by Ohlin, Nancy
Max thought I would like this place since I’m part Hungarian, which is so thoughtful of him. Except . . . where is he? He texted me earlier and asked if he could meet me here instead of Kerrith. He said that something had come up.
I pick up my phone. He’s almost fifteen minutes late. I take a sip of my Coke and type:
Where are you? I’m at the restaurant.
No reply. I wait another five minutes. Still no reply.
I decide to try Franklin next. He texts right back and says he thought Max was with me.
Nope.
Franklin texts again and says he’s in for the night studying, and he’ll let me know if Max shows up.
I gnaw on my thumbnail and dial Max’s number. It rings once, then: “Hi, this is Max. Leave me a message.”
“Hey, it’s me. Where are you? I’m at the restaurant. Call me or text me or something, okay?” I say.
I set my phone down on the table, right next to my napkin, so I can keep a close eye on it. I try to read the menu, but the words kind of blur into each other.
I’m worried. Really worried. Max would never blow me off for our belated Valentine’s Day date.
Another five minutes pass. Then ten. It’s obvious he isn’t coming, but he hasn’t called or texted. Something must have happened to him. I apologize to the nice Hungarian woman, give her money for my Coke, and rush out into the snowy night.
I walk around the campus for the next half hour or so, searching for Max. I try the Chapin lobby, the library, Lanyon Hall. No success. And he still isn’t responding to my calls or texts.
Maybe he had another migraine and was in too much pain to crawl out of bed. But if that were the case, Franklin would have let me know, right?
I’m trying desperately not to panic.
Eventually, I decide to go back to Kerrith to change into warmer clothes so I can hike out to the cliff. I make a mental note to grab a flashlight, too. I know there’s like a zero percent chance Max is out there. But it’s worth a try.
I’m calling his number again when I reach the third-floor landing. When I get to the room, a cell phone is ringing and strange noises are coming from inside.
Confused, I hang up and press my ear to the door. Is Devon crying? What’s going on?
I open the door. “Devon? Are you—”
I stop in my tracks.
Devon is in my bed. Half-naked. On top of Max.
37.
DEVON LEAPS TO HER FEET AND STARES AT ME WITH A HORRIFIED expression. She’s wearing a white lace bra and matching thong and nothing else.
“Tess! You weren’t supposed to—ohmigosh, I’m so, so sorry!” she cries out. “I feel so guilty. I never meant for this to happen.”
There is a vodka bottle on my nightstand and two Thorn Abbey coffee mugs. One of them has a shimmery pink lipstick stain on it.
I stand there, frozen, unable to react. Or think. Or feel. Devon and Max? How is this possible? He hates her. Or that’s what he told me, anyway.
A voice echoes in my head: He’s just like every other guy.
I grit my teeth. He’s not. I know he’s not. I also know that he cares about me and would never do this to me. Something doesn’t add up.
Max is lying on my bed in a pair of black boxers; the rest of his clothes are in a heap on the floor, next to a bouquet of crushed red tulips. Were they for me? His eyes are closed, and he’s not moving.
“Max?” I call out.
He doesn’t respond.
“Max?” I repeat, more loudly.
Still nothing.
I hurry over to him and shake him. He’s out cold.
“He’s kind of had a lot to drink,” Devon explains sheepishly. “I feel like such a terrible person! You’re never going to forgive me, are you?”
I turn to the nightstand. The bottle of vodka is almost full.
And then I notice something else. There is a brown prescription bottle and pills scattered across the floor.
I pick up the bottle and read the label. It’s one of Devon’s medications.
“You drugged him, didn’t you?” I say slowly. “You put some of these in his drink.”
“What? Ohmigosh, I would never do that!”
“If I went online right now and looked up the overdose symptoms of this medicine, would one of them be unconsciousness?”
Her eyes flash with a strange expression. Fear? Panic? Rage? “Tess, you’re imagining things. Look, I know you’re upset that we were making out. I don’t blame you. But I would never do something like that to Maxi!”
