Wicked Little Secrets: A Prep School Confidential Novel (9 page)

I haven’t heard the kidnapping theory before. According to most of the Internet articles I read, everyone said Matt’s disappearance was probably drug related. But then again, it was the early eighties, so I guess people blamed drugs for everything.

“There’s a weird theory I came across,” I say slowly, “that he died conducting some satanic ritual.”

Anthony laughs.

“What?”

“That theory probably came from the same people who thought listening to Metallica would turn kids into devil worshippers.”

I point to Anthony’s untouched pickle. “Can I have that?”

He nods, his lips bent as if he’s deep in thought. “You said you’ve only talked to one person so far. The guy in New York.”

“Thom,” I correct him. “Yeah. Why?”

“I think I know who we could try next,” Anthony says. The corner of his mouth quivers, like he knows something I don’t.

“Okay. Who?”

“A little birdie told me Matt Weaver’s parents still live in town.”

I snap my head up. “I’ve been Googling them like crazy and couldn’t find anything.”

Anthony’s upper lip lifts into a smirk as he steals a fry from my plate.
I kissed those lips.
I have to look away from him.

We split the check even though Anthony gets annoyed I try to pay for his burger. After an awkward wave good-bye thing outside the pub, Anthony turns and calls back to me.

“Nice hair, Anne.”

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

The night Harrow was arrested, Brent said he’d give me time to figure out how I felt about Anthony. My parents flew up to Boston the next morning, so I didn’t really see Brent in the days after that. Everything was a whirlwind of police interviews, visits to Dean Snaggletooth’s office, and my parents going total Black Ops on me.

I thought things might start to go back to normal when they finally left for New York. Then, on my way to the refectory, I got stuck behind Jill, Brooke, and Lizzie, Alexis’s best friend. I didn’t catch everything Lizzie said about me, but it sounded a lot like
life-ruining bitch.

I turned around. I didn’t know where I was going until I was knocking on Brent’s door. I didn’t even think he’d be there, since most of the building had left for dinner, but he opened the door in a white T-shirt, the collar wet from his dripping hair. Before he could ask what was wrong I grabbed him and kissed him.

He kissed me back like I’ve never been kissed before, his hands moving to my lower back, pressing me into the wall. At that moment it felt like everything in my universe had been realigned.

Now Anthony has totally screwed with the order of my universe again.

I know there’s technically nothing wrong with spending time with Anthony. But there’s also something wrong with not telling Brent I’m spending time with Anthony, and I definitely can’t do that without telling Brent
everything.
I mean, Brent knows Anthony and I made out a couple of times. I didn’t want to tell him, but I didn’t want the question hanging over us, either. Full disclosure. Whatever this is that Brent and I are doing, I want to do it right.

Which is why I haven’t figured out the
right
way to tell him why I need to see Anthony again.

Anthony texts me Saturday morning to tell me he has an address for the Weavers. I meet him on Main Street, about a ten-minute walk from campus. He’s waiting outside the Wheatley post office, leaning against a black car.

I balk. “You got rid of your motorcycle?”

“Hell, no. This is my mom’s car. Didn’t want the Weavers looking outside and thinking we were Hell’s Angels.” He nods to the passenger seat. “This is more comfortable, anyway.”

Un
comfortable doesn’t even begin to cover the first few minutes of the ride. Apparently we have no idea what to talk about when we’re not pissed at each other. I fill the awkward silence by fiddling with the radio. I settle on a station that’s playing “Hot Blooded,” one of my dad’s favorite songs.

“You like Foreigner?” Anthony asks, surprised.

“If that’s who sings this, then yes.”

I think I catch him smile as he turns the volume up. I smile in spite of myself, but it only lasts long enough for Brent to text me.

Just got out of practice. Can’t find you
☺

I quickly type out a reply.
Had to run off campus. Back soon.

Anthony raises an eyebrow as I drop my phone into my bag.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothin’.” He changes the station, even though the song isn’t over.

The Weavers live on Knoll Street. All of the houses are tall and uncomfortably close together, as if whoever designed the neighborhood wanted to stuff as many people and postage-stamp lawns into it as possible.

“How did you find their address?” I ask as Anthony parks at the curb.

“Dennis.”

