by Linda Keir
“It’s truly been something of a mystery,” he said, his words chasing him all the way to his car.
Chapter Fifty-Four
“Please tell me the meeting I just had with Headmaster Scanlon was a bad dream,” Mr. Kelly demanded. “Tell me you and Tate didn’t actually go down to the county jail and interview Curtis Royal.”
Cassidy inhaled sharply. When she’d asked Dad to steer clear of Mr. Kelly, why didn’t she tell him to stay off campus completely? He must have run into Scanlon or something.
“I was the only one who actually interviewed Roy,” she said. “I told Tate to wait for me outside.”
“What the f—” He caught himself. “What on earth were you thinking?”
Cassidy was disappointed he’d caught himself before dropping the f-bomb. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to get you in trouble.”
“Too late for that,” Mr. Kelly told her, breaking eye contact for the first time and settling unhappily into his office chair. “If I wasn’t already leaving at the end of the semester, I’m sure I’d be cleaning out my desk.”
Cassidy’s stomach felt suddenly hollow. “But it’s not your fault.”
Mr. Kelly sighed and interlocked his fingers behind his head. “I’m ultimately responsible. My class, my students, my project.”
Her legs feeling a little weak, Cassidy slumped into the visitor’s chair and scanned the empty shelves, messy desktop, and smudged window of the narrow little office. She pictured Mom here with Dallas Walker and then stopped herself before she could imagine what they might have been doing. For the first time since making the discovery, she felt sorry for the girl her mother had been when her pervy teacher seduced her.
“This is my fault,” Cassidy said. “I’ll make things right.”
Mr. Kelly looked skeptical.
“I interviewed Roy,” she continued. “I went home and told my parents about it, and I worried them enough that my dad talked to Scanlon. I’ll make sure you aren’t held accountable for my actions.”
She couldn’t quite bring herself to say I’m a Copeland, it will all work out, but she hoped he got the message.
“My dad and mom may be upset, but they support what I did.”
Mr. Kelly leaned forward. “Cassidy, it’s important to be fearless, not careless. Assuming I don’t get fired, you don’t get expelled, and the school doesn’t cancel the class entirely, the police can’t be thrilled you went in there and grilled that guy.”
“He has the right to receive visitors.”
He put his head in his hands. “Jesus.”
“He swears the police informant made up the accusation to try to get out of a three-strikes charge. If that’s true, we have to help him, and my parents agree.”
“Cassidy,” he said with a sigh. “Under normal circumstances—”
“Normal circumstances don’t apply if he’s telling the truth.”
“You’re not going to give up,” he said. “Are you?”
“If you want to grow up to be a real live investigative journalist, you have to learn to avoid assumptions. To avoid rushing to judgment. Just because someone has been arrested for a crime, it doesn’t mean they’ve done it.”
“Is that an exact quote?” he asked.
“I’d have to consult my notes before I published it,” Cassidy said.
He grinned wryly. “I’ve created an investigative-journalism monster.”
Cassidy smiled back. “On a quest to uphold innocence.”
“All right. Assuming I keep my job, what do you propose we should do?”
“Look into the snitch and see what his deal is.”
“What else?”
“Look again at the remaining suspects.”
“I really don’t think there are any.”
“How about Scott Stover, the facilities manager, who got chewed out by Dallas Walker on a regular basis about the heating and cooling issues in the classroom?”
“Having been in that room all year, I’d say the man had a point,” Mr. Kelly said. “Stover tore his ACL and was on workers’ comp at the time of the disappearance. Group three just turned in a report.”
“What about Aunt—I mean, Georgina Fordham?”
“Despite her curious need to insert herself into everything, she has no real motive.”
“Not one we’ve found yet, anyway.”
“Next,” Mr. Kelly said.
“What about the new interview, where Miranda Darrow said Sylvie Montgomery was unstable?”
“That’s not a bad lead, but nobody’s located Sylvie.”
Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a few tricks of the trade we haven’t used? Things only a pro would know how to do?”
Kelly sighed loudly.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Cassidy said.
Chapter Fifty-Five
The drive back to St. Louis was a blur of asphalt, off-ramps, and signs with arrows suggesting new destinations. Ian was gripped by an urge to turn and get lost, but as he pulled into the garage and entered the house, he knew there was only one way to go.
Andi gave him a perfunctory kiss in the kitchen. The dinner dishes had been cleared away, but she’d left him a plate covered in aluminum foil.
“Where are the twins?” he asked.
“Upstairs, doing homework.”
“Sharon Lysander told me acceptance letters are en route.”
“We got them today,” she said, pointing at two matching envelopes stamped with the Glenlake logo, on the counter in the butler’s pantry. “I thought we could open them together. We could do with a reason to celebrate.”
“Why celebrate a foregone conclusion?” he snapped.
He saw how his tone made her wince. “What’s going on, Ian?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” he asked, walking down the hall into his office, knowing she’d follow. When she did, he closed the door behind them. “And while you’re at it, how’s your stomach?”
“My stomach?” She seemed genuinely puzzled.
“You know, the chronic condition that required you to request your medical records when you picked Cassidy up for Thanksgiving?”
