Get Even (28 page)
Authors: Gretchen McNeil
KITTY ROCKETED TO HER FEET THE INSTANT SHE HEARD THE
scream. It wasn’t a cry of triumph but of fear, and as the actors milled around onstage, trying to figure out what was going on, Mr. Cunningham marched into the wings.
He was back onstage in a split second. “We need a doctor backstage immediately. There’s been an accident!”
Accident? No way. Nothing that had happened in the last few weeks had been an accident.
“Where are you going?” Mika said, grabbing Kitty’s hand. “You’re not a doctor.”
Kitty shook her off without a word. She was safe, Olivia was onstage, Bree was in the back of the house manning a spotlight. That left only one person unaccounted for.
Turn yourselves in or else. You have until opening night.
Kitty’s stomach clenched. She’d assumed the “or else” was that their secrets would go public, or their roles in DGM would be exposed. But could the killer have meant something more ominous?
The cast had gathered in the wings as Kitty sprinted up the steps at the far side of the stage.
“Margot?” Logan cried. “Margot, can you hear me?”
Kitty’s stomach dropped as she approached the crowd. Logan was on his knees beside Margot’s unconscious body, grasping her hands in his. A stool and music stand had been knocked over, and a pool of blood had formed beneath her head. From where she stood, Kitty couldn’t tell whether Margot was breathing.
“The paramedics will be here any second,” Mr. Cunningham said, taking Logan by the shoulders. “Let them do their job.”
Logan’s face shot up. Tears streaked his stage makeup. “Who would do this? Who would want to hurt her?”
Kitty wished she knew.
Olivia stood behind Mr. Cunningham, her arms wrapped tightly around her body as if trying to protect herself from what was happening. She looked up and found Kitty in the crowd. The look on Olivia’s face was unmistakably helpless.
Bree was the last to arrive, her face a mix of pain and guilt. Kitty couldn’t even comfort them; she was totally and completely at a loss.
She stood there in shock with the rest of the cast until the paramedics arrived. The good news: no body bag, which meant Margot was still alive, for now. The bad news: they hustled her out on a gurney faster than she’d seen in most medical trauma shows on TV, which meant Margot was in critical condition.
“Will she be okay?” Logan asked the last paramedic as he followed the gurney off the stage.
“I don’t know yet, son. Only time will tell.”
Logan and Mr. Cunningham hurried after the paramedics, followed by some of the cast members. As the crowd thinned, Kitty found herself staring at the stricken faces of Bree and Olivia. They were lost. Scared. They needed a leader.
And that was Kitty’s job.
She nodded toward the wings and dashed to a corner of backstage, obscured by set pieces and curtains.
“This is my fault,” Kitty said as soon as Bree and Olivia joined her. She wasn’t so much looking for someone to contradict her, but saying the words out loud made them real, and steeled her for what she needed to do next.
“Did you attack Margot?” Bree asked.
Kitty rolled her eyes. “Of course not.”
“Then I don’t know how this is your fault.”
“We all know,” Olivia said, between sniffles, “that this is
my
fault.”
Bree sighed. “How do you figure?”
“Well.” Olivia paused, thinking through her reasoning, then seemed to come to a conclusion that pleased her. “It’s my fault she joined Don’t Get Mad in the first place,” Olivia said, sounding very satisfied with her argument. “If it wasn’t for me, she never would have been involved.”
“If I hadn’t started Don’t Get Mad,” Kitty said, “she never would have gotten involved.”
“Oh, come on, guys.” Bree stepped in front of them. “If her parents hadn’t birthed her, if God hadn’t rested on the seventh day. It’s ridiculous. None of us are to blame for what happened to Margot. We all knew the risks.”
“You shouldn’t have taunted our anonymous friend,” Olivia said. “I told you it was a bad idea.”
Bree set her teeth. “At least I
did
something. If it had been up to you two, we’d have sat around and let that guy turn us against each other while he continued killing people. I’m sorry, but I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
“That’s hilarious, coming from you,” Olivia said.
Olivia and Bree and their endless bickering. Kitty couldn’t take it anymore.
“Bree was right,” Kitty said. “We should all have been in it together from the beginning. We let that asshole tear us apart. And this is what happened.” She squeezed her eyes shut and pictured Margot speeding away toward an emergency room, her status and chances unknown. “We should have been a team on this one. I’m sorry.”
Bree looked taken aback by the apology. “It’s okay,” she said, all the fight gone out of her.
Kitty’s eyes flew open. “Tell that to Margot.”
The girls stared silently at one another as an ambulance siren faded into the distance.