Dennis is an old friend of Anthony’s who works at the Wheatley Police Department.

“He just
gave
you their address?”

Anthony stiffens. “Why would I lie about that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” I stop in my tracks. “You seem pretty defensive.”

“It’s nothing. Just forget it.”

I hesitate then follow Anthony up the driveway. He’s probably just paranoid about getting Dennis into trouble.

The Weavers’ porch is a lawsuit waiting to happen. In contrast, a row of neatly groomed potted plants stands off to the side.

“What should I say?” My toes curl as Anthony rings the doorbell.

“Just say you’re from the school.”

A female voice explodes inside the house. “Don! There’s someone at the door.” After a beat: “The DOOR.”

There’s the sound of the door being unbolted, then it swings open. A tall thin old man with a pointed chin scrunches his eyes at us. He takes in my skirt and says, “I can’t buy any cookies today. My wife’s making ’em.”

The man has a hearing aid, so I raise my voice. “Mr. Weaver?”

“Yep. Who’s asking?”

“My name is Anne. This is Anthony. We were wondering if we could talk to you about your son.”

A woman with white curls cropped closely to her head appears behind Mr. Weaver. “Is someone asking about Matty?”

Mr. Weaver shrugs as if he didn’t hear a damn word I said. Mrs. Weaver nudges him out of the way and gestures for us to come in.

I’ll be the first to admit that the elderly and their ways seriously freak me out. Like my dad’s Aunt Marjorie, who has couches in her living room covered in plastic dolls with freaky faces.

The Weavers’ house mostly strikes me as empty—and sad. It smells faintly of lavender and cigarette smoke.

I sit stiffly on the couch. Anthony follows. The Weavers sit on the couch opposite us.

“I’m Joan, and this is Donald,” Mrs. Weaver says. “What did you say your names were again?”

“Anne, and this is Anthony. We wanted to interview you for the Wheatley student newspaper,” I say. “Sort of as a tribute to your son.”

Joan’s noses twitches, almost as if she smells bullshit. “It’s been a long time since we heard from anyone at the school.”

“I hope we’re not intruding,” I say.

“Oh, no, not at all.” Joan looks at her husband. “We don’t get lots of visitors, that’s all. Matty was the only family we had.”

I study Mrs. Weaver’s face. Her cheeks are sunken, but she still went through the effort to put blush on them this morning. She must be in her seventies.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I say.

Don Weaver surprises me by grunting. “We ain’t buried him yet.”

A timer goes off in the kitchen, punctuating the painful silence. Mrs. Weaver motions to get up.

“I’ll get it.” Her husband hoists himself off the couch and hobbles down the hall.

“I have to apologize if my husband seems abrasive,” Mrs. Weavers tells us. “I don’t think he ever let Matty go. Won’t let me touch anything in his room. He’s taken everything so hard, from the years of not getting answers, to losing our diner.”

“What do I do with this tray?” Mr. Weaver bellows from the kitchen.

“The cooling rack!” Mrs. Weaver yells.

“What?”

“THE COOLING RACK!” Mrs. Weaver stands up. “Can I get you anything from the kitchen? What good timing that you picked today to visit! You can help us with the oatmeal raisin cookies.”

“Actually, do you have a bathroom I could use? My stomach hurts,” I add.

Mrs. Weaver points to the stairs. Foolproof tactic: Say you have a stomachache and head for the bathroom, and no one will ask questions. When Anthony and I are alone in the living room, he whispers, “Are you going to check his room out?”

“Yup.”

He glances down the hall, where Joan disappeared. “Be quick.”

I pad up the narrow carpeted stairs. The house is small; there are only two rooms and a bathroom on the upper level. One door is open, revealing a typical old-person bedroom with a black cat curled up on the quilted comforter. It blinks at me and rolls on its opposite side.

I make my way to the bedroom at the end of the hall. It’s a little sad that there are no photographs of grandchildren on the walls. I push open the door to the second bedroom.

I feel as if I’ve stepped into the seventies, from the shag carpet to the wood paneling. I do a quick survey of the walls and suck in my breath.

The devil is watching me.

It’s an enormous poster on the far wall, next to the closet. The creature’s eyes are sunken, as if the sockets carved out of the metal skull. Its horns protrude from his mouth, curling up into the lake of flames that serves as the background.

motörhead

is spelled out in intricate black lettering.

