Followers

by Anna Davies

  I’d heard enough. I tiptoed down the hallway, flinching every time my foot landed on a creaky board. Once I’d snuck out of Burnside, I burst into a sprint.

  Tristan was missing. Tristan was missing.

  The sentence repeated, mantra-like, in my brain until I swiped into Rockefeller.

  “Tristan is missing!” I said out loud.

  But the parlor was empty and the dorm was silent.

  Of course.

  People would listen to a fake avatar, but they wouldn’t listen to the real me. After all, wasn’t Tristan’s absence proof of his guilt? His words floated to my mind: Hamlet’s Ghost is hiding in plain sight.

  Well, where was he, then?

  Scott Eichner

  Man, wish I’d sat this Winterm out. Heard the new girl @alleyesonbree is on a rampage!

  Brian Hansbury

  Hey @alleyesonbree, how do I get you not to kill us when we come back to campus?

  Hey,” Willow said as she dumped a pile of dirty laundry from her duffle bag in a pile on the floor.

  “Hey.”

  It had been three days, and Tristan still hadn’t come back. Hamlet’s Ghost had been silent, and I was convinced it was because Tristan was waiting somewhere, ready to do something even worse. But there was nothing I could do to make people believe me. I’d even gone to Ms. Robinette to speak with her, but all she did was refer me to the guidance office. As if they could help me.

  Willow browsed her closet, pulling out a few dresses and skirts and shoving them into her bag. She’d been staying with Vanessa since the vigil.

  “See you later,” she said.

  “Yup.” I didn’t bother to look up.

  Willow headed out the door, and I stood up and stretched. At our rehearsal last night, Mr. O’Dell had urged Eric and me to get together and rehearse. Eric had nodded in agreement, but had then brushed past me as he left the theater, Kennedy’s hand clutched tightly in his. Onstage, we were all right, but I knew it wasn’t coming together. And I knew there was no way it would, unless I could prove that I wasn’t involved in the deaths.

  Just then, the door swung back open.

  “What’d you forget?” I asked Willow. Then I realized she wasn’t alone.

  Trailing behind her was my mother.

  “Briana!” My mom swooped in and hugged me while Willow stood, silent and statue-like, by her side.

  “I found her as I was heading out,” Willow explained.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Well, I tried calling you, but your phone was off.”

  “We had no power.”

  “Fresh Maine air makes everything better, don’t you think, girls?” my mother said as she swept past me and opened the window. She glanced disapprovingly at my side of the room. While Willow’s own wall was decorated with artsy Instagram photos she’d printed out herself, mine was empty except for the single poster advertising the MacHale one-act festival from the fall.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked again.

  “Well, the parent organization sent an e-mail alert about Skye’s tragic accident and the electricity investigation. So of course I was worried … and then I ended up doing some research on the website to see how I could get in touch with you if your phone was out of power … and found that article about the play auditions and how horrible they must have been for you. Darling, why didn’t you tell me what a hard time you’re having?” Mom’s eyes were wide.

  “Because I’m fine. Because it’s …” I exhaled. “I’m fine.”

  “I’ll go,” Willow announced. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. —”

  “Oh, don’t leave! I just wanted to come and give Briana some TLC, but of course, that extends to her best friends as well. Would you like to come to lunch with us?”

  “I couldn’t.” Willow shook her head, her expression making it obvious how creeped out she was by the term best friends.

  “Well, let me at least take a picture of you girls. Briana, please look a little more cheerful!” Mom commanded as if I were a five-year-old. Automatically, I obliged, stepping closer to Willow as Mom took a picture with her iPhone.

  “Thanks! I’m sure Briana told you how I was a Macolyte myself, back in the day.”

  “I didn’t know that. But Bree keeps a lot of secrets,” Willow said icily.

  I held my breath. She wouldn’t say anything about the Twitter account. Would she?

  “What do you mean? She’s not having trouble fitting in, is she?” Mom frowned.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said quickly. “I just woke up. And I’m supposed to rehearse today, so maybe you should go.”