“Any word from Ed the Head?” Kitty asked.
“Nope,” Bree said. “His cell phone goes straight to voice mail.”
“And you have no idea what it was he found in Arizona?”
Bree shook her head. “I wish.”
“Do you think he’s the killer?” Olivia asked.
“It’s possible,” Kitty said.
“But I’ve known Ed since fourth grade,” Olivia said. “He can’t be Christopher Beeman.”
“But he could have known about Christopher,” Kitty said. “And used that knowledge to throw us off the scent.” She sighed. “I’d say at this point, we can more definitively say who
isn’t
the killer.”
“Oh,” Olivia said.
Bree nodded. “You were onstage, I was manning the spotlight, Kitty was in the house.”
“And Logan was onstage with me,” Olivia added.
“And John was playing with the band,” Bree said quickly. “Which leaves Theo and Rex unaccounted for.”
“And Amber,” Kitty said. “She stormed off the stage before Margot’s body was found.”
“Or,” Bree added, shifting her feet, “someone totally off our radar.” She shook her head. “Whoever it is, the killer is still out there.”
“And coming for us,” Olivia added.
Kitty turned to them. “Not necessarily.”
Olivia looked confused. “What do you mean? Do you think he’ll just give up?”
“No.” Kitty set her jaw. She was the team leader. It was up to her to make the tough decisions and, if need be, the sacrifices. “I think he’ll give up if one of us turns ourselves in.”
Bree held up her hands in front of her. “Kitty, no way.”
“What are you talking about?” Olivia asked.
“You can’t do this,” Bree continued.
Olivia looked from Bree to Kitty and back. “You want us to turn ourselves in?”
Bree stared at her. “No, Olivia,” she said slowly, as if speaking to a child. “She wants to turn herself in.”
Olivia gasped. “But your college scholarship!”
“It is what it is,” Kitty said. “I started this with Don’t Get Mad. Now, I end it.” She turned to Bree and stuck out her hand. “It’s been a pleasure having you on my team.”
Bree opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and took Kitty’s outstretched hand. “Thank you for putting up with me.”
Olivia threw her arms around Kitty’s neck. “Don’t do this. There has to be another way.”
“There isn’t.”
“But—”
Kitty pried herself loose. “I won’t give them your names, so don’t worry. I’ll go to Father Uberti in the morning and confess. Just do me a favor.”
“Anything,” Olivia said impulsively.
“Don’t give up.” Then Kitty turned and marched out of the theater before either of them could convince her otherwise.
She prayed she’d have the strength to go through with it.
THE SURPRISE ALL-SCHOOL ASSEMBLY THE NEXT MORNING
was less “surprise” and more “duh” as far as Bree was concerned. Actually, as far as the entire school was concerned. No one in first-period religion even unpacked their bags; they just waited for the perpetually flustered Sister Augustinia to make the announcement before they lined up and filed into the gym.
She passed Olivia in the bleachers. She was nervous, Bree could tell right away. She was biting her lower lip with a savagery that threatened to take off a layer of perfectly pink skin. Olivia was paler than usual too, with purple circles under her eyes that indicated how little sleep she’d gotten the night before.
John walked behind Bree in line, slow and steady, and shimmied onto the bench next to her. She wanted to breach the hideous silence that had descended between them. But what would she say? Sorry I’ve been such an idiot? I know I’ve lost my chance with you, but I hope you don’t hate me? It all sounded hollow and pointless and lame.
The gym was electric, but not in the same chattery way it had been on the first week of school when a similar assembly had played out. Today it was more like the entire student body was tensed, preparing for a punch in the face. No one more so than Bree.
It was surreal, in a way. Total déjà vu—Mr. Phillips setting up the microphone, the cadre of police officers, Father Uberti and members of the administration huddled together in conversation. Bree sat in practically the same row, John by her side, with the same knots in her stomach. And yet the world had changed so drastically in the last few weeks as to make the gym almost unrecognizable, and the excitement Bree had felt then had been replaced by sickening dread.
Bree spotted Kitty as soon as they took their seats. She was standing near Father Uberti, her hands clasped before her. Bree wondered when she planned to turn herself in.
Father Uberti left the school officials and approached the police officers for a quick chat. Looked like things were about to get hopping. Bree slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and looked at the prewritten text she had prepared. Yep, that would do nicely.
“If everyone would quiet down and take their seats,” Father Uberti said. The announcement was needless. Every butt was on a bench, every mouth was closed, every set of eyes trained on the microphone.
“Good,” he said. “Before we begin today, our student body vice president, Kitty Wei, has asked to say a few words.”
