The Perfectionists (8 page)

“I've missed you so much, baby,” she purred. They could hear him mumble something in response.

They all ran out into the hall. From there, through an open bedroom door, they could see Nolan lying on his bed, Ava standing over him.

At first he was pawing at her, but then his eyelids started to droop sleepily and his words began to slur. Parker recalled glancing over her shoulder nervously, hoping no one would come up the stairs and see this. All of them gathered to watch, and for a second, it seemed wrong, like they'd turned into bullies.

Then he noticed the others in the doorway. He picked them out one by one, saying something about each of them. Parker's heart had hardened again. She was almost glad when his eyelids fluttered and he drifted off.

He's fine
, she'd heard one of their voices say.
He passes out every weekend. Let's get to work.

That had been when Mackenzie pulled the bright-colored Sharpies out of her bag. They each had taken a pen and crept closer. Caitlin had swept in first, drawing
Not to be trusted
across his forehead. Mackenzie had started to write
LIAR
, and Julie had written
Monster.

“The police are going to question everyone at that party,” Ava broke in now. “What if someone saw us go up there with him? And, I mean, it's not like we were careful. Our fingerprints were probably all over that bathroom and the beer he'd drunk. They could go back and collect everything for crime investigation.”

Mac put her hands on her hips. “You're saying this as if we actually
did
something. We only gave him one pill, Ava, something he did himself all the time. Just because we talked about killing him doesn't make us guilty. The police found evidence of foul play—there's no way
one pill
could be foul play.”

“But we did do something! We still gave him
a
pill. And we wrote all over him,” Caitlin exclaimed hysterically, raising her hands.

Parker twisted her mouth. But she couldn't quite look at the issue head-on. She could barely relive that night without getting a headache.

“Maybe we should tell someone about this,” Mac suggested. “Like, you know, come clean about how we pranked him.”

Ava's eyes boggled. “We
still
gave him Oxy, and that's
still
pretty bad. What if they don't believe us? What if they think we did it anyway?”

“I agree,” Julie admitted. “We could get in a lot of trouble. I mean”—she swallowed—“we all have a lot to lose.”

They were all silent again, thinking of what was on the line—their reputations, graduation, college, their parents' approval.

“I don't understand what
actually
happened,” Caitlin finally whispered, glancing nervously back and forth. “I mean, everyone's saying it was Oxy. If so, someone else must have given him more drugs after we left, don't you think?”

“A lot of people hated him,” Mac whispered, glancing uncertainly at the packed parking lot.

Then Parker had a horrible thought. “Do you think someone's trying to pin it on us?”

“I wondered the same thing,” Ava said.

Mackenzie fiddled with her glasses. “No one was near us when we were talking in class.”

“The room isn't
that
big,” Caitlin said shakily. “Who's in film studies with us?”

“Nolan,” Julie said. “Or he
was.
”

“Alex,” Ava said. “He'd never do something like that, even if he was eavesdropping.”

“Oliver Hodges,” Caitlin named. “Ben Riddle. Quentin Aaron. They're off Nolan's radar. Ursula Winters on my soccer team. Fiona Ridge, who's vegan.”

Parker rolled her eyes. “Just because she's vegan doesn't mean she wouldn't murder someone.”

Caitlin shook her head. “Fiona wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“My friend Claire's in the class, but I'm sure
she
didn't hear us,” Mackenzie offered. “She was across the room.”

For a long moment, nobody spoke. Finches and waxwings chased one another across the courtyard, fighting over seeds. Beyond the yard's stone walls, they heard the slick hum of traffic on wet roads.

“This is so messed up.” Ava paced back and forth, her high, spiky heels wobbling precariously on the wet stones. “What are we going to do?”

“We keep our heads down,” Julie said in a steady voice. “We know we didn't kill anyone. This is all some kind of . . . coincidence, maybe. Or else someone is trying to get us in trouble. Either way, we should just pretend none of it happened.”

“So we . . . lie?” Mackenzie asked, biting the corner of her lip.

