Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (35 page)

The more I think about it, I don’t blame either one of them for wanting nothing to do with me.

I take a deep breath as I scan my inbox; it catches in my throat when I spot a message from
Muller, Rowan.
It’s dated two weeks ago.

Dr. Muller is a physics teacher at the Wheatley School. I saw him hanging around campus with Ms. Cross a few times before she disappeared. He was the one who called and told me I shouldn’t bother trying to find Ms. C—I had to hang up before he could tell me why.

All he’d said was that Jessica Cross doesn’t really exist.

I open the e-mail.

Anne,

I apologize for the delay. I’d preferred not to say what I had to tell you through e-mail as long as I was still employed by Wheatley, but my situation has changed. Is there any chance you could speak in person when I’m in New York at the beginning of August? In the meantime, I think you should check out the following.

Best,

RM

He’s pasted two links in the e-mail. I click on the first, which leads to a LinkedIn profile for a Jessica L. Cross from Cliftonville, Georgia. According to the page, she has a double B.A. in English and Classic Languages from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Her current occupation is
teacher.

And the woman in the black and white photo is definitely Ms. C.

I don’t understand—all of this fits with what Ms. Cross told me about herself. I X out of the page and click the second link. The page takes forever to load—I glance at the door to make sure Leah isn’t on her way up, but the hall is quiet.

The page—an article from the
Cliftonville Gazette
—finally loads. I have to blink a few times to process what I’m reading.

An obituary for Jessica Leigh Cross, who died eight years ago.

CHAPTER

TWO

I select
print
from the menu and respond to Dr. Muller’s message. Yesterday was the first day of August—he should be in New York by now.

Wajima on 61st, Friday at 1. If you can’t make it, call 917-555-9687 and hang up twice. That’s my dad’s office.

I log out of my e-mail and I delete my tabs from the browser history.

The elevator pings just as the obituary is done printing. I slip it between the journal pages and pretend to be staring out the window aimlessly when Leah comes back inside.

When she’s settled back in her desk, I open to the obituary.

Jessica Leigh Cross, beloved daughter, sister, and UNC Chapel Hill graduate, passed away unexpectedly after an illness. She is survived by her parents, Marie and Alan Cross of Cliftonville, and sister, Arianne Cross-Duncan of Canton. Jessica is remembered for her generous and kind nature. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to The Acworth Home for Women.

Either Muller is messing with me, or something completely fucked is going on here.

*   *   *

For the next couple days, I jump every time the phone rings, waiting to see if it’s a hang-up call. On Wednesday, the phone rings at a little past ten.

“Dowling and Associates,” Leah says. “How can I help you?”

There’s a pause. “He’s in court all week,” she replies. “What is the best number to call you back?”

She’s quiet, listening to the caller. When her gaze lands on me and doesn’t move, my blood runs cold.

“One moment.” Leah is frowning. “I’ll connect you to his cell.”

My heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. There are about a million reasons someone would be calling about me, and none of them are good. Fear cracks through me; what if the thing I’ve so desperately trying to escape has caught up to me? I’ve been dreading this phone call ever since Steven Westbrook was arrested.

What if he told the police or his lawyers that Anthony and I were there that night? Or what if Casey Shepherd figured out I was involved? What if it’s the police calling my father right now?

Leah presses the transfer button on the phone. “Mr. Dowling, I have Jacqueline Tierney on the line for you.”

I think that’s almost worse than the police.

I knew this moment was coming, but even though I convinced myself I was okay with it, I’m not. Tierney is going to expel my ass without losing a minute’s sleep over it, and I’ll probably never see most of my friends—April, Kelsey, Cole, Murali—again.

Janelle whispers my name and motions for me to come over to her. She presses a finger to her lips then points to the phone. And hands it to me.

I could kiss her. I have to hold the phone a few inches away from my face, because I’m breathing so hard I’m sure my dad will hear me. Janelle bites her thumbnail.

“… and Dylan?” my dad asks.

“Away at lacrosse camp,” Tierney says. “I never thought I’d miss having a house full of pre-teen boys.”

