The Complete Hush, Hush Saga

by Becca Fitzpatrick

  I knocked on the door, and a moment later it opened from within. Miss Greene had flawless pale skin, sea blue eyes, a lush mouth, and fine, straight blond hair that tumbled past her elbows. It was parted at the crown of her oval-shaped face. A pair of turquoise cat’s-eye glasses sat at the tip of her nose, and she was dressed formally in a gray herringbone pencil skirt and a pink silk blouse. Her figure was willowy but feminine. She couldn’t have been more than five years older than me.

  “You must be Nora Grey. You look just like the picture in your file,” she said, giving my hand a firm pump. Her voice was abrupt, but not rude. Businesslike.

  Stepping back, she signaled me to enter the office.

  “Can I get you juice, water?” she asked.

  “What happened to Dr. Hendrickson?”

  “He took early retirement. I’ve had my eye on this job for a while, so I jumped on the opening. I went to Florida State, but I grew up in Portland, and my parents still live there. It’s nice to be close to family again.”

  I surveyed the small office. It had changed drastically since I’d last been in a few weeks ago. The wall-to-wall bookshelves were now filled with academic but generic-looking hardcovers, all bound in neutral colors with gold lettering. Dr. Hendrickson had used the shelves to display family pictures, but there were no snapshots of Miss Greene’s private life. The same fern hung by the window, but under Dr. Hendrickson’s care, it had been far more brown than green. A few days with Miss Greene and already it looked pert and alive. There was a pink paisley chair opposite the desk, and several moving boxes stacked in the far corner.

  “Friday was my first day,” she explained, seeing my eyes fall on the moving boxes. “I’m still unpacking. Have a seat.”

  I lowered my backpack down my arm and sat on the paisley chair. Nothing in the small room gave me any clues as to Miss Greene’s personality. She had a stack of file folders on her desk— not neat, but not messy, either—and a white mug of what looked like tea. There wasn’t a trace of perfume or air freshener. Her computer monitor was black.

  Miss Greene crouched in front of a file cabinet behind her desk, tugged out a clean manila folder, and printed my name on the tab in black Magic Marker. She placed it on her desk next to my old file, which bore a few of Dr. Hendrickson’s coffee-mug stains.

  “I spent the whole weekend going through Dr. Hendrickson’s files,” she said. “Just between the two of us, his handwriting gives me a migraine, so I’m copying over all the files. I was amazed to find he didn’t use a computer to type his notes. Who still uses longhand in this day and age?”

  She settled back into her swivel chair, crossed her legs, and smiled politely at me. “Well. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the history of your meetings with Dr. Hendrickson? I could barely decipher his notes. It appeared the two of you were discussing how you feel about your mom’s new job.”

  “It’s not all that new. She’s been working for a year.”

  “She used to be a stay-at-home mom, correct? And after your dad’s passing, she took on a full-time job.” She squinted at a sheet of paper in my file. “She works for an auction company, correct? It looks like she coordinates estate auctions all down the coast.” She peeked at me over her glasses. “That must require a lot of time away from home.”

  “We wanted to stay in our farmhouse,” I said, my tone touching on the defensive. “We couldn’t afford the mortgage if she took a local job.” I hadn’t exactly loved my sessions with Dr. Hendrickson, but I found myself resenting him for retiring and abandoning me to Miss Greene. I was starting to get a feel for her, and she seemed attentive to detail. I sensed her itching to dig into every dark corner of my life.

  “Yes, but you must be very lonely all by yourself at the farmhouse.”

  “We have a housekeeper who stays with me every afternoon until nine or ten at night.”

  “But a housekeeper isn’t the same thing as a mother.”

  I eyed the door. I didn’t even try to be discreet.

  “Do you have a best friend? A boyfriend? Someone you can talk to when your housekeeper doesn’t quite . . . fit the bill?” She dunked a tea bag in the mug, then raised it for a sip.

  “I have a best friend.” I’d made up my mind to say as little as possible. The less I said, the shorter the appointment. The shorter the appointment, the sooner I could visit Vee.

