Deadly Little Sins (8 page)

“Try isn’t good enough.” Tierney’s voice is sharp. “Someone took a leap of faith for you. Don’t pull the rug out from under them.”

I eye the extra-credit assignments, trying to see the point in all of this. Best-case scenario, I can pull my GPA up to a 3.0.
If
I get all A’s this semester. In prep school world, a 3.0 may as well be a 2.0. There’s no way I’d get into my first choice college if I even had one.

I screwed up at St. Bernadette’s. All the SAT prep classes I blew off didn’t matter as much before I burned part of the auditorium down, but now every bad mistake I ever made is coming back to haunt me. Every skipped class. Every extracurricular I lost interest in.

I’m a trust fund fuck-up, and doing my homework and going to class on time like a good girl isn’t going to make me a Wheatley kid.

I have a chance to do something that matters here. I can find Dr. Muller’s killer, and I can get answers to what happened to Natalie. The truth is what matters—not the lie I’d be telling myself by trying to be the person my parents expected me to be.

“Don’t let yourself down, Anne,” Tierney says. She shuffles the files on her desk. I catch her hesitate and motion to cover a file on her desk with mine.

But she’s not fast enough—I catch the label on the file.

N
ATALIE
B
ARNES.
EXPELLED.

CHAPTER

TEN

Tierney knows that Ms. C is really Natalie Barnes. Is that why she had to leave? Tierney busted her as a fraud and she slipped away in the night before anyone else could find out?

And I’ve got to find out what the folder on Tierney’s desk means before she figures out that I know the truth about Ms. C, too.

Unfortunately, we have to be ready by seven on Friday morning for an excursion to the Wheatley annex. According to the packet, it’s a plot of land a fifteen-minute bus ride away dedicated to “team and leadership building activities.” Remy says we’ll basically be going zip-lining and picnicking.

Her group and mine are assigned to the same bus, so we head to the front gate together. It looks like all of our group members are there. I do a mental head count.

“Where’s Farrah?” As soon as I ask, I see her by the curb on a cell phone, talking hurriedly in another language.

“The terrorist has been on the phone for the last ten minutes,” Banks says around a yawn. “I bet the school is about to blow up.”

I’m on him, the collar of his T-shirt in my grip before anyone can stop me.

“Anne.” Brent pushes Bingham and Oliver aside. “Put him down.”

“You heard what he said.”

“He’s an asshole. But he’s not worth getting expelled over.”

Banks smiles at me. The little shit weasel actually
smiles.
I stalk off, hoping my blood pressure will go down. Brent follows me.

“I would not be pulling crap like that if I were you,” he says.

“He shouldn’t get away with saying those things.”

“I know. But he will, because he’s an entitled little twat, and his father is on the school board. He could make your life very miserable.”

“I’m not afraid of a stupid school board,” I say, even though I know I sound like a whining little kid who wants to watch an R-rated movie instead of going to bed.

“Maybe you should be, since they’re the ones who let you come back.” Brent’s eyes are pleading now. “Don’t leave. You just got here.”

I sigh and follow him back to the group. Banks is wearing a self-satisfied smirk, until Brent grabs him by his collar. Banks’s feet dangle off the ground.

“Make another comment like that, you’ll be shitting the rubber from my shoes for a week,” he says, his voice pleasant.

Brent drops Banks, whose cheeks are flaming red. I scowl at Brent. “Why are
you
allowed to do that?”

“I believe what you meant is ‘thank you.’ Come on, the buses are here.”

The annex is an hour outside of Wheatley. The space between buildings gets wider the farther north we go, and eventually there’s nothing around but trees. It seems like autumn comes earlier in Massachusetts—some of the leaves are already tinged with red and gold. I think of everything about my favorite season—getting hot cider from the Union Square farmer’s market, picking out a Halloween costume for Abby—and have to swallow away a lump in my throat.

I was expecting the annex to be a plot of dirt, but this is the Wheatley School, so I should have known better. We’re greeted by an enormous sign with gold lettering welcoming us to the Wheatley annex, founded in 2005 by Headmaster Benedict Goddard.

In small letters at the bottom are the words T
HE
W
ILLIAM
H. G
ODDARD
S
ANCTUARY
.

