The Deadly Sister (6 page)

W
ord traveled fast. I didn’t have to work hard to find out what people were saying, not when everyone was posting their thoughts online. I started with Gail Lawrence, since her dad had been my parents’ first source of information. There it was, at the top of her page: Jefferson Andrews, RIP. You’ll keep living in our hearts.

There was ten minutes of online silence, and then the other posts started. So many questions. So much feeling. None of it really mattering, because the person it was all directed at was gone.

I clicked on Jefferson’s page and that’s when it first hit me that someone’s death could feel so real and yet unreal, so final and yet imaginary. Online, Jefferson was frozen forever in the evening before he died. If he could have predicted he was going to be killed, what would he have chosen for his final posting? Surely not Jefferson is going to ride it hard tonight, left Friday at 6:15
P
.
M
.

In the comments section, one of his friends had posted, nonsensically, Yeah, Rose is going 2 B saying on Monday, man?, followed by poser comments by some other guys, predictably going for the most obvious innuendos. The commenting carried on through Friday night—none of them
knew that he was dead, that even as they were goading his sexploits, he was bleeding into the dark river, thunderstorms pummeling his corpse.

The first sign that something had gone wrong appeared at two
A
.
M
. From Rose: J, baby, thought you were supposed to come by my house. Chk voice mail!!!

Then, again from Rose, at 3:23
A
.
M
.: Dont bother calling. Anyone reading this let him know hes n major trouble.

Around four
A
.
M
.: nvm he’s not worth it. Tell him that instead.

Trailing after their queen, the various handmaidens in their various degrees of love with Jefferson started their various postings. They, too, had gone too long without the fix of his sporadic contact. Rachael McHenry posted hey buddy some psycho girl got you hidden away? as if she herself hadn’t turned psycho on him last winter.

After the news of his death got out, the comments turned to testimonials, got weepy and overwrought. Cara Johnson wrote from her boarding school, where she’d been sent after carving up her arm post-breakup: If you’re dead then we should all be dead. Ill switch places with you!!! Some others, like from Jefferson’s guy friends, were spare: will miss you, bud. One of the super-religious kids called him a holy light called up to guide the walkways of heaven. Most of the posts were addressed directly to Jefferson, saying how missed he would be and how tragically short his time on Earth had been. One wished him the best of luck in his next life. I
found it all really weird, like our accounts were heaven yearbooks, like there was angel wi-fi.

The worst:

My Darling Jefferson, It’s 7:47 pm, almost three hours since they found your body.

They say your heart stopped but I think it was just too large for all the love that you held. Unconditional Love is the most powerful emotion there is and You Are Its Prince. The one and only Prince of Xavier High.

Posted by Jenna Michaelson, an exchange student Jefferson always made fun of for having fat lips.

The trail leading from the present moment back in time to Jefferson’s murder was here, catalogued on some distant server. Since I couldn’t glean anything more from the recent comments, I went back in time to when Jefferson was alive. Rose’s words appeared everywhere on his page, of course, alongside carefully selected photos of the two of them where she looked hot and Jefferson looked in love. I wondered about the ones she hadn’t uploaded, the ones where he was distracted and looking off camera for his next seduction.

There was a roster of regular posters. Tons of comments were from the three girls everyone knew Jefferson had messed around with: Cara, Rachael, and Donna. But there were some unexpected posts, too, like Go straight to H’s. Blake is watching from none other than tattoo parlor Keith.
Who was Blake? I wrote down the name on the back of my planner.

Then, far into the past from Jefferson’s front page, I found a post from Cheyenne: I’m back now. Call me about it if you’re still up. What was she doing messaging him? The “it” she referred to was probably homework…but still, she always said how much she hated him. A late-night posting seemed odd.

I clicked through his page, back and back until I was witnessing his life months in the past. I couldn’t stop; I wanted to live forever in that period when he’d been alive, when the world had been ordinary and even boring. If I could go back then, knowing what I knew now, I would write to him: Be good to the ones who adore you. Because, as it turns out, one of them may kill you.

I kept telling myself that each page would be the last. But I continued searching. I realized that I was looking for someone. Not as my main purpose, but as a side curiosity. Caitlin, the girl that Maya had mentioned. Caitlin, who Jefferson said had a nice ass.

Nowhere. Not a mention.

Finally, I surfed away from Jefferson’s page and on to Maya’s. It seemed she’d obeyed me and hadn’t gone online since I’d talked to her, thank god.