  “Rehearse?” Mom’s eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”

  “Um, I’m playing the Ophelia understudy now.”

  “You are?” Mom boomed. “Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, Bree, that’s wonderful!”

  Willow’s expression darkened.

  “It’s not that … wonderful, actually. At all.”

  But Mom didn’t seem to notice my discomfort. “Well, this calls for a celebration! Willow, you’ll come with us to lunch?” Mom expectantly arched her perfectly groomed eyebrow up at me.

  “No.” Not bothering to be polite, Willow practically ran out of the room.

  But Mom seemed oblivious to the drama swirling around her. “All right, then. Ready?” Mom asked brightly as we left the dorm. I kept quiet until we stepped off campus.

  “What are you doing here?” I exploded. “It’s been a really weird week, and this is not helping.”

  “Why don’t you let me try to help?” She turned to me, her cheeks red from the cold. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having problems here?”

  “You don’t even know the problems I’m having here!” I’ve seen people die. People talked about me behind my back. Someone was about to be murdered by my former friend and no one would believe me. And now my mother came to give it a kiss and make it all better?

  Mom’s face softened. “Tell me what’s happening, honey. I’m here to listen.”

  “Let’s just go to lunch,” I said wearily.

  Mom picked up her pace, clearly in her element as she walked along the salt-covered sidewalks toward town.

  “We’re going to the Sunrise Café,” she announced, naming the trendy bistro facing the mill. It had a wraparound deck and overpriced pasta and was as out of place in Forsyth, Maine, as MacHale. It was popular with students, making it the last place on earth I wanted to go right now. I couldn’t deal with more whispers and stares.

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “What?” Mom narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Please,” I said. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

  Mom mashed her lips together as though she were going to say something. But she didn’t.

  This time, I was the one who led the way, along the path of the river, in the opposite direction of town. Here, the sidewalks hadn’t been salted. We walked up the hill to the Trusty Ax. I turned to see her reaction as the sign came into view, anticipating her lip curling in distaste before it happened.

  “So this is where you all hang out now? How … authentic,” Mom said, almost spitting out the word as she walked through the entranceway.

  Inside, the bar was swarmed with middle-aged men watching the tiny corner TV. The air smelled like smoke, proving the sticker on the door with an illustration of a crossed-out cigarette was more a halfhearted suggestion than anything substantial.

  “Quaint.”

  It was that word that made me march toward the corner booth that Eric and I had sat in the last time we were here. I knew that Eric was at rehearsal. But it still made me feel close to him. It made me feel like I had gone back in time, when all I had to worry about were auditions.

  “Hey.”

  I glanced up as two laminate-covered menus thwacked down on the table. Standing at the table was Zach.

  He gave me a crooked half smile.

  “Hey, Bree. Good to see you. Sorry we didn’
t get more of a chance to talk the other night.”

  I nodded wordlessly, aware Mom was curiously watching both of us.

  “So, things sound pretty intense over at MacHale. How are you doing? I’m Zach, by the way,” he said as he turned to my mom.

  “Do you have any specials?” Mom asked loudly.

  “Oh. Yeah. They’re up there.” Zach jerked his chin up toward the handwritten list on a chalkboard above the bar. He stood there for another moment, then, when he realized neither my mom nor I were going to talk, he wandered away.

  “You have a friend,” Mom said, in the same tone of voice someone else might use to say You have a rash. “Who is he?”

  “Zach,” I said. “He just said his name two minutes ago.”

  “Does Zach have a last name?” My mother’s voice was dripping with sarcasm.

  “No, Mom. Only people in boarding school have last names. That’s why they use them all the time.”

  “Well then.” Mom sat and stared at me in stony silence. Even though the bar was raucous, no one was sitting in the restaurant area, making everything even more awkward between us. “You aren’t yourself.”

  Before I could respond, Zach wandered back.

  “What would you all like?”