“This place isn’t that old,” I say aloud.

“It took years to build. And millions of dollars.” Artie’s voice comes from behind me. “It was Goddard’s legacy project.”

“This sign says there were two Goddards.”

“One wasn’t headmaster. William Goddard is Benedict Goddard’s father. He was a student at Wheatley a long time ago.” Artie shrugs.

I look into his face. I have to do a double take—he’s not wearing his glasses.

“New look?” I say.

“Nah. Contacts. My mom will kill me if I break another pair of glasses.”

There’s snickering to our left. I look over to see the three dipshits gathered together. Bingham is making a rabbit face—probably imitating Artie’s slightly large front teeth. I scowl at him, and the boys turn away.

“Anyway, I figure there’s a decent chance of glasses breakage,” Artie says, ignoring them. “Since we had to sign that waiver and everything.”

“Waiver?”

“That paper with our emergency contact forms. The one that says we’re not allowed to sue the school if we break anything today. Your parents had to sign.”

Lovely.

We follow the RA assigned to us—Kyle, who works on the guys’ floor in Amherst—over a footbridge. A brook babbles underneath. That’s when a gigantic structure made out of trees comes into focus. Three trunks converge to make a pyramid, with knotted ropes extending from the top point to the ground.

“Do we have to climb that?” Farrah asks behind me.

“Later,” Artie says. “Our group’s first obstacle is
that
.”

He points to two trees, each about fifty feet high. They’re connected by a log, which I assume we have to walk across. Below, the ground slopes downward in a steep bank covered with rocks and ferns. The tree overhead rustles; an acorn falls. We never hear it drop.

Farrah makes a panicked noise next to me. “I hate heights.”

I squeeze her hand.

“Listen up.” Kyle emerges from the shed, holding a harness and a helmet. Next to the shed is a log cabin. It says OUTHOUSE, but I’m sure there’s a bathroom attendant and potpourri inside.

Kyle demonstrates, on Jill, how to adjust our harnesses. We’ll be tethered to a rope, which our partner will belay as we walk across the log. A few people groan at the term
partners
.

I turn to Farrah, but Banks is already next to her. He gives her a wolfish smile and extends a hand. She shakes it with one hand and tugs at the end of her braid with another. Artie and Peter have already teamed up, as have the other two boys. I’m stuck with Jill.

I avoid her eyes as Kyle leads us over to the trees. Bingham and Oliver, who volunteered to go first, start climbing the boards nailed to the trees.

“I thought he hated me,” Farrah whispers, tilting her head toward Banks.

“He’s a jerk. He’s not worth your time.”

“I don’t know … he seems nice.” Farrah shrugs, pink seeping into her facial coloring.

Something protective—and vicious—stirs in me. “Look, you need to be careful who you trust here. Don’t be so naïve. These kids—they’re not out to make friends.”

Farrah blinks at me, stunned. We stand in silence until it’s her turn. Banks makes an “after you” gesture and spots her as she climbs the tree. I can see her foot shake as she feels around for the steps on the way up.

All the color has drained from her face when she reaches the top.

“Good, Farrah,” Kyle says. “Now hold onto your rope while he hooks you in.”

Farrah spreads her arms out and puts one foot in front of the other like she’s supposed to. Beyond the trees, I can hear the other groups cheering their members on. I cup my hands around my mouth and shout a word of encouragement up at her. Farrah doesn’t look down—she’d lose her balance—but her expression sets, and she stands up a little straighter.

And that’s when Banks lets out a sneeze. A very loud, fake sneeze.

Farrah whips her head around, startled. Her foot slips, and Jill gasps next to me.

My own gasp turns into a scream as she tumbles off the log, even though I know Banks has got the other end of her rope.

But the impact is too much. The rope flies out of Banks’s hands, and Farrah crashes to the ground.

“I’m okay,” she snaps as everyone crowds around her. Then she bursts into tears.

“What hurts?” Kyle demands, hovering over her. She points to her ankle.

“Everyone out of the way,” Kyle barks. “Jill, head to the lodge and have Barbara call an ambulance.”

Banks shimmies down the tree, landing on his feet with a thud. His eyes are wide as he watches Farrah, holding her ankle and sobbing. I want to slam him against the tree, but Brent’s voice is in my head.