Her last update had come from her phone, eleven
P
.
M
. last night, probably right after Jefferson had died.

I’m lost.

I
spent Sunday worrying about Maya and accomplishing nothing, and it wasn’t until the evening that it hit me that I would have to go to school the next day. Could I pretend to act normal, could I possibly concentrate on schoolwork and APs and graduation plans? How would I answer everyone’s questions? By early Monday morning, my plan had switched to dodging school entirely. I couldn’t take all the group pomp that was bound to happen. If it was anything like what had happened after those boys almost decapitated one another in that sword incident last year, there would be a somber message on the morning announcements, and then the whole school would crack open. There’d be an assembly and maybe shrinks brought in to stop us from throwing ourselves in front of trucks. Everyone would be concerned and caring and suspicious and awful. They’d ask me what I knew and I’d mess up my answer. Maybe a big plug would come undone at the base of my skull and all this steaming gray truth would come boiling out. I didn’t know what was going to happen, and that was why I couldn’t let it start.

I’d tried to call Veronica a few times on Sunday, but she never picked up. It was for the best that she avoided outside contact, but it still had me worried not to know what
was going on with Maya. I showered like usual, picked up the lunch my mom left for me, weathered a squeamishly long hug, got into my car, and headed in the direction of school. But I chose the right turn lane when I technically should have gone left, and any possibility of Monday being a school day was history. I traveled the couple of exits to Veronica’s. Cheyenne called while I was on the way, undoubtedly because she’d seen I wasn’t at school and wanted to make sure I was okay. I let her go to voice mail—I’d never done that to her before.

Veronica answered the door in a sari she’d bought in a thrift store years ago and wore on days when she said she was working but was actually watching talk shows. Her hair was in curlers. Who actually wore curlers in the twenty-first century?

“What are you doing here, honey?” she asked.

“I wanted to check on Maya. How’s she doing?”

“Come in,” Veronica said.

“She’s not here anymore, huh?” I said as she sat me on the couch.

“How do you know me so well?” Veronica said. She had this sigh in her voice, like she was expecting me to fight. So I did.

“Don’t try to soften this,” I said. “You’re supposed to be taking care of her.”

“I know I am, Abby,” she snapped. “And watch your tone. I’m not your little sister. I won’t have you muscling me around.”

“So where is she?” I asked.

“You need to be involved as little as possible,” she said. “I say that for your protection. The less you know about where she is, the better off you are. Rest assured that I’ve sent Maya to a secure place. The police won’t find her.”

“This is not the plan, Vee. You promised to tell me where you sent her. Is she around here? Is she still even in
Florida
?”

“You know I’m not going to tell you anything more. Do you want an oatmeal cookie? Made them this morning.”

“I know you mean well, but it’s not a good idea. I’m eighteen. I can handle whatever’s coming. You’re not about to start cutting me out of the loop.”

“It’s not a question of whether you can handle it. I have no doubt you’re capable enough, darling. It’s whether you
should.
Assisting in anything illegal is very serious. I’m at a stage of life where I’m willing to take on the risk. Even if you think you are, you’re too young to make an informed decision. This really isn’t up for discussion.”

It was like the air pressure in the room was increasing. I could feel my mind getting heavier—Veronica going rogue could jeopardize everything, but I couldn’t figure out how to stop her. “I’m her sister. I know you’re close to Maya, but you’re not even related to her.”

“Abby, you should be in school. It’s not a good idea for you to even be here. It looks suspicious. Go back. Find out what you can. We need to clear Maya’s name, if we can. And for that we need information.”

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”

She agitatedly picked up an artsy nudes book from the coffee table and put it back down. “Goddammit. Look, Maya doesn’t
want
you to know.”

“She doesn’t want me to know where she is? She wants to get away from me, is that what you’re trying to tell me? Even after I saved her ass?”

“She’s hysterical. She wants to live on her own terms for a while. It makes sense to me. Give her some space. Let me take care of her. You take care of yourself, Abby.”

Unbelievable.

Veronica was one of the few people who used people’s names when talking to them, like in a soap opera. She was a woman with…flair.
A highly developed sense of the dramatic,
my mom had once called it, not kindly. Who knew what crazy plan Veronica had concocted with Maya—neither of them was exactly stable. Suddenly, I was on my feet, hurling open doors. The first led to Veronica’s bedroom, tassled bedspread neatly made, romance novels on the bedstand. The next to a toilet, seashell soaps. The next to the laundry room.

