths’ writings. I. Title.
PZ7.T21479Wic 2014
[Fic]—dc23
2013032065
e-ISBN 9781250033611
First Edition: March 2014