“You did that on purpose,” I yell in Banks’s face.

“Anne.” Kyle’s voice is sharp. He’s still bent over Farrah. “Let me handle this.”

“You saw him do it! He pretended to sneeze to screw her up.”

“
Anne.
Get away from him.” Kyle turns to Banks. “Go to the lodge. Now.”

Banks’s face falls. I allow myself to breathe. For once, maybe someone at this school is going to get what they deserve.

When he moves past me, he slows down just long enough to mutter two words in my ear.

“Prove it.”

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Farrah has a sprained ankle. Banks isn’t in trouble. I’m seething, which probably means it’s a bad idea to pay a visit to Caroline Cormier-Frey.

But I do it anyway.

The only way to Weston is to head into South Station and change to the commuter rail. When I’m on the train, I slip on my Wheatley blazer, convert my ponytail to a high bun, and reapply my rosebud lip salve.

I wriggle past the throng of commuters getting off the train at Weston. My phone says 65 Sugar Maple Lane is ten minutes away by car, so technically I could walk. But a bored-looking cab driver at the station waves me over.

I have him stop a block away from Caroline Cormier-Frey’s house. “Could you wait right here? It’ll probably be about twenty minutes.”

“Mm-hmm.” He’s already turning his radio to the Red Sox game.

Sugar Maple Lane looks like a snapshot from a real estate brochure about a neighborhood no one can afford to live in. All of the houses are two or three stories, with white columns and nineteenth-century masonry. In between them, I catch glimpses of a lake.

I almost turn around when I see the elaborate brick-and-ivy mailbox with a gold-plated number 65. People with ivy wrapped around their mailboxes don’t let just anyone into their homes. If Caroline Cormier-Frey detects even the faintest scent of bullshit, this won’t work.

A security camera trains on me as I ascend the driveway. I focus on tugging my blazer down so I don’t look straight at it. Best not to have a record of me being here.

I ring the bell and step back as a dog begins to bark inside. I expect a housekeeper or something to coming running. Instead, a woman I assume is Caroline Cormier-Frey answers the door. She’s wearing a baby blue sleeveless blouse and khakis, and her chin-length brown hair is perfectly blown out. Her face is wide and round, the corners of her mouth lilting downward as if she’s on a horse tranquilizer.

“Yes?” Her eyes move to my Wheatley blazer, something like contempt flashing in them.

“I’m looking for Miss Cormier-Frey.”

Caroline eyeballs me. “Why?”

“I’m a student at the Wheatley School, and I was wondering if you had a moment to hear about the Alumni-Student Liaison.”

Caroline stiffens, her hand moving to the door handle. “I already received information about that in the mail.”

“Listen,” I lower my voice. “I have to do this to be a member. Please—I’ll only take five minutes of your time.”

Caroline’s gaze moves to the staircase. On the second story, someone yells at the dog.
Calm down, calm down.
“What did you say your name was?”

I didn’t. “It’s Elizabeth.”

Caroline opens the door for me and turns down the hall. I assume she wants me to follow, so I trail after her.

“Why would you want to be a member of that awful club?” she asks, without turning around.

“College applications.” I follow her into a spacious living room off the foyer. She takes a seat on a cream-colored couch next to a fireplace the height of my closet. I sit opposite her in an armchair.

“So,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. Something about Caroline’s hard stare makes me feel like I could pee myself. “When did you graduate from Wheatley?”

“Two thousand five,” she says. “Isn’t that on file?”

“Just making small talk,” I mumble. “Sorry.”

I realize what it is that freaks me out about Caroline: She doesn’t blink. Not once.

“My family has donated quite a bit of money to the school over the years,” she says. “I’m not quite sure what else I could contribute without attending one of those dreadful events. You know, where the board members try to ingratiate themselves with wealthy alumni by shoving their noses in their asses like untrained poodles.”

“Um, well…” I try not to fixate on the fact that she still hasn’t blinked.

“Are you a poodle?” Caroline says. A nervous laugh escapes my lips, but when her stony expression doesn’t change, I realize she was serious.

“No,” I say. “I’m not here to ask you for money. I had a question about another graduate who’s joining the liaison. I believe you and she were friends.”