#Scandal (15 page)

There’s also the vampire-zombie couple that Cole kicked out of the bathroom. People get touchy about interrupted make-out sessions, and they might be gunning for vengeance. Not to mention Paul St. Paul. Griff slipped him 174

the Tarts of Apology Sunday morning; he could be trashing her friends to get even.

And John . . . maybe he’s more upset about the career-ruining nudies than he let on, and he only helped me with the locker posters to throw me off his scent. Then there’s Spence. Cole was pretty pissed about him kidnapping Prince Freckles—maybe they had an argument. And what about Marceau? I left him high and dry after our kiss, and if I’ve learned anything from Angelica Darling, it’s that scorned lovers make motivated enemies.

That’s not even counting all the random people at the party who have no attachment or loyalty to me what-soever, people who could’ve just cashed in a last-ditch, out-with-a-bang opportunity on Miss Demeanor’s #scandal page. . . .

This investigative stuff is a lot harder than it looks on TV.

“Once you’ve got your evidence in order,” Franklin says, “we’ll start interviewing suspects and witnesses.”

“Awesome. I’ll—did you say
we
?”

“Quid pro quo, love.” He lets the comment simmer, still typing. Then he says, “If I help you, perhaps you’ll grant me that interview.”

Now I’m the one sighing. He’s already given me such great advice—I’d love to return the favor. But this isn’t 175

a crusade. It’s a plan to get my friend back. I’m not Jayla, eager to plaster my life all over the media world, online or off.

“Franklin,” I say, “what if I could score you an interview with Jayla Heart instead?”

It takes about a year for him to stop laughing, and then he says, “Even if that were possible, you’d have better luck pitching that to your mate Miss Demeanor.” Little does he know, Jay’s in my kitchen right now, communing with her many online fans.

“You’re not interested?” I ask.

“In Jayla Heart? Goodness, no. However . . .” Franklin’s typing again, fast and furious. “What about a compromise?

Something that won’t require you to go on record?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll grant you and your team full access to my investigative services,” he says. “In exchange, you’ll allow me to do a story based on our findings. No direct quotes, no interviews, just facts.”

“Investigative services?” I ask. “I thought you didn’t do group projects.”

“This isn’t a group project,” he says. “It’s a case.” Across the room, Night lifts his head, snapping his jaw in an epic yawn. Without warning, he darts forth like a streak of black lightning and dive-bombs my bed in the 176

most ungraceful way possible. I give him a playful shove.

“I’m not made of Snausages, you oaf!”

Franklin laughs.

“My dog,” I explain. “He’s, like, mauling me. Night!

Cool out!” I ditch the iPad and rearrange my legs under ninety pounds of German shepherd. Night puts his head in my lap, not budging, and I lean back against the pillows, closing my eyes.

When I called Franklin tonight, it was just to get a few pointers, some ideas on how to investigate a hacker. I never expected him to get involved—I’m not even sure he realizes what he’s signing up for.

“You really want to partner with a known philander and narc?” I ask. “Your credibility could take a hit.”

“I’m getting a story out of this, love.” Franklin’s voice is kind but matter-of-fact. “Exposing injustice. Setting the record straight for all concerned. It’s what I live for, Veronica.”

“Faith,” I say. “Dark slayer?”

“Sorry. You have to be Veronica so I can be Keith.”

“Keith? Shouldn’t you be all, rah-rah Sherlock Holmes?” I laugh. “You turncoat! You’re a traitor to your nation.” He gasps indignantly, and I picture his sharp brown eyes, the crazy curly hair. A mad, eccentric genius basking in the glow of his computer screen. “No Keith, no Veronica, no investigation.”

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I scratch Night’s belly. “You won’t let it go, right?”

“Not likely, sweetheart.” His accent has gone noir.

“We’re gonna solve this crime, see, and nail the perp to the wall, see.”

Night sighs in my lap, and for the first time since the scandal broke, I feel a shred of hope that we might actually solve this thing. That I might actually get my best friend back.

“Here’s the deal,” I say. “I’ll give you Keith and Veronica, and your story, and you promise to never do that accent again.”

Franklin laughs. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves an investigation, Veronica.”