“We lie,” Julie said firmly.

Parker took a quick, shuddering breath. All at once, she felt eyes on the back of her neck, boring into her. She glanced back toward the entrance to the courtyard, but no one was there. No one was watching except Saint Francis, his empty stone gaze cold and distant. A shiver traveled through her body, and a telltale white-hot spike of pain jabbed through one eye. She cradled her head in her hands.

Keep it together
, she thought.
You can't fall apart now.

“Are you going to the reception?” Ava was asking, glancing around at the others. The Hotchkisses had made a big deal about inviting everyone to their tony country club across town.

Mackenzie nodded miserably. “We're performing there with the ensemble. I have to go. What about you?”

Ava shrugged. “I guess it's probably a good idea to be seen there. We'll just make an appearance. Eat some crudités.” She gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. “It's going to be the party of the year.”

Another shooting pain cut through Parker's skull, raking over her vision with lightning-white streaks. She felt Julie's hand on her back and looked up to see that her friend had noticed what was wrong. Her eyes were wide. There was a worried look on her face.

“Meet you guys over there,” Julie said, then turned away, helping Parker to a bench. In seconds, she and Julie were alone.

“Are you okay?” Julie asked, rubbing Parker's back.

Parker swallowed, her mouth sticky with bile. Nausea started to spread through her body. She thought she might be sick. “I don't think I can manage the reception,” she whispered, pulling her knees up on the bench and resting her forehead against them. “Headache. Bad one. I need to go lie down.”

“Okay,” Julie said softly. “That's all right. I don't think anyone at the party saw you anywhere near Nolan, anyway. You don't have to worry.”

“I'm not worried.” Parker's voice came out angrier than she'd intended.

But her stomach writhed. Julie was right—no one had seen her at the party. She was the invisible girl, after all. There was no reason to be paranoid.

Julie stood up. “Let's get you home, okay?
My
home, I mean. You look awful.”

“No.” Parker shook her head, then immediately regretted it as another wave of pain washed over her. “You go. Ava's right. You should get to the reception. I can make it back to your place on my own.”

Julie gave her a long, measuring look. Then she hugged her. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay. I promise.”

Julie handed her the umbrella, then tugged up the hood of her jacket and walked quickly through the rain toward the street where she'd parked her car. Parker sat unmoving for a long moment, staring after her. She noticed a gargoyle in a high cornice on the side of the church, sticking its tongue out at her. A shiver ran through her as she met its malicious little eyes.

There's nothing to worry about
, she told herself.
There's no reason anyone would even suspect you were involved.

But she couldn't shake the feeling that her already damaged life was about to get a whole lot worse.

“STRINGS, I CAN BARELY HEAR
you!” Mrs. Rabinowitz shouted, gesturing at the violins. “That
crescendo
needs to be powerful!”

Mac sat in a small chair in the Beacon Heights High music wing, her cello wedged between her knees. It was Monday and Mrs. Rabinowitz was making them rehearse Mahler's funeral march. She'd added it to the fall concert program, in memory of Nolan.

The room smelled like the floral Febreze spray Mrs. Rabinowitz always sprayed before practice, and there were pictures of famous conductors and composers on the wall—a persnickety Mozart, a scattered-looking Beethoven, a haughty Scarlatti, who Mackenzie thought was always following her around the room with his discerning gaze. Today she felt as if they were all glaring at her, condemning her for what she'd done to Nolan. She still couldn't wrap her mind around it. Was someone really trying to frame them?

You were the one who sent out those photos,
a punishing voice in her head said.
You really think that trick that techie guy from band camp taught you to set up a fake email address is going to fly with the cops? They're going to find you.

Next to her, Claire—currently the second-chair cellist to Mac's first-chair—leaned back and forth with the music as they played. When they got to the end of the page in the sheet music, Claire hurriedly flipped the page and fumbled her bow. It was always the second chair who turned the pages. Mac knew the duty well: She and Claire were always swapping positions, the two of them almost equally talented.