  “I’m not very hungry, I’m afraid,” Mom said. “Just a tea.”

  “All right. What about you?” Zach’s eyes lingered on me. I turned and looked out the window, toward the river.

  “A grilled cheese, I guess?”

  “She’ll have a grilled cheese,” Mom said. “And that’s all,” she added when Zach didn’t immediately leave.

  The silence settled between us again.

  “Maybe the reason why you don’t feel like you’re fitting in as well as you could be is because you’re focusing too much on your friendships with people who live in town. To the detriment of MacHale friendships.”

  “Mom!” I realized that the television in the front of the bar had been turned off and saw more than a few curious stares our way. I took a deep breath. “You have no idea what’s going on.”

  “Well then, tell me.”

  I shook my head.

  Just then, there was a commotion by the bar. Two guys in cop uniforms immediately sprang up from their lunch, running down the hill toward the river. Patrons crowded to the picture windows against the wall.

  “What’s happening?” Mom called out.

  A grizzly looking lumberjack-like guy turned to face us.

  “Looks like they found a body.”

  I elbowed my way to the front of the crowd and pressed my face against the plate glass. I saw two officers carefully holding what looked like a limp, long limbed boy.

  And I saw a bright blue streak in the water-drenched hair.

  My knees buckled and I nearly collapsed, holding my knees with my hands for support.

  Tristan was dead.

  Zach Mathis

  Hey @alleyesonbree, can we talk? Meet me at the Nautilus at eight?

  Called “the Nauseous” by MacHale students, the Nautilus was a run-down diner on the far end of Main Street. I’d never had any reason to go. And I was amazed I was able to get off campus tonight, especially when the school was on lockdown. Luckily, I’d managed to convince Ms. Robinette I was with my mother, while convincing my mom that she needed to leave so I could “process” Tristan’s death with my friends. I was free to go wherever I wanted. And here I was, meeting Zach Mathis. I needed to know why he’d been looking for Tristan the night of the party.

  As soon as I entered I spotted Zach slouched in a corner booth, his baseball cap low over his eyes.

  I slid in across from him.

  “So?” I asked, my voice on edge.

  “Was that guy a friend of yours? Tristan?”

  “Was he a friend of yours?” I countered. Tristan’s words floated into my head. Hamlet’s Ghost is hiding in plain sight. Or on the other side of town. Why hadn’t Tristan told me Zach was Hamlet’s Ghost?

  Zach nodded. He flexed his fingers to crack his knuckles, and I caught sight of a few still-healing cuts on his hands. Zach noticed my gaze and balled them into fists, so the angry, raised red marks were out of my sight.

  But they weren’t out of my mind. I couldn’t help but wonder how he’d gotten the cuts, and whether they were the result of rewiring the MacHale auditorium to electrocute Skye or getting into a struggle with Tristan as he tried to push him in the river.

  “I spoke with Tristan a couple of times. He said he was working on a story.”

  “Yup.” My eyes darted back and forth. I expected that someone would jump out of the shadows at any moment, or a group of MacHale kids would burst in, ready to yank me out from the diner and push me into the river. Or Zach would reach across the table and strangle me. Anything was possible. I took a deep breath.

  “Do either of you want something to eat?” An ancient gray-haired waitress shuffled up to our table.

  Both of us shook our heads.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Can’t sit if you don’t eat.”

  “Fine. A coffee,” Zach said.

  “Me too.”

  “Anyway, Tristan said he was working on a story about the Sarah Charonne murder, and how that made the relationship between MacHale and Forsyth complicated. He spoke with Kevin McGinty…. You know, that auto mechanic who everyone said murdered Sarah.”

  “Mmhmm …” I trailed off as the waitress plunked our two mugs of coffee on the table.

  “Anyway, Kevin said that he didn’t do it.”

  “I’m sorry, but do you think I care about a decades-old murder?” I exploded. “I came because I thought you’d have information about MacHale now. People are dying!”

  Heads swiveled to look at me, and I lowered my voice.