178

LONE GUNMAN THEORY SHOT TO

HELL

N
arc! Narc! Narc! Narc! Narc! Narc! Narc!” The maroon-and-gray corridor grew a mile overnight, and the chant echoes endlessly as I walk to homeroom. No one touches me, but they’re throwing wads of wet paper and gum, shooting rubber bands and nasty glares. Their catcalls intensify as I pick up the pace, and the electronic
click-click
of a dozen cameras reminds me of Jayla, swarmed and flashbulbed on her way to some celeb hot spot.

“Narc! Narc! Narc!” from my left. “Slut! Slut! Slut!” from my right, this one led by Quinn and Haley. Olivia isn’t chanting, but she’s behind them, arms folded, her delicate face twisted into a scowl.

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“Slut! Narc! Slut! Narc!” The rhythmic cheer ping-pongs from one side of the hall to the other, swirls into a new refrain. “Slarc! Slarc! Slarc!”

Bouts of laughter roll and froth like waves as I zoom past my locker. There’s a fresh batch of posters, and though I’d love to stop and shred them, stopping means facing the mob. It means looking them in the eyes as they call me names and throw erasers at my head. It means letting them see me cry.

Definitely not on my bucket list.

I walk faster still, almost at a jog, ignoring the masses and the spitballs in my hair. Ellie’s homeroom is a few doors before mine; we see each other as I pass. Our eyes lock.

She breaks the connection and drops to the floor, digging in her bag.

I offer a belated smile anyway.

This ends tonight.

Cole’s making a list of party attendees and Griffin’s using her feminine wiles to interview the guys, including Paul St. Paul, even though he’s still nursing his broken heart. Jayla’s on the case at home, alternating her teen boy fan mail review with careful scrutiny of the Juicy Lucy page for potentially incriminating commentary. Franklin and I are meeting at lunch to review the evidence.

Not even spitballs can chase away the hope, and four 180

minutes into homeroom, when I discover that an HD video of me cowering beneath the hallway slarc attack has already popped up on the Juicy Lucy page, it only steels my resolve.

With just three weeks until graduation, most teachers have given up on wireless device discipline, and I spend my morning classes examining party photos on my iPad, re-creating the events in a list for Franklin.

By lunchtime I’m ready to rock, and finding Franklin bent over his keyboard in the computer lab is like watching the sun rise after a tornado-black sky.

“Prepare to be wowed,” I announce as I drop into the chair next to him. “Or at least mildly impressed.” I flip open the iPad cover to reveal my starter report.

“E-mail that to me?” Franklin asks. “We should cen-tralize everything. It’s an encrypted file,” he explains when he sees my freaked-out face. “I’m the only one who can access it. Promise.”

“What about the NSA?”

Franklin considers the question, then shakes his head.

“Highly probable they’ve got more interesting scandals to investigate. And fear not, Veronica.” He continues typing. “I won’t print anything in the
Explorer
that makes you uncomfortable. You have my word.”

Satisfied, I tap his e-mail into the iPad, send the notes 181

into space. An instant later, he enters a password on his keyboard, and the file pops up on his monitor.

He scrolls through my report. “You left the cabin first thing that morning?”

“I wanted to bail before anyone else woke up,” I say.

“Didn’t want to be there for the ‘best night of my life’ stories and hangover commiseration.”

“Precisely why I skipped prom,” he says.

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t my idea of a good time either.” I tell him about Ell ie and the Rent-a-Princess gig. “I know how it looks, but I wasn’t plotting to hook up with my best friend’s—”

“Hey.” Franklin’s steady gaze is unchanged. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Lucy. We’re a team. Can you trust me?”

It’s a simple enough question with a simple enough answer. Yes, I
can
trust him. He’s trustworthy, and he’s been nothing but decent since this whole thing started—

even before it started. We’ve never hung out, but Franklin’s just a good guy. No cliquey allegiances, no drama. Smart but never superior. Everyone likes him.

Still, it’s been a long time since I let anyone in. Ellie, at the mermaid play. And Cole, because when you fall that hard for someone, trust is part of the package. The last person I got close to was Griffin, and I haven’t even let
her
in a hundred percent.

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Franklin’s waiting patiently, fingers resting on the keyboard.

Still, I don’t answer.

He swivels his chair toward me, our knees almost touching. “I know it’s difficult,” he says softly. “But we’ve got to review the evidence. Notes, photographs, Facebook comments. It’s embarrassing for you. But I mean it, love.

