Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (33 page)

“I didn’t appreciate that. I told him to meet me at the quarry that night. I made him believe I was ready to confess about Sonia, and that I needed him to testify it was an accident. He was supposed to bring the necklace.” Shepherd’s eyes are cold, as if Matt’s withholding Sonia’s necklace is the worst part of this whole story. “If he’d simply brought me the necklace, he might have walked away that night.”

“What happened?” I whisper.

“Do you realize how lucky you are? After all these years,
you’re
going to get the real story,” Shepherd says. “Lawrence followed us to the quarry. The stupid ass never knew when to listen. He saw Matty push me, so he intervened. I don’t remember which of us shoved him off the cliff, but does it really matter now?”

I stare at Shepherd, letting his face splinter through the tears in my eyes. “No. I guess it doesn’t.”

Shepherd reaches over and pats my hand. I jerk it away. “Anne, I’d like the photo you took from me. If you don’t hand it over, I’m sure I won’t have any trouble finding it later.”
After I kill you.

Whimpering, I fish around in my bag. “I’ll give it to you. Please don’t hurt me.”

“Of course not,” Shepherd says, through a smile.

I whip my pepper spray out of my bag. There’s just enough left to make Travis Shepherd double over in pain when I release the contents onto his face.

I fly out of the office and down the stairs. A tall figure leaps out of the shadows when I reach the bottom, covering my mouth before I can scream. Travis Shepherd’s angry footsteps sound on the stairs.

The man holding me turns me around so I can see his face.

It’s Steven Westbrook. He’s holding a gun.

He holds his finger to his mouth before he shoves me into a closet.

CHAPTER

FORTY-SIX

“Steven?” Travis Shepherd’s voice is surprised. And, I’m happy to note, pained. I pull out my phone and text Anthony.
Call the police.

I peek out the closet door, which is slightly ajar. Steven Westbrook stands five feet away from Shepherd, a handgun pointed at his chest.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Shepherd laughs. “Going to kill me, Steven?”

“That depends.” Westbrook’s voice shakes a little. “Was it really you who killed my family?”

“Of course not.” Shepherd’s face is red and swollen. He squints at Westbrook. “That was Larry.”

“Liar,” Westbrook roars, spit flying everywhere. “I know Larry doesn’t shit without you telling him to. Did you tell him to kill Cynthia?”

Shepherd tries to point his rifle at the senator. Westbrook’s gun clicks. “Drop the rifle.”

Shepherd lowers it. “I had no reason to kill Cynthia.”

“Me,” Westbrook says. I realize he’s crying. “You were trying to kill
me.
You thought I’d tell that I saw you and Larry sneak into the dorms and throw out your clothes. The night Matt disappeared. I knew—”

Westbrook’s free hand curls into a fist. He presses it to his mouth to suppress a sob. “I always knew you would come after them. But I won’t put my daughter in danger any longer.”

He raises his gun again. It clicks, and I swallow away vomit. Alexis got my voicemail and warned her father about Shepherd. That’s why he’s here. I’ve inadvertently put us all in danger.

“What would you have done?” Shepherd holds up his hands. His voice is pleading, trying to talk Westbrook down. “You were a rising star. Typical Wheatley ‘Good Old Boy.’ Bound for the White House. I knew you’d come clean about what you saw so you could become senator with a clear conscience. What happened to you, Steve?”

Westbrook lets out a wail that brings a lump to my throat. He sobs for his wife. For his son. “How could you, Travis? How
could
you?”

I break out into a cold sweat as Westbrook raises his gun. Shepherd seems to shrink. “Steven. Remember what they say. You take your revenge on me now, you better dig a grave for yourself, too.”

“I already have,” Westbrook says.

The sound of glass shattering jolts me. Anthony calls my name. I begin to scream as Shepherd lifts his rifle and points it at the front door.

I don’t realize the shot came from Westbrook’s gun until I see the hole in Travis Shepherd’s chest. Blood flowers around it. On the floor. Everywhere.

“Oh my God.” I push my way out of the closet and into Anthony’s arms. He drops the baseball bat he used to smash the glass pane on the door. Steven Westbrook stares at the gun in his hands. At Travis Shepherd’s lifeless eyes.

I know what he’s going to do before he raises the gun to his head.