  Her eyebrows peaked. “Boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “You’re an attractive girl. I imagine there must be some interest from the opposite sex.”

  “Here’s the thing,” I said as patiently as possible. “I really appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but I had this exact conversation with Dr. Hendrickson a year ago when my dad died. Rehashing it with you isn’t helping. It’s like going back in time and reliving it all over again. Yes, it was tragic and horrible, and I’m still dealing with it every day, but what I really need is to move on.”

  The clock on the wall ticked between us.

  “Well,” Miss Greene said at last, plastering on a smile. “It’s very helpful to know your viewpoint, Nora. Which is what I was trying to understand all along. I’ll make a note of your feelings in your file. Anything else you want to talk about?”

  “Nope.” I smiled to confirm that, really, I was doing fine.

  She leafed through a few more pages of my file. I had no idea what observations Dr. Hendrickson had immortalized there, and I didn’t want to wait around long enough to find out.

  I lifted my backpack off the floor and scooted to the edge of the chair. “I don’t mean to cut things short, but I need to be somewhere at four.”

  “Oh?”

  I had no desire to go into Vee’s attack with Miss Greene. “Library research,” I lied.

  “For which class?”

  I said the first answer that popped to mind. “Biology.”

  “Speaking of classes, how are yours going? Any concerns in that department?”

  “No.”

  She flipped a few more pages in my file. “Excellent grades,” she observed. “It says here you’re tutoring your biology partner, Patch Cipriano.” She looked up, apparently wanting my confirmation.

  I was surprised my tutoring assignment was important enough to make it into the school psychologist’s file. “So far we haven’t been able to meet. Conflicting schedules.” I gave a What can you do? shrug.

  She tapped my file on her desk, tidying all the loose sheets of paper into one clean stack, then inserted it into the new file she’d hand-labeled. “To give you fair warning, I’m going to talk with Mr. McConaughy and see about setting some parameters for your tutoring sessions. I’d like all meetings to be held here at school, under the direct supervision of a teacher or other faculty member. I don’t want you tutoring Patch off school property. I especially don’t want the two of you meeting alone.”

  A chill tiptoed along my skin. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “I can’t discuss it.”

  The only reason I could think why she didn’t want me alone with Patch was that he was dangerous. My past might frighten you, he’d said on the loading platform of the Archangel.

  “Thanks for your time. I won’t keep you any longer,” Miss Greene said. She strode to the door, propping it open with her slender hip. She gave a parting smile, but it looked perfunctory.

  After leaving Miss Greene’s office, I called the hospital. Vee’s surgery was over, but she was still in the recovery room and couldn’t have visitors until seven p.m. I consulted the clock on my phone. Three hours. I found the Fiat in the student parking lot and dropped inside, hoping an afternoon spent doing homework at the library would keep my mind off the long wait.

  I stayed at the library through the afternoon, and before I realized it, the clock on the wall had passed quietly into evening. My stomach rumbled against the quiet of the library, and my thoughts went to the vending machine just inside the entrance.

  The last of my homework could wait until later, but there
was still one project that required the help of library resources. I had a vintage IBM computer at home with dial-up Internet service, and I typically tried to save myself a lot of unnecessary shouting and hair pulling by using the library’s computer lab. I had a theater review of Othello due on the eZine editor’s desk by nine p.m., and I made a deal with myself, promising I’d go hunt down food as soon as I finished it.

  Packing up my belongings, I walked to the elevators. Inside the cage I pushed the button to close the doors, but didn’t immediately request a floor. I pulled out my cell and called the hospital again.

  “Hi,” I told the answering nurse. “My friend is recovering from surgery, and when I checked in earlier this afternoon, I was told she’d be out tonight. Her name is Vee Sky.”

  There was a pause and the clicking of computer keys. “Looks like they’ll be bringing her to a private room within the hour.”

  “What time do visiting hours end?”

  “Eight.”

  “Thank you.” I disconnected and pressed the third-floor button, sending me up.