As recognition dawned on her face, he didn’t quite know how to interpret Andi’s crestfallen expression.
“If you’ve been having digestive issues since high school, it seems like you would have mentioned that by now.”
“I made that up,” she admitted cautiously, avoiding his gaze.
He folded his arms across his chest, daring her to fill the silence.
“I was worried about the investigation. About Cassidy finding out . . . well, she found out anyway. I didn’t think you knew about Dallas, and I wanted to make sure there was nothing that could lead anyone to the truth.”
“What can your old medical records possibly have to do with this?” he asked with a growing sense of unease.
“Well, anyway, they don’t exist anymore.”
“That’s not an answer.” Anger surged within him. “What the fuck aren’t you telling me?”
“I could ask you the same question,” she said.
“Don’t put this on me.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on things all along,” she said defiantly. “What I haven’t told you is that I’ve been logging on to Cassidy’s computer for months to read the evidence the journalism class has been compiling.”
“And why is that?” he asked.
“When I first saw that photo of Dallas’s car on parents’ weekend, I knew I had to protect our family.” She paused. “Us. You.”
Andi’s text alert buzzed.
“You’re not going to respond, are you?” Ian said, watching in disbelief as she pulled the phone from her back pocket.
“Of course not,” she said curtly. Then: “Oh my god. It’s Sylvie.”
It took him a moment to process the name. “Montgomery? Why would she be texting you?”
Andi looked at him. “She says she’s going to call and hopes I’m available to talk.”
&nb
sp; The phone rang.
“Put her on speaker,” he said, annoyed by the interruption, but wanting to hear more than Andi’s carefully measured responses to whatever Sylvie had called to talk about.
Andi did as he asked.
Sylvie’s voice was still startlingly familiar, as was the guilty feeling he’d always had whenever she turned up.
Whenever they’d hooked up back then.
“Months and months after I sent Tommy a friend request, he finally accepted. Then, within the next twenty-four hours, I’m not only friended by half our class, but I get a message from Georgina suggesting I contact you, followed by a voice mail from your daughter Cassidy.”
Ian had been imagining Andi formulating a response along the lines of And hello to you, too when their daughter’s name caught them both up short.
“Cassidy called you?” Andi asked.
“What’s going on, Andi?” pleaded Sylvie in her halting voice.
“She’s taking an investigative journalism class, and they’re looking into what happened to Dallas Walker,” said Andi matter-of-factly.
“I read that some townie had been charged with his murder.”
“Our daughter thinks he may have been unfairly accused.”
“But . . . why would she call me?” The breathless wonderment in Sylvie’s voice made her sound like an ethereal being. Ian wondered whether she’d finally conquered her eating disorder, or if she was still just as delicate physically.
“They’re talking to everyone even remotely connected to the case,” Andi reassured her. “Me, Georgina, Tommy, Ian—I think you were just the last one they found.”
There was a moment’s silence, a crackle of static. Tired of standing, Ian eased into his chair as quietly as he could, but the wheeled base knocked against the desk.
“Is someone there?” asked Sylvie as Andi glared at him.
“It’s just me,” said Andi.
He wished she lied less convincingly.
There was another brief silence. Then Sylvie said, “You were always so kind to me, even when I was chasing Ian. And you covered for me that one day in the bathroom with Mrs. Henry, so I covered for you. I just want you to know I never said anything to anyone about . . .”
“I never realized you knew,” whispered Andi.
Ian, stunned, just sat there.
“I want you to know I struggled for years with bulimia, but I’m okay now. We aren’t doomed to spend our lives being the people we were in high school.”
“I’m so happy to hear you say that,” said Andi, some of the color returning to her cheeks.
“And I’m so happy to know that you and Ian are together and have such a wonderful family,” Sylvie went on, her voice now strangely calm. “I won’t tell Cassidy anything more than she needs to know.”
“Thank you,” Andi said in a choked voice.
“You don’t think anyone really believes I had anything to do with Dallas Walker’s death, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” Andi said.
“Honestly, when I heard they’d found his body, I had to wonder if Ian did it,” Sylvie said. “I mean, given what was going on.”
And there it was. Ian flinched as if he’d been hit. Andi staggered and caught her balance, steadying herself on the desk with both hands. As their eyes met, Andi’s were wide with raw emotion—disbelief, exhaustion, fear—and he wondered how much of what he saw was a reflection of what she saw in his own.
“He was so in love with you,” Sylvie continued, oblivious to the fact that she had two listeners. “Even when he was with me, I could tell he really wasn’t, if you know what I mean. He burned for you, Andi. It was kind of like the rest of us didn’t even exist. He would have done anything for you.”
“Sylvie, I have to go,” Andi said abruptly. “I’m sorry.”
She ended the call.
“Did you kill Dallas Walker, Ian?” she asked.
He remembered the red-hot rage. Remembered feeling the power in his strong, growing body.
“We both had reasons.” He heard the trembling in his own voice. “The same reason.”
“I was going to read your journal the other day,” she confessed.
“Then you know where it is.”
Her eyes strayed to his hiding place, confirmation enough. He had no idea where she’d kept her own journal since Glenlake.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Old taboos die hard, I guess,” she said. “That, and I couldn’t pick the lock.”
