Bury the Lead

by Mischa Thrace

  “Fifteen.”

  “Shit.” Fifteen thousand dollars is a ridiculous amount of money, but I’ve been around horses long enough to know that it’s not as astronomical as it sounds.

  “He’s totally worth it though,” Cassidy says. “He’s schooling fourth level, and he’s still young enough to get someone a lot of years showing.”

  Someone like Cassidy.

  “Do Mom and Dad know?”

  “No. Don’t tell them. It doesn’t matter. We don’t have that kind of money.”

  “What about GoFundMe? We have the video.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.

  “I’m not a fucking charity case,” Cassidy snaps. “I don’t need a GoFundMe. There are families who are homeless, communities that don’t have water. How would that even look—a middle-class white girl asking strangers to buy her a fancy pony?” She snorts. “I don’t think so. That video was to get sponsors, like any other professional equestrian would, not pity payments.”

  I park in our usual space, kill the ignition, and hold up my hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud.”

  “Look, I’m trying not to think about it at all.” She takes a hard swallow of coffee. “Hence Bryce. Hence the party.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Cassidy’s friends are converging on The Planet and continuing this conversation would be impossible with that audience.

  “Go out with Bryce. Do something fun. But skip the party. Just trust me on this. Please.”

  Cassidy rolls her eyes. “Fine, whatever.”

  There’s more to discuss, but the moment is lost as Cassidy’s door is pulled open from the outside and cheerful squeals and giggles fill the morning air.

  I spot Ravi pulling in and head his way instead of inside. I wave at Priya as she gets out of the car, but don’t stop to chat. I march over to the driver’s side and yank the door open. “Jacob is top priority today.”

  “Good morning to you too,” Ravi says. He gets out and grabs his messenger bag from the back seat, along with a white paper bag, which he hands me. The contents are warm enough to steam in the cool morning air.

  I fill him in on the morning’s conversation as we walk toward the building.

  “Okay, yeah,” he says. “I’m not saying I think he is the murderer for sure, but we can’t risk Cassidy going there if he is.”

  “I’m gonna talk to Bryce later. I’m assuming he’s coming to the barn. I think I can convince him that they have better options than this party. In the meantime, Jacob.”

  “I think he spends mornings in the art suite.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, he does art.” Ravi says this like it’s public knowledge, but I had no idea. Again.

  When I hear the name Jacob Harris, all I can think of are the endless stories about parties being broken up by cops while his father was on long-haul truck runs. He was arrested once for possession when he was a sophomore, which would’ve been sealed information due to his age, but the network of sources at school had made sure that I knew. And besides, he didn’t even try to deny the charge. If anything, he’d seemed disappointed when he was assigned probation instead of jail time.

  “Then art room it is,” I say. We don’t have long before first period starts, but I’ve learned my lesson about waiting. It’s better to get the information than be on time, consequences be damned.

  The art room door is open, and Mrs. French bustles around the room, laying supplies out on each table. “Hello,” she says, more to Ravi than me. “Here for the darkroom?”

  I take a half-step back and let Ravi talk. I’ve learned it can be helpful to play into a subject’s comfort zone when you need their help, and Mrs. French is obviously more comfortable with Ravi.

  “Not today,” he says. “We’re looking for Jacob. Is he around?”

  “Check the painting room. That’s usually where he is.”

  Ravi thanks her, and we duck out of the room to the next corridor, where the studios are located. There’s a pottery room, a silk-screening room, a darkroom with a red bulb above the door, and finally, a painting room. The painting room is long and narrow, with windows that face the courtyard, which allow in more natural light than probably any other room in the building.

  When we step in, all I can see are black jeans and black sneakers beneath an easel.

  “Jacob?” I ask.

  The person that sticks his head around the edge of the easel reveals himself to be, as expected, Jacob. He wears a baseball hat twisted around backward and holds a brush in one hand.

  “What do you want?”