“How many pills did you give him?”
She plucks a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt from the floor and pulls them on. “He initiated this meet-up,” she says stubbornly.
“I said, how many pills did you give him?”
“He told me he needed to talk about something important. In private. So I told him to come up here. He was so nervous, I offered him a drink. Maybe he’d been drinking before, I don’t know. Anyway, I had a couple of drinks too, and we both got pretty woozy. Then all of a sudden he’s kissing me and tearing my clothes off and . . . well, you know the rest.”
I knot my fists. “You goddamned bitch. I’m calling 911 and campus security right now. And don’t bother blaming your recent ‘trauma’ for what happened here. Because everyone will be able to see you for exactly what you are—a lying, conniving whore!”
Devon’s mouth twists into a cold, creepy smile. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Well, you’re not. You have no idea who you’re up against,” she purrs.
“Excuse me?”
Max stirs. “Tess? Is that you?” he murmurs weakly.
I rush over and kneel down beside him. “Yes, it’s me! How are you feeling?”
He rubs his forehead. “W-what’s going on? Where am I?”
“You’re in my room. Are you okay? I was just about to call 911 and get you some help.”
The door slams. I turn around. Devon is gone.
Max reaches for my hand and grips it with surprising strength. “No, don’t!”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t call 911. Don’t call anyone.”
“Max, what are you talking about?”
“Tess, she knows.”
“Knows what?”
Max closes his eyes wearily. “There’s something I haven’t told you.”
38.
ON SUNDAY, I SIT ON A WOODEN BENCH OUTSIDE HEADMASTER Henle’s office. Franklin is next to me, trying to keep me calm. And not succeeding. My knees won’t stop shaking, and I’ve bitten practically all my fingernails down to the quick.
Last night, Max told me that Devon had blackmailed him into meeting her in our room. He said he would explain everything when he was more alert. I called Franklin to help me sneak Max out of Kerrith and get him back to Chapin.
But by this morning, it was too late. Devon went to the police and made some sort of accusation against Max. He’s in the headmaster’s office with them now. Franklin and I are waiting for him to come out.
“What is going on in there?” I ask Franklin, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.
Franklin squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry, Tess. It’s just a formality.”
“What’s just a formality? What did she say to the police, anyway?”
“So I guess Max hasn’t told you?”
“We haven’t spoken since last night. Told me what?”
Franklin takes a deep breath. “Devon claims she has evidence that Max killed Becca.”
I gasp. “What?”
“She claims she saw something that night, and . . .” Franklin shrugs. “Obviously, she’s crazy.”
“Well, yes! Obviously! Max is innocent! Besides, why now? Why didn’t she go to the police last May if she suspected something?”
“Exactly.”
“So they’ll just question Max and that’ll be it, right? Case closed?”
Franklin glances over his shoulder at the headmaster’s door. “I’m not
sure,” he says after a moment. “I hope so. But I guess there’s always a chance they’ll reopen the investigation.”
“No!” I practically shout.
“Tess. Please. We need to figure out how to help Max.”
“Okay, okay.”
I slump back in my seat and gnaw on my thumbnail some more. From across the hallway, Aurora Thorn’s portrait stares down at me. I wish I had a tarp to cover it—or better yet, a can of black spray paint or an X-Acto knife. Not that Aurora Thorn ever did anything to me, but still . . .
Focus, I tell myself.
Devon was a pathological liar before her accident. And after her accident, she became forgetful. Kinder. Gentler. That is, until she decided to drug Max and seduce him and then go to the police with a vicious made-up story to incriminate him.
She knows.
There’s something I haven’t told you.
What did Max mean? What does Devon know? And what hasn’t Max told me?
A few minutes later, the door opens. Franklin and I both stand. Headmaster Henle pokes his head out and motions to Franklin. “Mr. Chase, I was just about to call you. Officer Phibbs would like to speak to you. Could you go down to Dean Sanchez’s office and make yourself comfortable? Officer Phibbs will be right there.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Miss Szekeres, this may take a few hours.”