“I guess you should read it, then,” he told her, kneeling and reaching under the credenza.
“You need to read mine. It’ll answer all your questions.”
“I have a lot of them.”
“I’ll get it now.” She turned to go.
Chapter Fifty-Six
“This is weird,” said Felicia. “There used to be a hundred and seventy-one photos in this folder.”
She was talking to herself, a habit she had, but Cassidy happened to be in earshot. Mr. Kelly had momentarily left the room.
“What folder?” she asked, even though she had a sinking feeling she knew exactly which one.
“The crime-scene photos Mr. Kelly got from the local photographer. Now there are only a hundred and seventy.”
Cassidy opened Google Drive on her own laptop and quickly navigated to the folder to verify for herself. “How did you even notice that?”
“What are you fine ladies talking about?” asked Noah, sidling up between them.
“Ugh, Noah,” said Felicia. “Mr. Kelly told me that keeping track of all our research is really important. Once a week, I compare the master list of everything we have to the files on the drive to make sure I’ve included it all. My list entry said folder with one hundred seventy-one photos, and I just noticed there were only one hundred seventy photos on the drive.”
“I thought there were supposed to be one hundred seventy-two,” Noah said.
“Don’t be an idiot, Noah,” Cassidy said to shut him up.
Noah shrugged, used to the abuse and fortunately immune to it.
While Felicia frowned and applied another coat of lip gloss, Cassidy saw she was right. Given her mom’s frequent questions about the class’s progress, she was the most logical culprit. There must have been another photo she found incriminating. Why hadn’t she told Cassidy, though?
Cassidy’s mind raced while she tried to think of a way to cover the problem. “I’m sure someone just deleted a file by accident,” she told Felicia. “All we have to do is ask Mr. Kelly to reupload the photos from the original flash drive. I have to talk to him about something as soon as he gets back, so I can do it.”
“Okay, great,” Felicia said to Cassidy, while Noah continued to invade her personal space. “And back up, buddy, or I’m getting a restraining order!”
Cassidy took a quiet, deep breath and pondered her next step. Restore the photo or adjust the count on Felicia’s list? A week from now, the class “librarian” would never know the difference.
Even better, Cassidy could create a duplicate photo to simply get the file count back up to 171. She distracted Felicia and Noah with a suggestion about presentation boards while she did just that.
Mom, what are you doing?
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Andi shifted her legs to stretch out a cramp and realized the one she’d folded under herself had fallen sound asleep. She was sitting in the bay window in the living room, with a glass of wine within reach. The wine so far untouched in her hurry to read. The moment she’d opened Ian’s journal—after rushing the twins to bed—she’d been transfixed. The early journal entries had been as wry, taciturn, and unsentimental as the Ian she remembered. But as the school years went by, and, in particular, once she’d seen herself through his eyes, breaking up with him in a diner because I need some time to be me, he’d gradually opened up on the page. He became more expressive and vulnerable in direct proportion to the wound she’d inflicted upon him. She ached as he wrestled with hims
elf over her.
Easing herself into a more comfortable position, she finally took a deep drink of wine, then another, draining half the glass before turning the page to continue. She touched her cheek as if probing for a phantom bruise of that long-ago day in March, anxious to have read his thoughts, and more anxious about what Ian had written next.
What if Ian had been plotting to get rid of Dallas all along? A boy knight in shining armor defending her honor against the man who’d done her wrong?
Andi now knew Ian far too well to dismiss the possibility entirely.
IAN COPELAND’S GLENLAKE JOURNAL
Thursday, March 20, 1997
What a fucked-up twenty-four hours. How fucked-up we all are. They should change Glenlake’s motto to something like “Give us your best and brightest and we’ll fuck them up for life,” only in Latin. I should get Greg what’s-his-name, the Latin valedictorian, to translate that.
My leg feels like a robot leg whose wiring’s shot. I mean, it’s a leg, and it moves, but I’m carrying it more than it’s carrying me. I ran the first hundred yards back to Glenlake after I saw Andi and DFW because I was so messed up with adrenaline, but after that it was barely faster than walking.
I thought about going to Nurse Ratched, but she’s not exactly up on the latest sports medicine. Anyway, I don’t need her to tell me Rest, Ice, Compress, Elevate given that we already learned that from a poster in the locker room. So I went to the union to buy some Tylenol, an ACE bandage, and a Gatorade.
Sylvie was the only other person in the store, and she looked worse than I did.
“Are you OK?” I asked her.
I thought she might say something like, “Are you?” but she was so shaky she didn’t even notice that I was cold, sweaty, limping, and that I had been bawling.
She just looked at me, and Jesus, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone look so . . . lost. Then she put down the bottle of Kaopectate in her hand, staggered, and kind of fell back into the little drugstore display, knocking some toothpaste boxes onto the floor.
I helped her to a bench at the front of the store and told her to wait there. Then I bought both of our stuff and took her back to her dorm. Nobody saw us go in. Her roommate, Kate, was on one of her occasional family vacations that never seem to coincide with the actual Glenlake calendar, so Sylvie was all alone.