  “Just to talk a minute.” I walk around the easel. “What are you working on?”

  “None of your business,” he says, but makes no effort to conceal the painting. It’s a European cityscape—maybe Italian—and not at all what I expected.

  The buildings look ancient and envelope the narrow, cobbled street like a hug. Silhouettes suggestive of children and shoppers give the scene movement, but it’s the architecture that sells the scene. Golden sunlight makes everything feel warm, and the bricks of the buildings are textured in such a way that I itch to touch them to see if they feel as real as they look.

  “This is amazing,” I say, stunned into unabashed honesty.

  Jacob shrugs and drops his paintbrush into a cup of dirty water. “What do you want?”

  I find myself wanting to speak to the painting rather than the painter but force my eyes away from it. “We’re doing a memorial piece about Emma Morgan for the Monitor’s print edition and wondered if we could talk to you.”

  Jacob folds his arms across his chest and shrugs. “Don’t think I can tell you much about her. Besides, bell’s about to ring.”

  I mirror his shrug, confident he’s not concerned with missing class. “Yeah, but I have somewhere to hide and a key to get in. Come with us.”

  It’s the prospect of missing class more than any sort of civic duty that persuades Jacob to accompany us to room 331.

  By unspoken agreement, Ravi and I sit side by side on one of the tables while Jacob leans against the other. I don’t speak, giving Jacob a chance to fill the silence on his own, but he seems content to wait us out.

  It’s Ravi who breaks first. “Can you tell us about the last time you saw Emma?”

  Jacob adjusts the bill of his hat and shrugs. “I don’t know. I just saw her around school, you know? It’s not like we were having sleepovers and braiding each other’s hair.”

  “Were you having sleepovers and doing other stuff?” I don’t like asking yes-or-no questions, preferring ones that require the responder to elaborate at least a little bit, but the question has the desired effect.

  Jacob straightens, folds his arms across his chest, and cocks his head back in a way that tempts me to punch him. He smirks. “So what if we were?”

  “So what if you were the last one to see her alive?” I shoot back.

  Jacob raises his chin even higher. “So what if I was? Suicide’s a tragedy, but I couldn’t have stopped her. I had no idea she was even planning that shit.”

  “Really? Because we heard you two were pretty close.” I slide off the table.

  “Heard from who?” The wariness on Jacob’s face is as good as any verbal confirmation that there’s some truth to it.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Humor me. When was the last time you saw her?”

  He hesitates long enough that I know whatever his answer is, it’s going to be a lie. “A week or so before she died. We ran into each other in the hall and hung out after school.”

  “Did you go out somewhere?”

  “No. We dicked around after school for a while.” His face changes at the memory, and he says, “Wait, is that what you’re looking for? Like funny stories about hanging out with her? Because we were hanging out behind the stage in the auditorium and almost got caught. She freaked out, practically broke my
arm trying to drag me out. It was like she’d never been in trouble before.”

  She probably hadn’t been.

  I shoot Ravi a look, recalling the day we scouted the auditorium for studio space. Had it been Jacob and Emma that we’d interrupted backstage? The more I think about it, the more plausible it seems. The girl had been small enough, and while Jacob wasn’t the only guy who always wore a baseball hat, our mystery man had.

  “Did you guys hang out a lot after school?”

  Jacob shrugs. “Not really. Just sometimes.”

  “Did Owen hang out too?”

  “What? No. It’s not like we’re tight or anything.”

  There’s only so much relationship drama I can deal with while trying to solve a murder, and between Cassidy’s fledgling romance and this trifecta, I’m at my limit. “Jacob, I’m gonna ask you this point-blank, and I want you to think before you answer. Were you having an affair with Emma?”

  He bursts out laughing. “Seriously? Me and Emma? Romantic? Shit, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  The laughter appears genuine. Interesting. “You weren’t dating?”

  “No,” Jacob says, still chuckling. “I can’t even imagine the nightmare that would’ve been.”

