Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  I give a tiny shake of my head, stilling him, and keep my eyes on Owen. “Of course I care what people think. Everyone does. It’s human nature.”

  “Well, Emma didn’t. All she cared about was herself and what she wanted.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Jacob Harris, apparently.” He all but spits the name, his lips pulled back in a grimace, the disgust written plain as day across his face.

  I try to keep the shock off my own face and don’t know if I succeed. “Emma and Jacob? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m fucking sure. Do you think I’d have left her if I hadn’t been?”

  Okay, that’s probably true. “How did you find out?”

  “Kylie told me. I think she just wanted to stir shit up, but she wasn’t wrong. When I checked Emma’s phone, the evidence was right there. All these texts back and forth, deciding when to meet up, times and places, all right there for everyone to see.”

  I want to ask if Emma knew he had looked at her phone but wasn’t sure how to without setting him off.

  Ravi picks that moment to step in. “Shit, man. That’s rubbish. What a nightmare.”

  “No shit. I just couldn’t take it. A year ago, I might’ve stood for it—just let it go and forgotten about it—but the side effect of being with someone like Emma is you start to think you’re as important as they are, so I told her to fuck off, said I was done. If she was willing to stoop as low as Jacob Harris, then I wanted nothing to do with her.”

  “How did she react to that?” I ask.

  Owen’s lips peel back farther, revealing his gums like a snarling dog. “Denied it, of course. Said I didn’t understand and ‘please don’t leave,’ but the evidence was right in my face. I saw the texts, and she couldn’t deny them away. Maybe if she hadn’t saved his number under his real name, she could’ve gotten away with it, but she couldn’t even bother to be sneaky. She just took for granted that she wouldn’t have any consequences. Well, she was wrong, wasn’t she? You reap what you sow. There’s no escaping it.”

  The boy concocted fairy tales about life in high school, where there would be new faces for the monsters to go after, but high school was nothing like he had hoped.

  On the first day, the gym teacher jokingly said there would be no stuffing freshmen in lockers, mostly because they wouldn’t fit. The monsters took it as a challenge to prove that a ginger boy could indeed fit if they tried hard enough. They stuffed him in like a discarded jockstrap and left him locked in the dank darkness long after the bell rang. It was only when a janitor heard him crying that he was discovered at all.

  It didn’t help that his sister, now firmly separated from the boy, was making friends. A group of pretty girls, some who were friends with the monsters, had swept her into their coven. The boy would see them in the hall between classes, giggling and fawning over each other, and his chest would ache with longing.

  The swarming chaos between bells was the hardest time for him because there was nowhere to hide, nowhere to duck away when someone locked on to him. With a backpack nearly as big as he was and that flaming hair, he was a magnet for casual cruelty. Any time he could make it to his next class without being shoved, knocked down, or taunted was a win.

  He didn’t get a lot of wins.

  During one hallway gauntlet, his sister appeared just as a huge sophomore ran up, grabbed ahold of the boy’s backpack, and used it to vault right over his head. The bag and the boy spilled to the tile floor as hoots of laughter echoed through the corridor.

  The girl dropped her own bag and rocketed down the hall after the vaulter, not slowing as she barreled into him. They hit the lockers in a tangle of limbs and a clatter of metal. The girl got three good punches in before being pulled off by a teacher. She earned three days of suspension—one for each blow—and a reputation as a badass, while he became known as the kid who had to be saved by a girl.

  But she hadn’t saved him, not really. She had cursed him, and he began to hate her for it, just a little.

  I’m still reeling from our talk with Owen when we get to The Donut Hole. Things are slow enough that Mr. B doesn’t put us to work, so we make drinks and take a trio of donuts to the window counter.

  This is definitely a three-pastry problem.

  I peel the rainbow sprinkles off my chocolate-frosted and eat them one by one, lost in thought, when Ravi asks, “Do you really think he could’ve done it?”

  I eat four more sprinkles before answering. “I do. I don’t want to, but yeah, I think it’s a possibility.”