“Abby! Excuse me! Abigail Goodwin! What do you think you’re doing?”

She didn’t dare try to stop me, though. Eventually, I got to the last possible door, at the back of the hallway. It was locked. “What’s in here?” I demanded.

“There’s no way I’m going to answer a question thrown in my face like that. Get over it, Abby. Maya isn’t here.”

Already the energy was seeping out of me. I knew I’d been acting extreme. “Why won’t you open the door, then?”

“Because I’ve chosen to keep it locked. That’s my right. It’s not your right to know, Abby.” On the last “Abby,” she took my hand. “Your feelings are hurt, aren’t they, honey?” she said. “You want to be the protective big sister. I get it.”

She wasn’t describing exactly what I was feeling. But it was true that I’d spent so long being the big sister that I didn’t know any other way to be around Maya (or so Cheyenne always phrased it); Veronica had hit close enough to home, and she’d offered warm empathy when I least expected it. If I didn’t catch myself, pretty soon I’d be gushing tears.

Veronica mopped my face with a tea towel, as if I actually had cried. I headed toward the front door. Veronica loved me but also wanted me out of there, I knew.

“Abby,” Veronica said as I stood by the door, “what I’m about to say is for your safety as much as Maya’s.”

“What?”

“Don’t come here anymore. Not until I tell you it’s okay.”

I hugged her before I left. My hand pressed the tea towel draped over her shoulder. It was wet; I guess I had cried after all.

I
realized as I was leaving Veronica’s that I’d been dumb to think it was a good idea to skip school—wouldn’t a classmate’s dying make most people crave company, comfort, gossip, and confirmation? Missing school sent the message that I was either unfeeling or very deeply upset, for some specific reason. It would look suspicious for me not to show. So what if I was feeling moody and weird. Everyone else would be, too, right?

I’d predicted the assembly would be awful, and I was right. Bleachers full of slumping teenagers with tearstained faces, a couple of cops, and some people in polo shirts with briefcases—probably shrinks. Lots and lots of bawling kids. Jefferson’s closest friends, five guys best described as bros, shoulder to shoulder, hands shielding their eyes, bodies clustered but not touching, surrounded on either side by long blank spaces of orange bleacher. Pimply loners looking paler than usual. Some sophomore chicks who wouldn’t have gotten the time of day from Jefferson, absolutely hysterical with tears. Teachers, white-knuckled and serious, holding hands like there’d been a school shooting. Our principal gave a warbly speech, trying to project confidence but really just a wreck, clearly unequipped for anything like this.

I was seated in back beside Cheyenne and a couple other friends. Their calculus quiz had been cut short by the assembly, and while the principal spoke, Sandra and Martine were discussing whether integrating trig functions would be on the final. The rest of my friends were scattered throughout the gymnasium, springing up in the background everywhere I looked. Even though they were right in front of me, I missed them immensely. I hadn’t spoken to them all weekend and couldn’t imagine what I would say now. I found myself wondering, for the first time, whether I really knew any of them. Were
they
capable of murder? Of course not. Any of the stupid fights we’d ever had seemed like charming kids’ stories. Would they still feel they could tell me their troubles, given the weightiness of mine? I couldn’t bring myself to find out. Their voice mails had been mounting up on my phone. One waved across the gymnasium, and I shot back a look of broad, unspecific concern.

The principal was still carrying on. He had lost his place and was reading off cue cards.

I reminded myself I was here to try to find information to help Maya. These weren’t classmates anymore. These were suspects.

Rose Nelson looked like a mourning queen, eyes dramatically downcast, beautiful and dusky. Her circle of hyper-attentive friends, some of them probably mourning Jefferson for secret reasons of their own, whispered worried thoughts in her ear.

Nearby, Rachael McHenry had been sobbing into the same tissue long enough that you could actually see her features through the wet paper. She was wearing a T-shirt with Jefferson’s photo on it, with the date of his death—just three days ago—printed below.

Cheyenne had been holding my hand throughout the assembly, and I felt her fingers tighten when she turned to say something sharp to Sandra and Martine. I hoped she might be asking them to shut up, but then I heard her say that our teacher had promised there wouldn’t be inverse functions on the quiz. I found their “business as usual” approach as irritating as Rachael McHenry’s overdramatic sobs.

“You all need to stop,” I said.

“Stop what?”

“Talking about math! It’s disrespectful. Wait, never mind.” The principal had left the stage, and apparently we were all supposed to be applauding. Who took his place but Brian, Jefferson’s little brother.