Dad laughs, and my blood boils. Dean Tierney is calling my dad with the fate of my future in her hands, and they’re talking about her damn KIDS? I don’t realize I’m making a fist with my free hand until Janelle reaches to take the phone away from me, panicked. I spin the desk chair away from her.

“—about the delay, I’m sure you can imagine,” Tierney is saying. “We’re interviewing headmasters, but no one wants to touch this mess with a ten-foot pole.”

“Jackie, I asked how
you’re
holding up,” my dad says, with uncharacteristic gentleness.

There’s silence on Tierney’s end for a beat. “Quite frankly, I’m sick over the whole thing and would leave this place tomorrow if I could.”

I nearly fall out of Leah’s chair. This is the same woman who threatened to expel me for suggesting that the murder of my roommate, Isabella, was anything but an “unforeseen tragedy.” The same woman who threw me out of her office when I told her I knew Matthew Weaver assaulted her sister, Vanessa.

“In any case, I’m sorry to keep your family waiting about the hearing,” Tierney says.

The hearing. Of course.

Crap.

“We don’t make these decisions hastily,” she continues. “The last time a student was even expelled from Wheatley was fifteen years ago.”

That should make an interesting detail in my college entrance essay. My toes curl in my sandals. I think Tierney has set some sort of record for shutting my father up.

“That’s why the board has to vote unanimously to expel a student.”

“We understand,” my dad says.

And that’s how I know there really is no hope left for me. Despite all my dad’s huffing and puffing, he knew the fire at St. Bernadette’s was an accident. That’s why he fought to get me into Wheatley. Because he still believed in me. Believed that I wouldn’t screw up again.

“You should know, then, that in light of evidence, the board deliberated for a while about Anne,” Tierney says.

“Evidence?”

“Yes. Quite a few of Anne’s friends submitted testimony about her character. They believe that Casey Shepherd antagonized her before she assaulted him.”

“Well, that does sound like my daughter.”

“Regardless, considering the circumstances, there was a board member who felt uncomfortable expelling Anne.”

WHAT?!

My father is speechless in what I can only hope is some sort of new trend.

“You … want her back?” he finally stammers.

“She’s not expelled,” Tierney says firmly. Message received, Tierney. The feeling is mutual.

“I’m going to need to discuss this with my wife,” Dad says. “Obviously I would have reservations about putting her back in that environment.”

“
You
have reservations?” It spills out of me in a whisper. I clamp my hand over my mouth and meet Leah’s horrified expression.

“Excuse me, Jackie.” My father’s voice is eerily calm. “I’ll have to call you back.”

Seconds later, the office phone rings. Leah answers it with a meek “Yes?”

I catch
speak to my daughter.
She hands me the phone.

“Are you TRYING to push all of my buttons?” my dad shouts.

“Are you trying to make my life miserable?” I shoot back. “You’d really decide to send me back there without asking me how I feel?”

“Who said I’m sending you back there?”

“That’s not the point.” My eyes prick, and I don’t even know why. “You should at least care how I feel about it. At least ask me.”

“Anne,” he says, firmly, “We’ll discuss this later.”

“You mean you’ll discuss it with Mom. While I’m locked up in my room.” I don’t even know why I’m doing this—trying to pick a fight I’ll never win. I don’t even know why I’m on the verge of tears, or feeling like my lungs are going to collapse.

Maybe it’s because the only thing that scares me more than the thought of being kicked out of Wheatley is going back there.

*   *   *

By the time Friday rolls around, there still haven’t been any hang-up calls to the office. I know, because I made it a point not to leave my desk at all this week. Not even to pee.

“Are you okay?” Leah asks me around noon. “You seem antsy.”

I shrug, not realizing I’ve been gnawing at my thumbnail until all of the pewter polish on it lifts off. “Just nervous. About school and everything.”

It’s not a complete lie: My parents still haven’t reached an agreement on how to deal with Tierney’s invitation to take me back. Every night, they close their bedroom door, and I hear murmuring.