  On the third floor I followed signs to collections, hoping that if I read several theater reviews in the local newspaper, it would spark my muse.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the librarian behind the collections desk. “I’m trying to find copies of the Portland Press Herald from the past year. Particularly the theater guide.”

  “We don’t keep anything that current in collections,” she said, “but if you look online, I believe the Portland Press Herald keeps archives on their website. Head straight down the hallway behind you and you’ll see the media lab on your left.”

  Inside the lab I signed onto a computer. I was about to dive into my assignment when an idea struck me. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it earlier. After confirming no one was watching over my shoulder, I Googled “Patch Cipriano.” Maybe I’d find an article that would shed light on his past. Or maybe he kept a blog.

  I frowned at the search results. Nothing. No Facebook, no MySpace, no blog. It was like he didn’t exist.

  “What’s your story, Patch?” I murmured. “Who are you—really?”

  Half an hour later, I’d read several reviews and my eyes were glazing over. I spread my online search to all newspapers in Maine. A link to Kinghorn Prep’s school paper popped up. A few seconds passed before I placed the familiar name. Elliot had transferred from Kinghorn Prep. On a whim, I decided to check it out. If the school was as elite as Elliot claimed, it probably had a respectable paper.

  I clicked on the link, scrolled over the archives page, and randomly chose March 21 of earlier this year. A moment later I had a headline.

  STUDENT QUESTIONED IN KINGHORN PREP MURDER

  I scooted my chair closer, lured by the idea of reading something more exciting than theater reviews.

  A sixteen-year-old Kinghorn Preparatory student who police were questioning in what has been dubbed “The Kinghorn Hanging” has been released without charge. After eighteen-year-old Kjirsten Halverson’s body was found hanging from a tree on the wooded campus of Kinghorn Prep, police questioned sophomore Elliot Saunders, who was seen with the victim on the night of her death.

  My mind was slow to process the information. Elliot was questioned as part of a murder investigation?

  Halverson worked as a waitress at Blind Joe’s. Police confirm that Halverson and Saunders were seen walking the campus together late Saturday night. Halverson’s body was discovered Sunday morning, and Saunders was released Monday afternoon after a suicide note was discovered in Halverson’s apartment.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  I jumped at the sound of Elliot’s voice behind me. I whirled around to find him leaning against the doorjamb. His eyes were narrowed ever so slightly, his mouth set in a line. Something cold flushed through me, like a blush, only opposite.

  I wheeled my chair slightly to the right, trying to position myself in front of the computer’s monitor. “I’m—I’m just finishing up homework. How about you? What are you doing? I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been standing there?” My pitch was all over the place.

  Elliot pushed away from the doorjamb and walked inside the lab. I groped blindly behind me for the monitor’s on/off button.

  I said, “I’m attempting to jump-start my inspiration on a theater review I’m supposed to have to my editor by later tonight.” I was still speaking much too fast. Where was the button?

  Elliot peered around me. “Theater reviews?”

  My fingers brushed a button, and I heard the monitor drain to black. “I’m sorry, what did you say you’re doing here?”

  “I was walking by when I saw you. Something wrong? You seem . . . jumpy.”

  “Uh—low blood sugar.” I swept my papers and books into a pile and shoehorned them inside my backpack. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

  Elliot hooked a nearby chair and wheeled it next to mine. He sat backward on it and leaned close, invading my personal space. “Maybe I can help with the review.”

  I leaned away. “Wow, that’s really nice of you, but I’m going to call it quits for now. I need to grab something to eat. It’s a good time to break.”

  “Let me buy you dinner,” he said. “Isn’t there a diner just around the corner?”

  “Thanks, but my mom will be expecting me. She’s been out of town all week and gets back tonight.” I stood and tried to step around him. He held his cell phone out, and it caught me in the navel.

  “Call her.”

  I lowered my gaze to the phone and scrambled for an excuse. “I’m not allowed to go out on school nights.”

  “It’s called lying, Nora. Tell her homework is taking longer than you expected. Tell her you need another hour at the library. She’s not going to know the difference.”