A few hours? “Um, yes, sir. I’ll just head back to my dorm, then.”
As I walk by the open doorway, I glance past the headmaster and catch a brief glimpse of Max. A man in a fancy gray suit is leaning over and whispering something in his ear. It looks like a scene from one of the Law & Order episodes Mom and I used to watch.
His lawyer. That must be his lawyer.
Max really is in trouble.
When I get back to Kerrith, Devon is not in our room. I haven’t seen her since she took off last night, although she did text me at, like, one a.m. to say that she was sleeping elsewhere, so would I please not bother sending out the bloodhounds, blah, blah, blah.
I lock the door and get to work. Devon claims that she has evidence that Max killed Becca. I’m totally, one hundred percent positive she’s lying through her teeth. But maybe she fabricated something, and if so, maybe she’s hiding this alleged “evidence” in our room.
I need to do a thorough and complete search, Law & Order style.
I start with Devon’s closet. It used to be an unholy mess: piles of expensive designer clothes crumpled on the floor, mismatched shoes scattered like bowling pins. Now it’s absolutely pristine—every item hung up on padded satin hangers or lined up on the shelves. Weird. But, whatever. Maybe Devon decided to become a neat freak after her close brush with death. Or maybe she was just bored.
Working quickly, I go through pockets, sleeves, hems, shoes, shoe boxes, storage cartons. Everything smells like Becca’s perfume. Ugh. I try not to think about the Valentine’s Day dance; I can’t afford to plunge into a deep depression right now.
After half an hour in the closet, I turn up nothing. I try her dresser. Then her bed. Then under her bed. Her nightstand.
Still nothing.
Devon’s laptop is on her desk, in sleep mode. I wake it up, and a fire prevention article appears on the screen. I scan it quickly. It’s incredibly technical. Is she writing a paper for chem?
Her other files and documents all seem to be school-related. And I don’t have her password, so I can’t access her e-mail. Crap.
A piece of pink paper sticks out from under the laptop with BIKEMANIA 24 FRONT ST scribbled on it. Devon on a bicycle? She told me once that her preferred modes of transportation were “business class” or “the passenger seat of a hot guy’s Porsche.” Her words.
I comb the rest of her desk, saving the bottom drawer for last. I guess there’s a chance she stashed her “evidence” in the silver box. I open the drawer. And do a double take. Becca’s red leather diary is on top of the silver box, not in it. I try the lid. It’s not locked.
Strange.
I pick up the diary and flip to a random page. I haven’t taken a peek since last fall. Fortunately, the thought of reading Becca’s private revelations no longer makes me want to curl up and die. I know now that Max didn’t love her. She’s not my competition, and she never was.
March 3
I can’t meet up with M tonight b/c MX’s parents are in town and I have to have dinner with them. So boring. I’ll have to make it up to M. I bought a little something at La Perla he’s going to love love love.
My breath catches in my throat. “M” isn’t Max. It’s someone else. Becca was hooking up with another person behind Max’s back.
I think about the diary entries I read last fall. Maybe that “M” wasn’t Max, either?
I flip through more pages. An entry from last April catches my eye:
MX is driving me crazy. Today he started to have that talk with me again, about how maybe we need to take a break or some bullshit. I pretended to cry and he backed off. Why doesn’t he fall madly in love with me like everyone else? One of these days he will, and that’s when I’ll dump his sorry ass. Let him see what it feels like to be rejected. JERK. He is NOT allowed to humiliate me. I won’t let him. He has no idea who he’s up against.
At least I have M. Dear, obedient Monty. I can count on him for THAT whenever the urge strikes. We’re like friends with benefits, but even better.
Oh. So M is someone named Monty. Monty who? I flip back to the pages I read last fall.
Speaking of M, he texted tonight and said he wants to meet up this weekend. I don’t know what to tell him. I want to be with him, but I know I shouldn’t. I’m so mixed up.
