Dial Em for Murder

by Bates, Marni;

  “Wow, that’s harsh. You’re really not kidding, are you?”

  I shook my head. “Totally serious.”

  “I thought it was just your way of flirting. The two of you would irritate each other at first, but then everything would change.”

  “No, then we’d continue disliking each other,” I corrected her. “I love a good romance as much as the next girl. Actually, I love a good romance more than a lot of girls, but not every boy pulling pigtails on the playground has a crush. Some of them are little jerks who grow up to be even bigger jerks because nobody told them to keep their hands to themselves.”

  “Oh look, we’re here!” Kayla pointed to a classroom door that was a good thirty feet ahead of us. “Right on time. Follow my lead, okay? You need to make a very good first impression with Mrs. Chin.”

  “And if I don’t?” I asked warily.

  “Then you’ll spend every day for the next few years trying to fix the damage.”

  Point taken.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Chin,” Kayla said warmly, giving the tiny woman with a pageboy haircut her toothiest smile. I tried to imitate the expression, but it probably looked like I had a bad case of indigestion. “This is Emmy. She’s interested in joining the Speech and Debate team.”

  “I am?” I coughed and pretended to clear my throat as Mrs. Chin skewered me with an intense pair of jet black eyes. “I mean, yes, I am.”

  Kayla nodded her encouragement. “I think she’ll be a great addition to the team.”

  I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to respond to that obvious lie, so I stood there mutely with a fake smile plastered across my face. Internally, I began to panic. I wasn’t prepared to lead a debate in front of the class. And if she asked me to recite the Gettysburg Address, I was screwed.

  Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth . . . something something . . . conceived in liberty . . . something . . . that all men are created equal.

  My pulse began pounding a frantic beat.

  Mrs. Chin nodded so curtly it didn’t ruffle a single hair. “Welcome to Negotiation and Diplomacy, Emmy.”

  “Thanks. We should probably—” My voice withered under the renewed weight of Mrs. Chin’s examination. Her diminutive stature didn’t make her any less intimidating.

  “Take our seats,” Kayla finished for me, then nodded politely at Mrs. Chin before propelling us toward two vacant seats in the third row.

  “Won’t she hate me more when I don’t join Speech and Debate?” I hissed as I pulled out my notebook and flipped to a blank page.

  Kayla stared at me in confusion. “Of course you’re joining. Our team is awesome! We’ve been state champions six years in a row.”

  Her words made me want to bang my head against the long carved wooden table that was far too regal to be called a desk. Not when there weren’t any initials etched into the surface, no gum stuck to the bottom, no dents or gouges from years of neglect. It was beautiful and expensive and ridiculously impractical for a classroom. It didn’t belong there.

  Or rather, I didn’t belong there.

  “Let’s discuss the Treaty of Versailles. What did you think of the reading, Kasdan?”

  A blond-haired Slavic-looking boy with thick tortoise-shell glasses paled. “I think that it’s important to weigh long-term ramifications over immediate gratification.”

  “What do you think, Em?” Kayla’s lips barely moved. “Is that sexier than, oh I dunno, financial quarter?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh.

  “Since you’re overflowing with commentary, Kayla, why don’t you share your thoughts on the Fourteen Points plan?” Mrs. Chin said coldly.

  I spent the rest of the class period trying to come up with a way to stay on campus without taking classes. Listening to my new classmates debate some random treaty was a total waste of time that would be much better spent figuring out why Frederick St. James had targeted me in the first place.

  Except I couldn’t escape the classroom without drawing more attention to myself.

  “I’ll help you catch up,” Kayla promised when the bell finally rang. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s nothing you can’t handle.”

  Sure. And I didn’t stick out like a sore thumb here. Oh, and Ben’s total lack of romantic feelings for me didn’t hurt in the slightest. As long as we were lying, we might as well go all out.

  “Ready for lunch?”

  The promise of food was enough to break through the haze of self-pity.

  “Yes! Yes, I am.” I picked up my pace until I was half-walking, half-trotting to the nearest exit. “I want all the food. All of it. Is it a buffet or does a butler bring it out?”