Shit. She was going to do it right this freaking second.
It’s now or never.
Bree hit Send on her phone, and sent two little words barreling out into the cybersphere.
My turn.
“What are you doing?” John whispered.
But Bree ignored him. She watched Kitty with bated breath, registered the moment her phone vibrated in her pocket, the instant she decided to see what it was.
“Kitty?” Father Uberti said, none too patiently. “We’re waiting.”
Then, the moment Bree had been waiting for. The moment Kitty realized what Bree was about to do.
Olivia turned around at the exact instant Bree shot to her feet.
“Don’t!” Olivia cried out. But it was too late.
Bree shouted into the silent gym. “I’m the one you’re looking for. I’m DGM.”
The entire gym pressed in on her at once. Voices shouted—some angry, some congratulatory, all extremely loud.
“You crazy bitch.”
“I knew it was you!”
“Way to go.”
“Free DGM! Free Bree!”
Bree felt her body being jostled in every direction as people reached out and patted her on the back. Didn’t they believe she was a killer?
Then Olivia’s face, tears streaming down her gorgeous cheeks. “Why?” she mouthed.
But Bree just smiled. She had the least to lose, and Kitty had said it herself: this was the only way. Mr. Anonymous would be satisfied. For now.
Fingers laced between her own, and Bree turned to find John looking down at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t,” she said, desperately hoping he wouldn’t hate her forever. “It was too dangerous for you to know.”
“But . . .” His voice trailed off and Bree watched as weeks of emotion cycled rapidly across his face—anger, frustration, sadness, pride, understanding. “Your dad won’t bail you out this time,” he said at last. “You’ll be on your own.”
“I know.”
Then he pulled her to him as the police pushed their way into the bleachers, enveloping her fiercely with his arms as if he’d never let her go. “I know you didn’t kill them,” he whispered in her ear.
Several pairs of strong arms pried her away from John, but she hardly felt them. The only thing in the world was John’s body pressed tightly against her own, as she gazed up into his eyes.
“Bree Deringer,” an officer said. “You are under arrest for the murders of Ronald DeStefano and Richard Creed.” They wrenched her from John’s arms, but her eyes never left his face. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she needed him to know. Her Miranda rights faded into the background as they pinned her arms behind her back and handcuffed her. Still, all she could think about was John.
“I love you,” she said.
John stared at her silently, then a grin spread across his face. Lopsided and wicked, and every inch Han Solo. “I know.”
She smiled as the police led her away. John had been right all along.
Nothing would be the same.
DGM
There is a reason
Get Even
is dedicated to my agent, Ginger Clark, and editor, Kristin Daly Rens. These two amazing women are the reason
Get Even
exists. They’ve supported me, encouraged me, and fought for me every step of my career. They dose out tough love and shiny praise as needed, and their enthusiasm and encouragement inspires confidence, even when I have none. I am truly the luckiest of authors.
Of course, it takes a village to make a book, and I am indebted to the following people:
To my Balzer + Bray/HarperCollins team—Alessandra Balzer, Donna Bray, Kelsey Murphy, Caroline Sun, Olivia deLeon, Stefanie Hoffman, Emilie Polster, Michelle Taormina, and Melinda Weigel.
To the rock stars at Curtis Brown, Ltd.—Jonathan Lyons, Holly Frederick, Sarah Perillo, and Kerry D’Agostino.
To the hardest working book blogger/marketing guru around Amber Sweeney, who single-handedly managed all of my giveaway and promo efforts. I literally could not do this without you.
To Laurel Proctor Jones, without whose mad beta skills this book would still be a series of note cards scattered across my living room floor.
To my Bacon Sisters—Elana Johnson, Stasia Ward Kehoe, Jessi Kirby, Carrie Harris. Because you know where the bodies are buried.
To the amazing friends who pitched in to make my wedding happen while I was buried in revisions for this book: Brigitte Hagerman, Tara Murphy, Rachel Hunter, Cameron Russell, Amy Romero, Julia Shahin Collard, Roy Firestone, and Donald McCarthy.
To the best group of fans around—Kayla Keefer, Giedrė Šliumbaitė, Christine LaRue, Jenelle Riane Yu, and Debbie from Snuggling on the Sofa. My Army of Ten lives on!
To Michael Feldschuh, who graciously opens up his home to us every time we’re in New York.
To my mom, who is, without a doubt, the most supportive and patient parent on the planet.
And last but never least, my husband, John, who has patiently held my hand through more insane writing deadlines than either of us can count. You are my reward at the end of every day.