It doesn’t mean anything.
Matt Weaver was into death metal, probably like every other teenage boy in 1981. I’m not here to search for animal guts or pentagrams or any of that nonsense. I don’t know what exactly I’m looking for, but I know it has to be something the police may not have thought of.

The drawings. There are lots of them, mostly in charcoal pencil, tacked to the paneling. They all have the intensity of the sketch in my Brit-lit anthology, almost as if the drawings poured out of Matt on their own.

One in particular catches my attention. It’s by the bedroom window. I walk toward it, struck by how, with only a pencil, he was able to capture the way light reflects off of snow.

“Mountains,” A gruff voice says behind me.

Crap. Lie. Cry. Run.
I turn around slowly. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Weaver. I was looking for the bathroom and couldn’t help but notice the drawings—”

“The mountains,” Mr. Weaver repeats, as if I’m not even here. “Promised him we’d go skiing one day. Close the diner, take a real vacation.”

His voice is far off in a way that tells me he was never able to take Matt skiing. I feel inexplicably sad and guilty all of a sudden.

“I’m so sorry for intruding,” I begin, but Mr. Weaver holds up a hand.

“Look all you want.” His tone has softer edges now. “Someone oughta.” Before he turns to go back downstairs, he adds, “The one above the dresser is my favorite.”

I almost can’t bring myself to move once Mr. Weaver is gone. My hands are shaking at my sides.
Get it together, Anne.
I turn to the drawing above Matt Weaver’s dresser and do a double take. I’ve seen it before.

Eve is even more beautiful in this drawing: Her hair is pulled away from her face, exposing round, sad eyes framed with thick lashes. Her mouth is heart shaped and her cheekbones high. I can’t shake the feeling as if there’s something familiar about her face, which is silly, because there’s no way my mental version of Eve could match the one Matt had.

I run my fingers across her face, dying to understand Matt’s fixation with
Paradise Lost
—or specifically, this scene. My fingers slide over an imperfection in the wall behind the picture.

I pause and feel the bump again. The shape has jagged edges.

There’s something behind the drawing.

Downstairs, I hear the low murmur of voices. It’s possible Mr. Weaver has already told his wife that I’m looking at the drawings, and even so, she might come up here to check for herself. I don’t have a ton of time.

The drawing is held to the wall by thumbtacks. I wedge my fingernail underneath the one on the top corner and peel the drawing down far enough to see what’s behind Eve’s face.

Whatever it is, it’s concealed by yellowed layers of tape. I peel them away until a key falls into my hand.

It’s tarnished with a wire ring through the top. It’s too small to fit in a door. My guess is it goes into a padlock. I slip the key into my pocket. How long have I been up here? I don’t know if I have time to look for the matching lock without making the Weavers suspicious.

I open Matt’s closet doors, wincing at the horrible squeaking sound as it slides along the tracks. There’s not much inside: some clothes, board games, a record player, and some vinyl records and cassettes. Nothing with a lock.

There’s nothing but carpet under his bed. If there isn’t something with a padlock in Matt’s nightstand, the police probably got to it first.

Sketchbooks abound inside the drawer. I flip through them quickly, but the most interesting thing I find is a hidden copy of
Playboy.
Nasty. I push the sketchbooks aside, estimating that I have about two more minutes before Mrs. Weaver decides to check on me. A glossy card sits at the bottom of the drawer.

I’ve only been to one funeral that I remember clearly, but I know this is a prayer card.

Sonia Rae Russo

1966–1981

Psalm 23 is printed underneath. I do a quick calculation in my head: Sonia Russo was fifteen when she died. I take a photo of the prayer card and hurry back downstairs.

Anthony is still on the couch, nibbling the edges of one of Mrs. Weaver’s cookies. I can see from where I’m standing that the bottom is totally charred.

“Sorry about that.” My voice wavers with nerves as I sit next to Anthony. From my spot on the couch, I see that he’s hidden half-chewed cookies inside the napkin on his lap.

“Did you have any other questions about Matty?” Mrs. Weaver asks. “I was just telling your friend here about the lovely Charles River memorial his friends at Wheatley created for him.”