  Kayla laughed. “Yes, all meals are served by butlers here. We also have an extra manservant who announces our name every time we enter the banquet hall.”

  I really hoped she was kidding.

  “What’s next on your schedule?”

  I glanced down at the paper that I had folded a dozen times since I’d left President Gilcrest’s office.

  “I have ballroom dance after lunch. Unless you can get me out of it.” I pretended to bat my lashes. “Use your status as a highly valued instructor to help your roommate out?”

  “Please describe me that way to Ms. Helsenberg. Please. Her expression would be priceless. She thinks I’m a joke.” Kayla didn’t appear overly upset by it and sounded more matter-of-fact than anything else.

  “How’s that possible? You’re an Olympic-level athlete!”

  That made her wince. “No, I’m an athlete past her prime and put out to pasture.”

  I pulled up short. “You can’t honestly believe that.”

  “Drop it, Emmy.”

  Beneath the blue glitter rimming her long lashes, Kayla’s eyes looked haunted. I tried to imagine how it would feel to be a sentence away from completing a novel, only to have my computer crash and erase everything. It must have hurt a billion times worse for Kayla to watch her team carry the Olympic torch without her.

  “Whatever happened to the first rule of Emptor Academy?” I demanded.

  Kayla eyed me suspiciously. “There’s always a caveat?”

  I shook my head. “Okay, maybe I’m thinking of the second rule.”

  “If it seems too good to be true, get out?” Kayla pushed open the door to the cafeteria, momentarily distracting me. Long buffet tables with silver serving platters rested on white linen tablecloths, but it was the delicious aroma saturating the air that had my stomach growling.

  “This school has too many mottos.”

  Kayla laughed. “You haven’t even heard half of them.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Never let them see you cry. Everyone’s replaceable. Never unholster your weapon unless you intend to shoot.”

  “You guys shoot here?”

  “Metaphorically speaking. Well, mostly. Although that rule comes up a lot at the shooting range.”

  I couldn’t even begin to process that particular piece of information, so I mentally tucked it away for later. “Okay, well, Sebastian gave me this whole speech about how adults aren’t always smart, but I’m pretty sure I can come up with something better. You ready for some certified Emmy Danvers wisdom?”

  “Ready.”

  “If they make you feel bad, screw ’em.” I grabbed my plate. “And never ever overlook a buffet.”

  Kayla snickered, but I barely heard her before the Slate vibrating in my pocket claimed my full attention. I had a sinking feeling that whatever message it contained wasn’t going to be sparkly.

  Chapter 18

  I pretended everything was fine.

  I loaded up my tray with a random assortment of food and took a seat at a nearby table while Kayla waited in line for filet mignon. Then I forced myself to take a big bite of potatoes à la something fancy before I calmly—very calmly—reached for the Slate that was still buzzing silently in my pocket. I didn’t really need to worry about witnesses. The sight of a student staring at their Slate would
n’t come as a surprise to anyone here.

  Still, it never hurt to play it cool.

  That was probably another school motto that Kayla had forgotten to mention.

  One glance at the screen and I couldn’t play anything. I could barely breathe. There wasn’t a flashing message this time. No death threats or accusations. Not so much as an obscene promise of retribution or a hint at the treatment I could expect to receive at the hands of a killer.

  It wasn’t even an incoming message. For a split second I thought that Frederick St. James must have set a timer on his phone to remember his prescription pills. That I would simply have to ignore this programmed notification every day at noon. I pictured myself at a lunch date with an acquiring editor from a big publishing house. Oh, ignore my vibrating pants. It’s just a dead man’s reminder. Now where were we? Right. I was thinking that my heroine is attracted to her brother’s best friend who just so happens to be the Navy SEAL tasked with protecting her life.

  But instead of saying, “Take two blue Advil-oxy-pentil-whatever with a glass of water” the Slate had an entirely different alert for me.

  Potential Hostile within 60 ft.

  Potential Hostile within 55 ft.