“Don’t,” I scream. “Alexis. Please don’t do this to Alexis!”

Westbrook’s eyes meet mine. They’re gray, just like his daughter’s. He drops the gun and falls to his knees. He tilts his head upward and cries out—a horrible, guttural sound. Anthony holds me closer to him until I can’t tell whose heartbeat is whose. Sirens sound in the distance.

Westbrook looks at me. “Get out of here.”

“But—”

“You were never here,” he says. “
Leave.
”

So we do.

*   *   *

Travis Shepherd is dead. I can’t erase the image of him, lying on the floor of his foyer with a gaping hole where his heart used to be.

By the time Anthony gets me back to the Wheatley School, everyone knows Travis Shepherd is dead. It’s breaking news, interrupting Monday-night sitcoms. Steven Westbrook confessed to breaking into Travis Shepherd’s Cape Cod home and shooting him to death.

There are police cruisers outside the athletic building. I tremble as I watch the officers come out without Larry Tretter. Security guards and RAs usher the gawkers back to their dorms.

“I can’t do this,” I say. “I need to talk to Detective Phelan. Tell him what we saw.”

“Anne.” Anthony rests his hands on my shoulders and looks down into my eyes. “We broke into Shepherd’s house moments before he was murdered. We cannot tell
anyone
what we saw. Ever.”

“But I screamed at Westbrook. What if someone heard me?”

I’m shaking as Anthony puts a hand on my neck and pulls me to his chest. “It’s going to be okay. It’s over. We’re okay.”

I’m not going to be okay after what I saw. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hearing Steven Westbrook’s cries of
How could you, Travis?

I hear Brent before I see him.

“Anne?”

I pull away from Anthony, wiping at my eyes.

“I got your voice mail.” Brent’s eyes are on Anthony, even though he’s talking to me.

“Brent,” I say.

“Thanks.” He interrupts me with a wry smile. He’s still looking at Anthony. “I heard about Sonia Russo’s necklace. Coach Tretter just gave a statement to the police that Travis Shepherd bought it for her. I know it was you who found it. So thanks, for clearing my dad.”

“Brent. Please look at me.”

He does. But I can’t find the words to tell him how sorry I am.

“I just need to know if this”—Brent gestures to me and Anthony—“was going on when we were together?”

“What?” I can’t breathe.
I can’t believe Brent could think that.
I look to Anthony to help me out, but he looks away.

“It wasn’t.” I don’t even know whom to direct my rage at anymore.

“Goodnight, Anne,” Brent says. When he’s walking away, Anthony tries to wrap an arm around me. I shrug him off.

“Why didn’t you back me up?” I demand.

“Why does it matter?” he snaps.

“It does matter.”
I will not get hysterical. I will not get hysterical.
“It’s
always
going to matter when it comes to him, Anthony. So take it or leave it.”

I’m crying, wishing I felt as sure of myself as I sound, because I know he’s going to leave. Again.

But when I open my eyes, he’s still there.

CHAPTER

FORTY-SEVEN

Darlene is pounding on my door at 6:00
A.M.
, telling me to get dressed. Dean Tierney needs to see me in her office.

The secretary barely looks up at me. Her eyes are glued to the TV in the office. A news anchor is reporting live from the edge of the Wheatley School campus. Apparently Larry Tretter turned himself in to the police last night.

“
The Wheatley rowing coach alleges he and Travis Shepherd are responsible for missing teen Matt Weaver’s death.…”

“Good God,” the secretary says, oblivious to our presence. Dean Snaggletooth opens her office door and gestures for me to come in. Her hair is frizzing at the crown, and she forgot her makeup.

“Casey Shepherd claims you assaulted him and Coach Tretter,” she says, before my ass is even in a chair.

“Casey Shepherd has bigger problems than being beat up by a girl.”

“I’m sorry. Is there something funny about your classmate’s father being shot to death in his own home?”

I feel as if Tierney has slapped me. I close my eyes, hoping I’ll see anything but her face, but all I see is the pool of blood on Travis Shepherd’s floor. The shocked look in his eyes as the life left his body.

But worst of all is the sound of Steven Westrook’s cry of despair before he killed him.

“No,” I manage to choke out. “There is nothing funny at all.”

Tierney shuffles the papers on her desk. “Your father is on his way to Massachusetts.”