Last night, D spent the night down the hall, and M spent the night in our room. Heaven.
And then it hits me.
Monty—“M”—is Killian Montgomery. I remember him telling me ages ago that he and Becca had nicknames for each other. She was his “Becky.” He must have been her “Monty.”
Becca was cheating on Max with Killian. With her cousin.
39.
I SINK DOWN TO THE FLOOR, SHAKING MY HEAD IN DISBELIEF. Becca was hooking up with Killian, just for the sex? How long had that been going on? Did Max ever suspect?
I should have known. Max said he and Becca only dated for a few months before she died. She was writing about hooking up with “M” way back in September of the previous year.
I text both Max and Franklin to contact me the second their meetings are over.
I need to read more of Becca’s diary. I want to figure out what, if anything, Becca’s relationship with Killian had to do with whatever it is Devon knows about her death . . . or thinks she knows . . . or is pretending she knows.
There are so many layers to this mystery. My head is spinning, and the stress is making me hungry. I get up and grab an emergency snack from my desk—sour cream and onion chips and Double Stuf Oreos—and hunker down with the diary.
April 6
Can you believe W thought I would actually attend her birthday party? Why would I want to spend the weekend with her at her family’s little shack in Truro? I would DIE of boredom with her and the other Drama Club kids. And my lips would fall off from fake smiling for 48 straight hours.
It’s funny—W always says I’m so sweet. On the outside, I am. I have to be. Otherwise, people might start to hate me. And THEN what?
April 15
C wrote my T. S. Eliot paper for me. He thinks I’m going to break up with MX for him haha.
April 22
I actually got F to cover for me with MX when M and I had our meet-up Saturday. It didn’t take much to convince F. Poor thing, I think he has a crush on me.
April 24
I’ve got it all figured it out with MX. He gets mad when I flirt with other boys. But if I beg him for forgiveness, he’s placated. At least for a while. I do like him. Sometimes I think I could even fall in love with him. But I don’t believe in love, and besides, he’s not enough for me. I’m not
sure if anyone is.
April 28
No boys around. MX and M are both out of town. It’s probably just as well because I’m feeling really fat and ugly this weekend. I need someone to remind me I’m beautiful.
Deep down I’m just like any other girl, I suppose. A bottomless pit of insecurity. So unattractive.
I need a fucking drink.
May 1
I feel a little guilty. D idolizes me. She also seems to idolize the idea of me and MX together. Like we’re some fairy-tale couple. Like we’re William and Kate.
I wonder if D suspects about M. That it’s not MX I’m actually sneaking into our room on weekends.
Wait, what? Devon told me that Becca used to sneak Max into their room. But it was actually Killian all along? Did Devon know?
I skip ahead to the very end. What was going on between Becca and Max and Killian right before she died?
I flip to the final entry.
It’s not from last May.
It’s from a few days ago. February 20, to be exact.
Fuck him. FUCK HIM!!!!!! He forced my hand, telling his stupid little girlfriend the truth. Well, his version of the truth anyway. How DARE he say those things about me?
This is all his fault. HIS FAULT. Besides, D stopped listening and obeying. She’s been way too nice, too forgiving. What, is that pathetic poser her new BFF now? I warned her about that.
I don’t know if it was the meds or what. I should have made her stop taking them way sooner. In any case, I lost her. She was lost. I had to lead her to the cliff. She had to die. People have to know what really happened last spring.
She had to die? Who had to die?
This is beyond freaky. Frowning, I read the entry once, twice, three times. The handwriting is almost but not quite the same as the handwriting in the rest of the diary.
What the hell? Did Devon have a total psychotic breakdown? Does she believe on some unconscious level that she’s Becca?
Did she kill Becca? But the timing doesn’t work.
I lean back in my chair and munch on an Oreo and think about when I first met Devon. And all the creepy things that started happening when I arrived at Thorn Abbey. The mysterious crying from Gita’s room next door. Devon’s sleep-talking spells in the middle of the night.