No judgments.”

My chest fills with fear, but he’s right. We can’t really investigate this if I don’t open up. I have to share the evidence. Let him in. Show him my scars, admit my mistakes.

Last summer, Cole invited me, John, and Ellie on a camping trip with his dad. Ellie’s not a roughing-it kinda girl, but she put on her game face. Each day, we took short walks in the woods, played cards, and read books beneath the trees. At night we roasted marshmallows and sang camp songs, and then Ellie and I snuggled in our sleeping bags in the girls tent, trying to outscare each other with ghost stories.

On the fourth day, Cole’s father went on a solo hike, and Cole led the rest of us on a trek up Mount Elbert, the highest peak in Colorado. We started before sunrise and hiked all morning. Halfway up, Ellie and I were falling apart. Ellie’s knees ached, and I peed on my hiking boots, and at each step above tree line we struggled for breath, 183

desperate to turn back. But Cole and John encouraged us onward, and when we finally reached the summit, we were like the literal walking dead.

Out of nowhere, Ellie threw up her arms and shouted,

“Girl power! We made this mountain our bitch!” She launched herself at me in a triumphant embrace, and the two of us laughed and cried, singing Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” at 14,440 feet above sea level.

Then we saw lightning in the distance, a freak storm, a crack of thunder as the clouds shifted over the sun. Cole was all, “Time to go!” We hightailed it down the mountain, chased by thunder and rain, not daring to stop until we got back to camp.

It was the most challenging, exhilarating, and terrify-ing thing ever.

Until right now.

“I trust you,” I tell Franklin. “It’s just . . . I haven’t told anyone about that night.”

Franklin turns back to the computer, pulls up the

#scandal album on the Miss Demeanor page. “It’s okay.

Just pretend it isn’t you. Be objective. Ready?”

“I’m ready.” I have to be. I have to solve this. For me.

For Ellie. For another breathless rendition of “I Will Survive.”

Franklin clicks on the photo of me and Cole in bed. I 184

was expecting it, but it still takes my breath away, a rush of guilt and desire and the memory of everything that happened, photographed and not. I close my eyes, trying to decide how much to share, how much to bury.

I muster just enough nerve to explain my argument with Cole after the kiss, all the words that led us to his bedroom, to Cole telling me they’d broken up.

“And after the discussion, you turned in?” Franklin asks.

“First Cole went downstairs to check on things. I asked him to tell Griffin I was crashing and to get my phone.” It’s coming back to me now, flashes and pieces knitting together. “I left it outside on the deck.” My eyes are still closed, but I hear Franklin typing.

“The picture of you—of the subjects—kissing on the porch,” he says, “there’s a silver phone on the railing behind them. Is that yours?”

“Yes.”

“Was that the last time you had it in your possession?”

“Yes. But I told Cole where I left it and . . .” Memories are coming faster now, fog lifting. Cole’s words echo.

Trying to set your phone alarm . . .

“No. He brought my phone upstairs,” I say. “It was after I’d gotten into bed. He came in, locked the door . . . there was a flash. He said he was setting the alarm so we could 185

leave early, but . . . yes!” I open my eyes. “Look for a random shot of the dress at the end of the bed. He took it while he was messing with the alarm.”

“Saw it,” Franklin says. “You said he locked the door. .

. . Was it unlocked in the morning?”

“I don’t know. Cole opened it first. He was up just before me.”

Franklin taps his lips with a pen. Typing, writing . . .

there’s no note this boy isn’t prepared take. “If what you say is accurate,” he says, “that leaves three possibilities. One, you or Cole intentionally set the camera timer and took the pictures yourselves. Ludicrous.”

I’m not the one who slept with my best friend’s boyfriend and
posted pictures. . . .

I blink away the image of Margo’s intern in her STAFF

shirt. “Totally ludicrous. Two?”

“When Cole thought he set the alarm, he inadvertently set the photo timer. But that still means you posted the pictures yourselves, or another person later stole the phone and posted the pictures that you took.” He shakes his head.

“Scratch that—the simplest explanation is usually the right one. That leaves option three. Most simply, someone saw you in bed, saw the phone, saw an opportunity, and took it.”

“For Miss Demeanor,” I say.