  “You weren’t interested in her at all?” Ravi asks.

  “No, man. You’ve seen her. Do I look like the kind of guy with the time or skills for that brand of high-maintenance?” He shakes his head. “Hell no. If you thought that was the story you were getting today, I’m sorry to disappoint. There’s no way in hell I would ever stick a toe in that particular puddle. And let’s be real. Owen? Not a small dude. Manly though I may be, I’m not that stupid.”

  “Wait.” I think he’s being sincere, but how could that be true? “We heard the two of you were having an affair. That Owen broke up with Emma because she was seeing you. Is that not true?”

  Jacob’s face loses most of the previous amusement. “Not even a little bit.”

  “Why would people think that, then?”

  “What people are we talking about?”

  “Sources.”

  “Names. Or I have no way of guessing what they were thinking.”

  I hesitate, not wanting to reveal our source. I won’t fall into the trap of thinking it doesn’t matter because it’s only high school journalism. Principles are principles.

  “Was it Owen?”

  I neither confirm nor deny.

  Ravi leans forward and props his elbows on his dangling knees. “Hypothetically. If it were Owen, why might he think you were moving in on his girl?”

  Jacob shrugs. “Beats me. Maybe he’s insecure.”

  “Did you and Emma text each other?” I ask.

  “Sometimes.”

  “About?”

  “Stuff. And things.”

  I fix him with a glare. “Specifically.”

  “Not sure it’s any of your business,” Jacob says, sliding back into his natural douche mode.

  “I have it on good authority, from multiple sources, that you and Emma were in a relationship and in frequent, regular contact,” I say, working to keep my voice level. “If that’s true, you might be able to provide us with some insight into her final days. We’re not trying to out or embarrass anyone, and you can speak off the record.”

  “I got nothing to be embarrassed about. As you may know, I’m in contact with lots of people for lots of reasons. Emma was no different from anyone else. She wasn’t special.”

  Something about the way he says that last line makes me think it’s the first outright lie he’s told us. I change tack. “Can you share your favorite memory of Emma? This part would be on the record.”

  “I don’t know; there’s nothing in particular. She was a cool chick to chill with sometimes. That’s all.”

  “What’d you guys do together?”

  Jacob looks at me from under lowered brows. “You seem pretty hung up on this whole me-and-Emma angle. This an interview or some kind of interrogation?”

  “Little of both,” I say, with a short laugh that turns the truth into a joke. “Did Owen know you and Emma sometimes hung out?”

  Jacob smirks. “According to you, he did.”

  “What about according to you?”

  “Don’t know. What’s the point of all this?”

  “Like I said, we’re trying to get some insight into Emma’s last days. You claim you didn’t see her that week, but we have two people who say you did. I’m just wondering why you’d hide that.”

  A storm of emotions crashes across Jacob’s face, which he tries and fails to conceal. A more compassionate person would let him compose himself, but I use the moment to lean in harder.

  “Did you have a fight with her? Did you ask her to leave Owen for you?” I’m reaching, but it doesn’t matter if I get it right, only that I get a reaction. “Or did she tell you she was sick of you? That she didn’t want to see you anymore? Did that piss you off? Make you do something you regret?”

  Jacob shoves himself off the table hard enough to make the legs screech against the tile floor. He yanks his hat off, runs a hand over his head, and pulls the cap back down low over his eyes. “I don’t need this shit.”

  Ravi hops down from his table, but Jacob makes no move to leave. Instead, he jams his hands in his pockets and starts pacing the room. “Look, I didn’t know this was gonna happen, okay? I had no idea. If I did, I would’ve done something. I liked her, okay? She was a spoiled bitch, but she was all right. I knew she was under pressure, but I didn’t know it was this bad. I had no idea.” His voice is thick with emotion.

  “What pressure was she under?” I ask gently, vaguely aware that I’m using the same tone Cassidy uses on spooked horses.