When Mac glanced up again, the room was silent, and Mrs. R was staring at her. “Mackenzie, you're a half beat off.”

Mac blinked. “I am?”

Mrs. R nodded. “You didn't notice?”

Mac started to panic. Was she
that
out of it?

Claire glanced at Mac sympathetically. “We're all a little distracted today.”

That
was an understatement. All day, Mac had been on the verge of hyperventilating. What made it worse was Principal Obata's announcement when everyone returned to class after lunch.
Social workers are on call for anyone who needs extra support right now. And please, if you have any information about the party, please talk to a teacher or a counselor—no questions asked.

No questions asked
. The words kept swirling through Mac's mind as she ran her bow across her strings. Maybe they
should
step forward. What if they'd seen something important, something they didn't even realize? Maybe they could help catch the real killer.

“Psst.”

Mac looked over. Claire sat with her cello bow resting lightly on her instrument. She pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it over.

“I got these for you,” Claire whispered.

Mac peeked inside. Mini gummy violins lay in a pile almost to the top. Gummies were her favorite food, and the violins were hard to find—you could only get them at a specialty candy shop in Seattle.

She looked at Claire. “What's this for?”

Her friend shrugged. “A pick-me-up. You've seemed down lately.”

There was no malice in her expression. No snarky, underhanded manipulation, only a kind, earnest look. A sour taste welled in Mac's mouth.
You kissed her boyfriend
, a voice chided.
You said something terrible about her in film studies. And it's too late to take any of it back.

For the first time in her life, Mac wondered if she was a truly awful person.

Suddenly, the door to the music room swung open, and all heads swiveled up. Two men in suits stepped inside. They looked around for a moment, their eyes raking over the symphony. Mrs. Rabinowitz gave a little jump and turned to face them, too.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the first man said. He was huge—at least six foot six—and dark-skinned, in a charcoal-gray suit. His voice was a booming baritone that filled the space effortlessly.

Mrs. Rabinowitz stepped off the riser. Next to him she looked tiny, like a little round teddy bear in her fuzzy brown cardigan. “What can we do for you?”

“I'm Detective Peters. This is my partner, Detective McMinnamin. We're trying to gather some information about what happened at the party the other night. Can we take a few minutes of your class's time?”

Mrs. Rabinowitz gestured for him to take over, but McMinnamin stepped forward instead. He was a skinny, pale man with rabbity front teeth, and he held a stack of four-by-six index cards in his hand. He looked around the room, his eyes narrowed.

“I'm going to pass out these cards, and I want all of you to write the alphabet on one side and your names on the other.” His voice was brisk and no-nonsense. “Uppercase letters, please. Print, not cursive.”

Kenleigh Robbins, who played viola, raised her hand. “Do I
have
to?”

“Of course not,” McMinnamin said almost automatically. “But we will take note of anyone who doesn't participate.”

He started handing out the cards. Mackenzie stiffened as he passed by her music stand, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he moved on.

She knew what was going on. They needed a handwriting sample. Her mind scattered, and she tried to remember exactly what she'd written on Nolan's body that Friday night. She'd started a frowny face with heavy eyebrows, then written
LIAR
in all caps.

Slowly, she lowered her cello to its stand and grabbed her sheet-music folder to write on. With trembling hands, she printed out the letters one by one, trying to make them slightly more slanted than the block lettering she'd used on Nolan's skin.

When everyone was finished, McMinnamin picked up the index cards. Peters took a dry-erase marker and scrawled a phone number and his name on the whiteboard. “I know how these parties go,” he said affably, a trace of a smile playing around his lips. “No one wants to admit they were there, because it'll get everyone in trouble.” Then his affect changed, his mouth turning downward, his eyes serious. “But something bad happened to one of your own.” He paused to let that sink in. “We want to know what happened. And we need your help for that. I am asking anyone who was at the party that night—whether you saw Nolan or not—to give me a call at this number. You might know details that will help us get a sense of the timeline. Everything you tell me will be completely confidential.”