  There was a brief pause.

  Zzzzzz!

  Potential Hostile within 50 ft.

  I scanned the bustling cafeteria for anyone wearing a dark baseball cap, desperately hoping that my bad guy was cocky enough to try the same trick twice. It was nearly impossible to get a clear view of anything with all the students, faculty members, and kitchen staff performing an elaborate social dance as they wove around each other in their pursuit of food. President Gilcrest waved to a slim woman with a dark brown pixie cut. Mrs. Chin ladled something into a bowl and then disappeared into the crowd. I froze in my seat, caught between the urge to stand on the table and spin in a circle to narrow down the direction of the threat, and crawling under the table where I could hug my knees to my chest until the danger passed.

  Zzzzz! Zzzzz! Zzzzz!

  Potential Hostile within 45 ft.

  My fingers felt oddly cold. Nearly frozen stiff and clumsy. The taste of fear overpowered the chunk of potato I’d barely managed to swallow. What if I dropped the Slate on the table? What if I accidentally gave myself away?

  What if the Potential Hostile had already identified me and no matter what I did, it would be too little too late?

  Zzzzz! Zzzt! Zzzzz! Zzzt! Zzzt! Zzzzz!

  Potential Hostile within 40 ft.

  “You okay, Emmy?” Kayla asked, plunking down her tray and eyeing me from across the table. My head was bowed over the Slate in my lap, but she instantly jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Ohh, you’re blessing the food?” Kayla promptly pressed the palms of her hand together. “Dear Lord, thank you for the meal we are about to eat. It looks delicious. Please help me digest all of it before coaching gymnastics. I don’t want heartburn.”

  “Uh, amen,” I said, hoping that Kayla wouldn’t catch me trying to memorize the faces of everyone within a 40-foot range of our table. They all blurred together into an indistinct jumble. Everyone looked so starched. Polished.

  Dignified.

  Nobody slouched or snickered too loudly or chugged down a soda before racing out of the cafeteria. Nobody stood out to me as being particularly memorable. No piercings, prominent tattoos, nothing that would stand out in a police lineup. As for the few faces that did look vaguely familiar, I couldn’t determine if I’d passed them in the hallways or in the prime rib line, or if it was simply that they all wore a sheen of wealth like a uniform.

  My fingers wrapped around the handle of my steak knife, clenching it so tightly my knuckles turned white before they began shaking. I set down the knife, hastily wiped away the thin layer of sweat coating my palm, and tried again to get a firm grip on both the knife and reality.

  There had to be a way out.

  I had to be missing something important. Actually, there were probably fifty things that I should be noticing but wasn’t because of the terror swamping my system.

  Maybe Frederick St. James had felt all-consuming panic when he’d told me that they were coming for him. For me.

  For us.

  If the killer attacked me now, nobody here would throw their body in front of mine. Nobody would lay their life on the line for me. Nobody would play the part of the hero.

  President Gilcrest would simply escort the killer to their state-of-the-art psych ward so that they could use my tragic demise as a learning experience for the rest of the student body.

  “What are you—oh. Peyton. Yeah, she’s definitely intimidating.”

  I didn’t bother glancing in the direction that Kayla was indicating with a nod of her head. A bitchy beauty queen was the least of my worries.

  “Rumor has it that Sebastian gave her the whole, ‘I’m not looking for a relationship’ talk last week. Not that you’re interested in him. You can release your death grip on the knife now.”

  Death grip. I fought a bubble of hysterical laughter at her terrible word choice.

  “This isn’t jealousy. I’m testing the quality of the silverware,” I lied weakly.

  Zzzzz! Zzzzz! Zzzzz!

  Potential Hostile within 45 ft.

  Zzzzz! Zzzzz! Zzzzz!

  Potential Hostile within 50 ft.

  My mysterious stalker was backing away. I nearly slumped in my chair in relief. The knife slipped from my clammy palm and clattered to the tray. Telltale shudders pulsed through my body.