I shoot a glance at the clock, hoping Dr. Muller got my e-mail about meeting today. I can’t help but gnaw the rest of the polish off my fingers. I really think my father may consider military school or electro-shock therapy if he catches me sneaking out for lunch with a man twice my age.

And for what? The last time I got involved in something I shouldn’t have gotten involved in, I lost my boyfriend, my parent’s trust, and a man died. There’s absolutely nothing to gain from trying to find out what’s going on with Ms. C.

She was my favorite teacher, and I want more than anything to know she’s okay, but if Dr. Muller thinks she’s in danger, I’m not the person he should be going to. He can’t make the same mistakes I did.

But what is he supposed to tell the police?
Hello, I’d like to report a missing person, and by the way, she’s sort of been dead for eight years.
I know better than anyone that it would be a lost cause.

I should probably hear Dr. Muller out.

It doesn’t take much to convince Leah we should order Japanese. When I say I could go for a red dragon roll, her eyes glaze over. Sushi is her catnip.

“Call in an order to Matsuki in fifteen minutes,” she says. “Ask for extra soy sauce.”

I trace an invisible circle on the corner of her desk. “Ugh, their eel sauce gave me such a stomachache last time. Can we do Wajima?”

She looks up from her computer. “But they don’t deliver.”

“I could pick it up.” I shrug, as if I could care less either way. “I mean, I finished reading these case studies so I’m just sitting around.”

Leah contemplates this. Normally letting me leave the office would be an automatic no, but my father is in court all day. It’s just us in the office. And if she gets rid of me for half an hour, she can go buck wild and call her boyfriend or do whatever it is she does when the office is empty.

“Okay.” She passes me the company credit card. “Just no side excursions.”

Am I that obvious? I salute her, making sure I avoid her eyes.

At ten minutes to one, I’m waiting outside Wajima with our takeout order. I settle in for the wait, but before a minute or two passes, I spot a tall, dark-skinned man at the opposite corner of 52nd and Lexington. I crane my neck to get a better look at him as he waits among a gaggle of tourists to cross the street.

I can count how many times I’ve seen Dr. Muller on one hand, so I’m not sure it’s him. If it is, he buzzed his hair recently. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a salmon polo. Not many men can pull off salmon, but Dr. Muller can.

“Anne?” He extends a hand. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

I have to swallow away a smattering of butterflies that rises in my stomach. He’s totally a perfect specimen, and I don’t use that term lightly. “Hi.”

His amber eyes move to the bag at my feet.

“I can’t stay more than fifteen minutes,” I say. “I’m kind of under house arrest.”

Dr. Muller massages his chin with his thumb and forefinger. I can’t tell if he knows what I did to get suspended. “Alright. Shall we go somewhere a little more private?”

We wind up at the sushi bar. Dr. Muller orders a lunch box special and I get a green tea so I have something to do with my hands.

“So,” I say, after a moment of uncomfortable silence punctuated by the sushi chefs shouting over each other. “What the hell is going on here?”

Muller smiles with half his mouth. “I wish I could tell you.”

“You were dating her, weren’t you?”

“We were … friendly.”

“So, yes.”

“Yes.” Dr. Muller allows himself a small smile. “You know, she talked about you often.”

This catches me by surprise. “Really?”

“You reminded her of herself, when she was your age. She said you were extremely bright. But unlike her other students, you didn’t equate money and brains with the right to be a jerk. Her words.” He winks at me.

Stop blushing. Stop blushing.
“Oh.”

Muller takes a sip from his tea. “I would have told you all this when she left, but I was still employed by Wheatley at the time. I’d hoped they would hire me permanently, but they found a more experienced candidate.”

“So you’re not going back there in the fall?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve completed my Ph.D. at MIT, so my visa is expiring soon. I’m staying in Queens with a friend from university for a few weeks until I return home.”

I want to curl up and live inside Dr. Muller’s South African accent. He even makes Queens sound actually regal.

“The obituary.” I swallow. “I don’t understand. Did she fake her own death or something?”

Muller blinks at me. “That wasn’t her in the obituary. You know that, right?”

I will away my embarrassment. “Yeah, I mean, duh. But the details … it seems like it was the same person.”