  Elliot’s voice had taken on an edge I’d never heard before. His blue eyes snapped with a newfound coldness, his mouth looked thinner.

  “My mom doesn’t like me going out with guys she hasn’t met,” I said.

  Elliot smiled, but there was no warmth. “We both know you’re not too concerned with your mom’s rules, since Saturday night you were with me at Delphic.”

  I had my backpack slung over one shoulder, and I was clutching the strap. I didn’t say anything. I brushed past Elliot and walked out of the lab in a hurry, realizing that if he turned the monitor on, he’d see the article. But there wasn’t anything I could do now.

  Halfway to the collections desk, I dared a glance over my shoulder. The plate-glass walls showed that the lab was empty. Elliot was nowhere to be seen. I retraced my steps to the computer, keeping my eyes on guard in case he reappeared. I turned on the monitor; the murder investigation article was still up. Sending a copy to the nearest printer, I tucked it inside my binder, logged off, and hurried out.

  CHAPTER

  12

  MY CELL PHONE BUZZED IN MY POCKET, AND after confirming I wasn’t being evil-eyed by a librarian, I answered. “Mom?” “Good news,” she said. “The auction wrapped up early. I got on the road an hour ahead of schedule and should be home soon. Where are you?”

  “Hi! I wasn’t expecting you until later. I’m just leaving the library. How was upstate New York?”

  “Upstate New York was . . . long.” She laughed, but she sounded drained. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  I looked around for a clock. I wanted to stop by the hospital and see Vee before heading home.

  “Here’s the deal,” I told my mom. “I need to visit Vee. I might be a few minutes late. I’ll hurry—I promise.”

  “Of course.” I detected the tiniest disappointment. “Any updates? I got your message this morning about her surgery.”

  “Surgery is over. They’re taking her to a private room any minute now.”

  “Nora.” I heard the swell of emotion in her voice. “I’m so glad it wasn’t you. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you. Especially since your dad—” She broke off. “I’m just g
lad we’re both safe. Say hi to Vee for me. See you soon. Hugs and kisses.”

  “Love you, Mom.”

  Coldwater’s Regional Medical Center is a three-story redbrick structure with a covered walkway leading up to the main entrance. I passed through the revolving glass doors and stopped at the main desk to inquire about Vee. I was told she’d been moved to a room half an hour ago, and that visiting hours ended in fifteen minutes. I located the elevators and punched the button to send me up a floor.

  At room 207 I pushed on the door. “Vee?” I coaxed a bouquet of balloons inside behind me, crossed the small foyer, and found Vee reclining in bed, her left arm in a cast and slung across her body.

  “Hi!” I said when I saw she was awake.

  Vee expelled a luxurious sigh. “I love drugs. Really. They’re amazing. Even better than an Enzo cappuccino. Hey, that rhymed. Enzo cappuccino. It’s a sign. I’m destined to be a poet. Want to hear another poem? I’m good at impromptu.”

  “Uh—”

  A nurse swished in and tinkered around with Vee’s IV. “Feeling okay?” she asked Vee.

  “Forget being a poet,” Vee said. “I’m destined for stand-up comedy. Knock, knock.”

  “What?” I said.

  The nurse rolled her eyes. “Who’s there?”

  “Crab,” said Vee.

  “Crab who?”

  “Crab your towel, we’re going to the beach!”

  “Maybe a little less painkillers,” I told the nurse.

  “Too late. I just gave her another dose. Wait until you see her in ten minutes.” She swished back out the door.

  “So?” I asked Vee. “What’s the verdict?”

  “The verdict? My doctor is a lard-arse. Closely resembles an Oompa-Loompa. Don’t give me your severe look. Last time he came in, he broke into the Funky Chicken. And he’s forever eating chocolate. Mostly chocolate animals. You know the solid chocolate bunnies they’re selling for Easter? That’s what the Oompa-Loompa ate for dinner. Had a chocolate duck at lunch with a side of yellow Peeps.”