  “I know people are dying.” Zach lowered his voice. “That’s why I care. That’s why I’m talking to you. It’s not just about your little boarding school anymore.”

  “So what else did he tell you?”

  “That there was another guy. One they never questioned. He was another Forsyth kid. His name was Matthew Lampert. But he disappeared after graduation. People thought he’d killed himself, but Kevin told Tristan that he didn’t believe it. So Tristan did some digging, and found that Matthew may still be alive. Except that he’s using a different name these days.” Zach’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Any guesses?”

  I shook my head as I took a sip of flavorless coffee. I was done playing games.

  “Breckin O’Dell.”

  “What?” I sputtered, as coffee shot out of my mouth. “What are you talking about?”

  “Breckin O’Dell is completely made up. His real name is Matthew Lampert. It makes sense, right? Jilted crush from the wrong side of the tracks wants to get back at the girl he loved, so he kills her, then takes revenge on everything she stood for.”

  I refused to let anyone pull the wool over my eyes again. “Couldn’t the same thing also apply to you? I mean, weren’t you with Kennedy?”

  Zach’s expression darkened. “We were a theater couple. You know how that is. You rehearse with them, you date them. Kennedy’s good at those relationships.” He laughed darkly to himself. “But this is bigger than Kennedy. And it’s bigger than me getting kicked out from the auditions. This is Mr. O’Dell going nuts. And in plain sight, too. Seriously, I have some stuff from Tristan. I just needed to pull it together and then Tristan and I would —”

  “ ‘Tristan and I’?” I interrupted. “No offense, but Tristan hated townies. I don’t really think he’d volunteer to team up with one.”

  The corner of Zach’s mouth tugged down.

  “Be that as it may … when Tristan disappeared, I started doing my own research on this O’Dell guy,” Zach said. “And I talked to the theater group he worked with in New York. They fired him from a production of Macbeth after someone died. Don’t you think it’s sort of a coincidence Skye got electrocuted in a play he’s working on?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “I
t just shows that it’s easy to murder people backstage … if you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty.” My gaze fell toward Zach’s balled fists. In response, he shoved his hands under the table and gave me a hard stare of his town.

  “Look, Bree, I was pissed when I didn’t get to audition. And I did date Kennedy back in the day. But I don’t care enough about some school production to kill for it. But I get what you’re thinking. That’s what Tristan thought, too. That’s why he reached out to me at first. But as soon as we talked, he realized I wasn’t the murderer. So we started doing some research.”

  “On O’Dell,” I said flatly.

  “No. On Matthew Lampert. Who just so happened to disappear right after Sarah Charonne died.”

  “Okay, so what?”

  “So, then Breckin O’Dell suddenly bursts onto the scene. When you look up his name, all of his plays come up … and some geneaology record about a guy who died in the 1800s. In Forsyth.”

  I nodded. “I’ve seen that gravestone,” I said quietly. My mind swirled. Was Zach telling the truth, or was this an elaborate lie to get me off his trail? “So you think …”

  “Matthew Lampert became Breckin O’Dell,” Zach finished.

  “So, what now? I asked.

  “What do you mean, what now? We catch him. You know the passageways. We can go to his office and look on his computer and … something. That’s what Tristan and I were going to do. He killed Tristan. I know it.”

  “What about the police?”

  “The police?” Zach scoffed. “No. They won’t believe us. We need to catch O’Dell.”

  “Why we?”

  “Don’t you see?” Zach leaned in. “We’re not safe on our own. I know people are accusing you. And people at Forsyth are accusing me. The only way we can make sure we’re safe is to have each other’s backs.”

  “What about Tristan’s back? You didn’t have that, did you?”

  Zach shook his head. “He shouldn’t have gone alone. But he wanted …”

  “Wanted to get murdered?”

  “No!” Zach sighed in frustration. “He wanted the credit. He wanted it to be his story. And he paid the price.”

  I pushed myself away from the table. “I need to go.”