“I had nothing to do with what happened last night,” I blurt—forcefully, as if saying it will help me convince myself Anthony and I didn’t see the horrible things we saw.

Dean Snaggletooth nods absently. “Anne, I have to let you know that Headmaster Goddard has recommended you for expulsion.”

I knew this was coming. But I still feel as if I’ve been hit in the head.
Recommended for expulsion.

“He doesn’t have the final say?” My throat is dry.

“Your case will go to the board of trustees at the end of the month. Until then, you are temporarily suspended. You will be expected to complete your schoolwork from New York, via online correspondence with your teachers, until your hearing.”

“Do I get to defend myself?”

Tierney shakes her head and lists my crimes: “Breaking curfew. Unexcused absences from class. Unauthorized entry into restricted areas on campus. Assaulting a fellow student. Assaulting a faculty member and a fellow student” (again).

I barely hear her over the buzzing in my ears. I can’t believe it. I’m going home.

*   *   *

My father is going to be here in four hours. I spend the time packing, since everyone is in class anyway. I don’t even know who I have left to say good-bye to.

There is one person. I head to Ms. C’s office before lunch.

I know something is wrong the moment I see that her door is closed, the light off.

I rap on the door because I don’t know what else to do.

“Excuse me,” I ask a teacher across the hall. He looks up from his desk and blinks at me.

“Is Ms. Cross sick today?” I ask.

“She no longer works here,” the teacher says.

“What?”

The teacher blinks at me, as if I’m some sort of simpleton. Forget him. There’s one person who may know what’s going on.

I race-walk all the way to the sciences building and look up Dr. Muller’s office number.

His door is closed, a note taped to the outside.

I am currently at Boston Common for a surveying trip with my PHY101 class. I will return at the end of the day.

Panic creeps up my spine. I don’t have until the end of the day. I scroll through my phone until I find the number Ms. C gave us for “emergencies only,” like being really late to class or our Blackboard app crashing in the middle of a take-home test. I don’t think this is what she had in mind, but I call her anyway.

“The number you have dialed is in not service.…”

My nightmare has only gotten worse. Ms. C is gone, and I know in my gut it’s because she helped me.

*   *   *

My feet carry me all the way back to the administration building. Goddard’s secretary does not look pleased to see me.

“I need to see the headmaster.”

“He’s not in.”

“When will he
be
in?” I demand with the force of someone who has nothing left to lose.

“The headmaster won’t be back,” the secretary snipes at me. “If you have a problem, you’ll have to wait until the interim headmaster arrives.”

There’s a light on in Goddard’s office. I run up to the door and shout through it. “Where is she? What did you do with Ms. Cross?”

That’s when the secretary calls security to escort me out of the building.

“Don’t bother,” I tell her. “I’m leaving.”

I pull up the news app on my phone as I’m leaving and search for
Benedict Goddard.
The first headline is from an hour ago.

W
HEATLEY
S
CHOOL
H
EADMASTER
S
TEPS
D
OWN,
C
ITING
F
AILING
H
EALTH IN THE
W
AKE OF
S
HEPHERD
S
CANDAL

I almost scream. That
bastard.
He made sure expelling me was literally the last thing he did.

*   *   *

I sit on my bed, surveying my empty room. I feel like I should do something, perform some ritual to say good-bye to it for good. I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling.

This is stupid. I roll on my side, reading more news articles on my phone. The media is going nuts, trying to piece together the details of what lead from an anonymous tip about the body at the Conroy’s lake house to Steven Westbrook killing Travis Shepherd. The latest story says Larry Tretter told police Matt Weaver’s body is under the driveway at the Shepherds’ Cape house.

Matt Weaver is dead. So is Travis Shepherd, and Casey will have to deal with it for the rest of his life. I’m not sure he deserves that pain, even though if I had the chance to punch him in the face again, I’d do it harder. And although he destroyed so many lives, I’m not sure that Travis Shepherd deserved to die.

I’m not sure of anything anymore. Sonia’s body being found at the Conroy lake house will probably damage Brent’s family’s reputation forever, even if his dad has been cleared. I put Anthony in danger by bringing him to the scene of Travis Shepherd’s murder. And I sealed my fate as the girl who can’t stay out of trouble long enough to graduate from high school.