  “Everything. School, grades, soccer, Owen, that stupid internship she was so excited about that her mother was turning into a nightmare. She didn’t have enough hours in the day.”

  “But she spent some of them with you.” I pitch it halfway between a statement and a question. “That must’ve made you feel good.”

  He meets my eyes and shakes his head with such scorn that I almost have to turn away.

  “God, you’re so clueless,” he says.

  “So enlighten me.”

  “Emma didn’t hang out with me because she liked me. Emma barely hung out with me at all. Whatever Owen or whoever told you about the texts was making shit up. Yeah, there were texts. They were hellos and meeting arrangements. But they weren’t dates. They weren’t even social.”

  “What were they?” I have a hunch, and it’s something I never even considered.

  “They were her way of getting more hours in the day,” Jacob says, all the fight gone out of his voice now.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means she had too many things to fit into her day, and the only thing she could cut was sleep. Adderall helped with that. I helped with that.”

  I keep my expression neutral and resist the urge to ask any of a million follow-up questions. Behind Jacob, Ravi’s eyes go wide with surprise. We got a story all right, just not the one we expected.

  Jacob blows out a breath. “Happy now? That’s the truth of things. It’s off the record though. No one knew. She didn’t want anyone knowing. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if someone had known, she’d still be here.”

  The storm of emotions that had ravaged his face mere moments ago has calmed to a single one: guilt.

  I take a second to gather my thoughts, knowing that the wrong question will send him out the door in an instant. “Was it just Adderall?”

  He nods. “Not even pot. Not once.”

  “How long had she been getting it?” I make sure there’s not a trace of judgment in the question.

  Jacob drops into one of the chairs. “Middle of last year. Right after the first round of SATs. She wasn’t happy with her score and was panicking about trying to cram for the next session.”

  “She approached you?”

  He nods. “I mean, I’m pretty much the
school’s worst-kept secret. She threatened me at first.” He smiles—a genuine one, one that crinkles the skin around his eyes—like maybe this is his favorite memory of Emma. “Said if I breathed a word about what she was about to ask me, she’d tell Larson I tried to roofie her and that Larson would believe her because she was Emma Morgan, fuck you very much.”

  “She probably wasn’t wrong,” Ravi says.

  “Not even a little,” he agrees, the smile fading. “At first, she was all nervous about it, but we got into a routine, and it got easier for her. It’s not like I was judging her or making her feel like shit about it, you know? That was her big thing—always worrying that people would look down on her if they knew she was scoring. And the funny thing was, she wasn’t even snorting them. She was taking them the same way you would if you had a prescription.”

  Which doesn’t make it legal, but I see his point. As far as drug scandals go, this is pretty minor. “She wasn’t taking more than usual this year? In the weeks before her death, maybe? She didn’t seem extra stressed or anything?”

  Jacob shakes his head. “It was normal. She was normal. I mean, she was still high-strung as all fuck, but it was her normal level of neurotic.” He snorts, lips curling with disgust. “But that’s a lie, right? She obviously wasn’t normal. I just didn’t fucking notice.”

  I realize his guilt isn’t over an affair or the fact that he was dealing Emma drugs. It’s for not noticing. For not saving Emma from herself. Before I can say anything, he continues.

  “I know they don’t know exactly how she died, but if she OD’d, I don’t know what she took. I just know it didn’t come from me.”

  The boy spent his days wishing to disappear and his evenings praying for something to change. He researched other schools—Catholic schools, thinking the constant threat of nun-inflicted corporal punishment would keep the monsters at bay. He stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, a Bible open on his lap, bargaining with an unseen Holy Father to do more to protect him than his earthly father could. He tried to barter pages of the Bible in exchange for an intervention, no matter how slight. He’d read two pages if he could get through the next day without being touched. Five pages if his mom would let him stay home. Ten pages if his parents would at least consider sending him to a new school. By the end of sophomore year, he had made it to the end and back again without any heavenly intervention.