  It was okay. I was okay. For now. I shoved the Slate into my backpack, my hands shaking and my breath coming in short jerky pants.

  “You okay?” Kayla asked. This time she paused between bites of pasta to examine my face. “Your eyes look really dilated.”

  “That’s because I’m in shock. Who uses linen tablecloths? The washing bill alone has to be insane, especially on Sloppy Joe Fridays.”

  Kayla smiled, apparently satisfied with the topic change. “You’re more likely to be served escargot than sloppy joes.”

  I nodded and took a huge gulp of water. Then ignoring all the table manners my mom had drilled into me, I began scarfing down everything in sight. A ravenous, unstoppable hunger clawed inside me. After all those hours I’d spent too nervous to eat, I never wanted to stop. The familiar rhythm of fork to plate to lips eased some of the fear quivering in my stomach as I crammed half-dollar-sized slices of potato—dripping with a sautéed garlic white sauce—into my mouth.

  As far as last meals were concerned, this one would be hard to beat.

  Knowing that Frederick St. James had gone out of his way to enroll me somewhere with a Potential Hostile was a whole lot harder to swallow than anything on my plate. I’d accepted that the old man had some weird fixation with me. Mostly. It was still unsettling, but I’d been trying to come to terms with the idea of honoring his last wishes. I’d done a pretty decent job convincing myself that he must have thought he had my best interests at heart that day in Starbucks.

  Except the more I learned about the guy the less certain I became that he had died trying to protect me. Or if he had truly died in the first place.

  I felt oddly bereft, as if I was mourning the loss of some distant relative that I’d never actually met. More like mourning the fantasy that I’d had a guardian angel for the past sixteen years and only realized it when he’d saved my life by sacrificing his own.

  For all I knew the old man had faked the entire scene to drag me into this hell.

  “You might want to slow down. Nobody will take the food away from you.”

  I rested my fork on the edge of my plate, only to knock back another huge swallow of water to keep my rising anxiety at bay. The cafeteria was too busy. Too crowded. Worse still, I was sitting there totally exposed.

  “I should . . . I should . . . go back to the room. Maybe take a nap or something.”

  Sebastian slid down in the seat right next to mine and I half-expected the Slate to start vibrating a Morse code warning
over his close proximity. Sebastian wasn’t a “potential” hostile, he was downright hostile. All of the time.

  And yet the Slate remained silent.

  Grandfatherly affection had to be the only reason the tablet wasn’t flashing, beeping, whistling, and screeching, Run for your life!

  “Leaving so soon, Emmy? I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

  I smiled stiffly. “Your nearness turns my stomach.”

  Kayla bit her lip to prevent herself from pointing out that if I really cared about my digestion, I wouldn’t have been inhaling my food like a starving chipmunk. A way too familiar boy sank into a vacant seat next to her and I could feel my day going even further down the toilet.

  There’s nothing quite like having lunch with my best friend’s ex-boyfriend to make a worst case scenario a million times more uncomfortable.

  “Hey, Emmy,” Nasir said. “How have you been?”

  “Wait a sec. How do the two of you know each other?” Kayla asked in surprise.

  I suspected she’d soon be trying to investigate if I had any special feelings for Nasir. The idea of dating the same guy who left Audrey emotionally shredded made my skin crawl, so I purposefully ignored Kayla’s question. The less we rehashed the past, the better.

  “I’m fine.” The jerk didn’t deserve more than a curt two-word answer.

  Nasir shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I didn’t realize you were interested in transferring here.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Are you settling in okay or—”

  I grabbed my backpack from the floor and stood up. “As much as I’m enjoying this little game of twenty questions, I’ve got more pressing issues.”

  “Right. Well. It’s good to see you.”

  I didn’t bother faking a smile. Instead, I slung my bag onto my shoulder and headed toward the exit. Nasir could flash his white-toothed grin at me until his cheeks ached; I didn’t trust him. And I refused to act like old friends when Audrey was all we’d ever had in common.

  I’d barely released the wide double doors of the cafeteria when a swift yank on the strap of my bag spun me around.