“Tell me they’re not having him talk to the whole school,” Cheyenne said. “Awkward!”

Was it awkward? The gesture seemed moving, actually. He was fifteen, but looked younger. Really skinny, always wearing a crystal around his neck. Brown hair. Cute. Ill at ease. Today he was wearing a T-shirt with one of those creatures from fantasy movies, a lion with wings. He’d have been more than willing to tell anyone what it was called and
what spells would be most effective against it, I was sure. On any day but today.

If Jefferson hadn’t just died, the crowd would have started hooting and teasing. But as a group we were stumped about how to act, so everyone stayed quiet.

He looked miserable, twisting back and forth behind the microphone. Some guidance counselor had encouraged him to speak, I’m sure, as a way to bring the school together. But all that was happening was that we were drowning this grieving kid in silence. I started to clap, just to break the horrible moment. Only a few dozen other people took it up, but the show of support was enough to get Brian to start speaking.

“Thank you all for coming today,” he said. “My family really appreciates everyone’s help. We do.” He took a big breath. “I think I’m supposed to say something about how death is both ugly and beautiful, how it’s a big loss but at least it brings out the best in everyone. But Jefferson’s death isn’t like that. I’m supposed to say how wonderful he was, how he was an honor roll student, like it’s better when kids like me, who aren’t on the honor roll, die. So I’m not going to say anything wonderful about my brother.”

He dragged out a pause, as if to emphasize some coming point of drama in his speech. You know how speakers will make you feel as bad as possible, only to swoop down and rescue the moment? But Brian just turned off the mike and left the gymnasium.

The principal was momentarily stunned and then took the mike and turned it back on. “Guidance is open. Come talk at any time. But for now, back to fifth period, everybody.” A moan rose from the group. “Yes, there’s twenty minutes left. Get going!”

After psychology, math was my favorite subject. Even so, there was no way in hell I was going to the second half of a calculus quiz—I couldn’t work up any concern for math, not now. But I wasn’t sure how to handle Cheyenne. If I said I didn’t want to go to class, she’d insist on keeping me company, and I wanted nothing more than to be alone. So, as the girls headed down the hallway, I stopped at the main concourse. “I have to get my books and stuff.”

They stood in a straight line, watching me nervously, like alien heads were about to erupt from my neck.

“For real. I’ll be there in a minute. I just have to get my books! Why are you staring at me like that?”

“It’s a quiz; you don’t need a book,” Cheyenne said.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll. See. You. There,” I said, and dashed into the crowd.

“Don’t forget, cap and gown orders are due today!” Cheyenne called after me.

Of course I didn’t head for the lockers, but instead went for the front doors of the school. I was pushing on the handle when I was stopped by a teacher—and the worst teacher to run into when you want to be alone. Mr. Duarte, hip clothes and an endless willingness to invade your personal space if it will get you to Talk About Your Feelings. He stood
in front of the doors, a calm and sympathetic smile on his face. “Hey.”

I’d fanned my keys between my fingers, like I was preparing to defend against a mugger. I let them fall into my pocket. “Hey,” I said.

“I understand if you want to leave and spend this time alone or with your family. I’m not going to stop you. But listen: Maya’s in my advisory group. She hasn’t shown up for ages. Do you know why?”

I shook my head, mumbled something about her deciding to go for her GED.

“It’s a trying time, and I want to keep an eye on all my kids. Well, I figured she might not be coming in for a while, since she was so close to Jefferson, and she should have a chance not to fail this year. I’ve put together a list of assignments from her teachers in case she wants to pass any of her classes. Do you think you could bring her textbooks home to her?”

“What do you know about her and Jefferson?” I asked.

“Why don’t you come to my classroom, and we’ll talk about it.”

“No, thanks, Mr. Duarte.”

He pressed a piece of paper into my hand. “Come by anytime. Meanwhile, stay around other people, okay? Don’t go through this alone.”

I stared down at the page. At the top was Maya’s locker combo.

The locker was virtually empty; obviously, Mr. Duarte wasn’t aware of precisely how rarely Maya had been coming into Xavier High this year. There was an actual dust bunny inside, along with a Manic Panic carton, three sporks, and some loose-leaf paper. And, wedged into the backside of the vent, a note folded into a football.

I unfolded it with trembling fingers.

Three lines only:

M
ONDAY
, M
AY
13th

5:00

30 L
ANGDELL
, #40

That address again.