  “Same.” Ravi sighs. He wraps his hands around his mug and blows a breath into the rising steam as he stares out the window at the passing pedestrians.

  “I’m not saying I think he did it for sure,” I clarify. “I’m saying he could have. The rage is there, and he has no alibi.” When we asked Owen where he was the day Emma was reported missing, he said he didn’t remember. When pressed, he said he was home, alone, for the entire day.

  “Owen isn’t a bad guy.” Ravi shakes his head. He hasn’t even touched his maple blueberry donut yet. “I just can’t picture it.”

  “That’s always how it goes though, right? When they uncover freezers full of body parts and lampshades made of skin, the neighbors are always like, ‘He was such a nice guy, so quiet. I never saw it coming.’”

  Ravi eyes me. “I think there’s a difference between a crime of passion and going full-blown Bundy.”

  “But it wasn’t a crime of passion. It couldn’t have been, not the way she was dressed. The last time she was seen, she was in running clothes. Where are they? Why is she wearing the dress? And again, the issue of her feet. Whoever killed her moved her there; they had to have. It’s the only thing that explains her feet being clean.”

  “Maybe it started as a crime of passion: He was pissed, hauls off and grabs her. Maybe she hits her head. Then he panics, dumps her in the woods, tries to make it look like a suicide.”

  I go back to picking at sprinkles as I consider that. Owen is definitely strong enough to carry a girl through the woods, and that mark on her arm could easily have been from him squeezing her, but I’m not seeing the rest.

  “But how did he kill her? What was the method? I can’t help thinking that if it was him, it really would’ve been a crime of passion. She would’ve been beaten or stabbed or something equally violent. We don’t even know how she was killed, just that whatever it was didn’t leave enough evidence to pinpoint the cause. That indicates a high level of thought and planning, which don’t strike me as Owen’s strong suits.”

  Ravi shakes his head, worry darkening his brown eyes. “No, actually, you’re wrong. He’s smarter than you think. Not just smart-for-a-meathead smart, but scary-genius smart.”

  “Explain.”

  “He’s in AP chem with me, and I’ve never seen someone breeze through science like this kid. The equations he can do in his head are like something out of a movie. It’s seriously BBC Sherlock levels of brain power, just with science instead of crime.”

  “Huh, I had no idea.” The next thought hits me like a meteor, and I whack Ravi’s arm before I can stop myself, sending a tidal wave of tea sloshing into his saucer. “What if he killed her with science?”

  Ravi mops up the spilled tea with a piece of donut. “I think you might be reaching a little there.”

  “No, I’m serious. There were no injuries and no obvious cause of death that led to a conclusive finding during the autopsy. What if he drugged her somehow? I read about a tree in Asia that can kill you just with a single seed, and it’s hard to detect even with good toxicology labs.”

  “Owen lives in an apartment, surrounded by other apartments. I don’t think he has anywhere to plant a magic murder tree.”

  “Maybe not that particular one, but something. Something poisonous that wouldn’t leave a trace.”

  Ravi sips his tea, still not looking convinced. “Even if he had the capacity to find or make such a poison, Owen worshiped Emma. I don’t thin
k he could’ve killed her. If anything, I expect he’d maybe beat the piss out of Jacob, but he wouldn’t hurt Emma—scientifically or otherwise.”

  I grab Ravi’s arm, and he barely manages to avoid dumping tea all over his lap.

  He shakes me off. “What do you have against my tea staying in its cup?”

  “Jacob’s face! Remember when he came in for his picture? How he was all beat to hell? What if Owen did that?”

  Ravi sits up, brows drawn together and spilled tea forgotten. “I’ll pull the file when I get home. Check the date marker. But wait, if Owen was busy beating Jacob into mashed potatoes, how would he have had time to kill Emma?”

  “We’ll have to work the timeline, but he could’ve done both. Of course he could’ve.”

  “Or he could’ve punched Jacob, and meanwhile, someone else killed Emma for completely unrelated reasons.”

  “Also possible. Look, Ravi, I don’t like thinking about our classmates being capable of murder any more than you do, but the fact is, someone is capable of murder. And they might be capable of multiple murders. What if this guy strikes again? We can’t afford to let this get away from us. So yes, if I seem a little obsessive over our suspects, it’s because I am. Owen is at the top of the list for a reason.”

  “Fine, who’s on the rest of the list?”

  I reach over the back of my chair to get the notebook from my bag. I pull the pen out of the spiral and flip to the proper page, helpfully labeled Suspects across the top. Beneath the heading is a list of people who may be to blame for Emma’s disappearance.

  The first is Owen, obviously, because nine times out of ten, it’s the lover. Jacob is next, because extra lovers usually make up that tenth instance.

  But not always.

  I tap the next name on the list with my pen. “Peter Vernon. Now, I admit, going from unsolicited dick pics to murder is a pretty huge leap, but we can’t ignore him as a suspect. He does have a history of inappropriate interaction with teenage girls, he’s physically capable of killing and moving her, and she wasn’t found all that far from his house. It’s not entirely inconceivable.”

  “You keep on using that word…” Ravi starts a quote from The Princess Bride, but I wave him off.

  “We need to look into his movements the weekend Emma died. Maybe Lily or Vic know if they were texting or something. It’s probably a long shot, but it needs to be on our radar.”

  Ravi pokes at the remaining chunk of donut on his plate and pushes it over to me. “Who else?”

  “Random psychopath?” I write it down, even though it’s probably unlikely. “I mean, it’s a possibility. Statistically, most murders are committed by people the victims know, but there are exceptions. The more prolific—”

  Ravi holds up a hand. “No, don’t you dare. I see that look in your eye. Don’t you dare get excited about a maybe serial killer. We knew Emma. Maybe we didn’t like her, but we knew her. You can’t be excited at the prospect of her murderer being the next Hannibal Lecter.”

  “But it’d be a great scoop, wouldn’t it?” I pop the last of his donut into my mouth, appetite not the least bothered by our morbid topic of conversation. Not sure what that says about me.

  “You’re atrocious.”

  “I’m kidding. Mostly. But seriously, other than Owen, Jacob, and Peter, I don’t know who else to look at.”

  Ravi’s face gets serious. “Peter Vernon is a problem. Or rather, exactly how you’re gonna deal with him. It’s one thing to interview people at school, where we have a reasonable cover story and a certain amount of inherent safety, but that doesn’t exist with Vernon. We can’t just doorstep him and be all like ‘G’day, mate. Would you like to talk about the girl you might’ve killed?’”

  “Gimme some credit. I wouldn’t be that obvious.” I say it like I have it all figured out, even though I don’t. Ravi’s right—talking to Peter is different than talking to people at school, but I’m not about to back down.

  “You’re the last person who should be talking to him anyway,” Ravi says, dark eyes flashing with an unsettling intensity. “Seriously. At best, he would just ignore you, but think for a minute if he actually is the killer.”

  Before he can continue, the bells at the door jangle, and a lady comes in with two kids. Ravi leans in and lowers his voice. “If he is the killer, there’s every reason to believe he could kill you too. Hell, I’m inclined to call him not guilty based on the fact that you weren’t the victim.”

  “Hey, I resent that.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “You’re being dramatic.” I laugh, but he doesn’t.

  “No, I’m being serious. You remember when the story broke. It was your name on the byline, and he knew it. You were the catalyst. You exposed him.”

  “He exposed himself, actually.”

  Ravi grabs my arm, hard enough to hurt. “Kennedy, I’m not fucking kidding around.”

  The mother at the counter whirls and shoots us a dirty look, but neither of us acknowledge her.

  “I don’t want you talking to him alone,” Ravi says, quieter now but no less intense. “You made sure everyone knew exactly what he did. As far as he’s concerned, you’re the reason his life in this town is ruined.”

  I drop my gaze from his face. His grip feels like a shackle on my arm, the intensity of his concern making the touch burn.

  I gently pry his long fingers off with my free hand. “I’m not going to do anything stupid,” I say, “but he is a suspect, and we do need to talk to him.”

  Ravi wraps his hands back around his mug like he’s incapable of not clutching something. “Then I need to come with you.”

  “Notice my use of the word ‘we.’” I meet his eyes and smile, waiting for him to relax even a fraction.

  “Promise me.”

  I draw an X over my heart with one finger. “No crazy stunts.”

  He finally relents, offering a weary smile. “Good. Because if you get ax-murdered, I’m going to be very put out.”

  I want to talk to Kylie again before we zero in on Jacob, but the school’s queen of gossip picks the one day I really need her to ignore my texts.

  Jacob is a conundrum, because on the surface, there’s no logical reason to interview him about Emma. They weren’t friends—or they hadn’t been publicly—and I’m not prepared to reveal Kylie as the source of their connection.

  It’s Cassidy, of all people, who solves it—albeit in a way that creates new problems. On the ride in, after we’re both properly caffeinated, she says, “Bryce said there’s a party at Jacob’s this weekend. I think he’s going to take me.”

  The party. Of course. That’s the opening I need to talk to Jacob. His parties are legendary—weekend-long ragers that half the school attends any time his father is out of town. Emma definitely would’ve been at the last one. Of course, if Jacob is a plausible suspect, his party is the last place Cassidy should be going.

  “Yeah, how ’bout no,” I say.

  “What? Why not? It’s not like Mom and Dad have to know. We can say it’s a movie or something.”

  “Or not. Jacob is a senior. You’re a sophomore.”

  “And Bryce’s a junior. It’s not a big deal.”

  It is if Jacob killed someone, but I can’t say that. “Cass, no. Seriously. Jacob’s parties are all about drugs and embarrassing drunk videos.”

  “How would you know? It’s not like you even go to parties,” she says. “I thought you were on my side with this.”

  I sneak a glance at her before returning my eyes to the road. “I’m on your side with Bryce, totally. I’m down for the smoochies—as long as it’s someone other than me doing the smooching—and I think Bryce is good people. Though if his idea of a date is a party at Jacob’s, maybe I need to reconsider.”

  “That’s not fair. Just because you’re not into it doesn’t mean I can’t be allowed to have a normal high school experience. That means parties and poor decisions and yes, drunken videos. Of other people. I can b
e around stupid people without turning into one, you know.”

  I don’t know how to explain that my concern with Jacob isn’t the drugs or alcohol he’d be providing—though that’s concern enough—but that he might’ve killed Emma Morgan. “I just don’t think this is the best time to be getting wrapped up in all that. You have riding to think about too.”

  Cassidy sighs. “I know, but it’s not like my entire life has to be about training, right? Like yes, the Paralympics are amazing and so is Mudd, but it’s not guaranteed. I mean, what if I put all this work in and don’t even qualify? Then I’ll be missing out on the riding dream and the fun high school stuff. I lost a year and a half of my life after the fall. I’m sick of missing out.”

  This is more conversation than I’m remotely prepared for at quarter after seven in the morning, but it’s obviously been heavy on Cassidy’s mind. I wonder how long this has been stirring. “Of course you’ll qualify,” I say, and not just to be supportive. Cassidy could qualify in her sleep.

  “But Mudd might get sold,” she says, her voice suddenly rough.

  I come to a halt at a stop sign and turn to face her. “What? He’s for sale? Since when?” Mudd is owned by a boarder at the barn Cassidy trains at, but because the owner is busy with college, it’s mutually beneficial that Cassidy keeps the horse in shape. The girl never goes out to see the horse, and even the barn staff think of him as Cassidy’s.

  “Since a few weeks ago. His owner’s doing graduate school in France and wants to sell him before she goes.”

  The urge to punch the steering wheel—because Mudd’s owner isn’t handy—is real. Mudd is Cassidy’s best friend, hands down. When she was in the hospital, he was the reason she got up.

  I step on the gas and ask a question I’m not going to like the answer to. “How much does she want?”

  Cassidy is silent, the only sound the screech of her straw as she stabs it in and out of her coffee.

  I hit the blinker and turn in to the school lot. “How much, Cass?”