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“Yeah, right,” she said. “Wonder what Thomas would say if he knew about this.”
I swallowed against a dry throat. People around here really did know how to hit a girl where it hurt.
“Nothing. He would say nothing because it's nothing.” I took a deep breath as Constance stared resolutely at the blackboard. Around us our classmates steadily filled in the empty seats. “Look, Whit may have a tiny crush on me, but that's it. And he's gonna get over it really fast because I swear I have no feelings for him.”
How could I when this thing with Thomas was still so unresolved? I thought of Josh's accusation in the cafeteria and my insides squirmed.
But then I realized how all this looked. They had no idea that all I wanted was to see Thomas again so that I could make sure he was all right, so that I could get a little closure. How could I blame them for thinking the worst of me?
Constance sighed and glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. 'You swear?"
“I swear,” I said.
The ramrod-straight posture she'd been working since beginning her tirade relaxed slightly and she leaned back in her seat. Outside the door I saw our trig professor, Mr. Crandle, chatting with another teacher.
“Listen, if you like him so much, you should talk to him,” I whispered. “Maybe you guys can get together.”
Constance's cheeks turned pink and she looked down at her
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polished nails. Under her desk, she crossed her legs demurely at the ankles.
“He doesn't even know I exist,” she said.
“I doubt that's true. Whit doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd forget an old family friend,” I said.
“Maybe,” Constance said, biting her lip. “I don't know. But what if he doesn't remember me? I'd feel like such a moron.” Suddenly her entire face lit up and she lifted her head. “Wait! Maybe you could talk to him for me. Mention me and see what he says?”
She was too cute. Really. So cute it almost made me want to wrap her up in a pink bow and stick her in a cat carrier.
“Sure,” I told her. “I can do that.”
“Really?” she squealed, reaching over to grab my hand. “That would be so amazing.”
Not really. Because if I talked up Constance to Whittaker and he ended up going for her then it would exponentially benefit me. The Billings Girls might be disappointed that I didn't land the guy who could “give me things,” but they couldn't fault me if he fell for someone else. Plus Whit would be happy, and then I wouldn't have to hang out with him so much and constantly be reminded of those disgusting pictures. I would be able to concentrate on what really mattered--namely, figuring out what to do about Natasha, keeping my ass in school, and finding out how to get to this Legacy thing so I could see Thomas. It was win, win, win, really. For me, Whittaker, and Constance.
“It's not a problem,” I told her, adopting a benevolent smile.
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“Thank you so much.”
Just then Mr. Crandle walked in, the other teacher trailing behind him. I hadn't seen this guy around before and as whispers started to run rampant around the room, my heart started to pound with fear.
This was no teacher.
“Miss Brennan, this is Detective Hauer,” Mr. Crandle said. “He'd like to speak to you. Please gather your things and go with him.”
Everyone turned to gape at me as if we hadn't all known this was coming. My hands trembled as I reached for my books. I glanced at Detective Hauer, a short, stocky man in a wrinkled shirt and cotton tie who stood at the front of the room with his hands behind his back, his razor-sharp brown eyes watching my every move.
Guilty. That was how I felt under his gaze. Guilty. But of what? Of finding a note from my ex-boyfriend? Smack on the shackles and take me to the guillotine.
I managed to rise out of my seat without my knees knocking together too much and joined the detective.
“Hello, Reed,” he said. His voice was so deep it made my bones rumble.
“Hello.”
I even sounded guilty.
He raised a hand to usher me out of the room ahead of him.
“You can make up the quiz tomorrow, Miss Brennan,” Mr. Crandle said helpfully as I reached the door.
Right. Because that was what I was really concerned about.
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* * *
Just tell them.
No, don't. Thomas will be so mad.
So what? You're already mad at him. Besides, it's the law. Can they arrest me for not telling?
Don't do it. His parents will be on him like peanut butter on jelly. It's a betrayal.
But didn't he betray me by breaking up with me in a note?
Just do it.
Don't.
Come on.
No, no, no.
“You know, there's nothing to be nervous about, Reed,” Detective Hauer said.
I stopped chewing on the end of the hood string on my sweatshirt and sat up. “I'm not nervous.”
Yeah. That was very convincing. The high octave and the spittle were especially compelling.
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“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I'm fine.”
I smiled at the detective, who sat behind Dean Marcus's wide desk. Then I flashed the same grin at Chief Sheridan, who hovered in the corner near one of the sky-high bookshelves. Behind me, in a cushy chair, was my advisor, Ms. Naylor. Apparently she was there to act as a student advocate, which meant, I supposed, that if they tried to beat me with a telephone book, she was required to ask them politely to stop.
Whether or not she would actually do that was another story. I never got the impression that Ms. Naylor relished my presence at Easton that much or her involvement in my life.
“So, we understand you and Mr. Pearson have been dating,” the detective said, glancing at a piece of paper in front of him.
'Yes." I sat up a little straighter, trying to see what the paper had to say.
“For how long?” the detective asked. He pulled the page closer to him. The chief shifted, bringing one arm across his stomach and resting his other elbow on it, hand under chin.
“Since the third week of school,” I said, endeavoring to swallow. “So not long at all.”
“I see,” the detective said. “Is it serious?”
I cleared my throat. “Depends on your definition of serious.”
The detective smiled indulgently. “How well do you know him?”
“Pretty well, I guess,” I said. “But then, everybody has secrets, right?”
His eyebrows popped up. “Do they?”
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Oh, God. Why did I say that? Why, why, why?
“Did Thomas share any secrets with you, Miss Brennan?” he asked. “Where he might be going, for example?”
Yes. Yes, he did. He did, did, did.
“No,” I said. “No, he didn't.”
The detective eyed me as if he was trying to see inside my brain. It made me feel all hot and prickly. He looked down again.
“Is it true that last week the two of you fought outside the cafeteria?”
My face heated up like a black slate in the sun. “How did you--”
“Several witnesses have mentioned it,” the detective said.
Nice. Real nice. Had everyone in school come in here and pointed their fingers directly at me?
'Yes, we fought," I said.
“About what?”
About the fact that he's a drug dealer and he supplies the whole school.
“Uh ... I'd rather not say,” I replied.
Both the chief and Detective Hauer blinked in the exact same incredulous way. So they'd never heard of an evasive teenager before?
“We'd rather you did, Miss Brennan,” the chief said, speaking for the first time. “All we're trying to do here is find out where Thomas might have gone. Sometimes people miss the significance of small things. We're just trying to discern whether you happen to know something that might help us. That's all.”
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“Oh. Okay. Well, I... I found out he was lying to me,” I said.
“About what?”
“He told me that he'd told his parents about me, but I found out that he hadn't,” I said. Not a total fabrication. I had found that out as well, just days later. “So I was angry. We broke up.”
“You did?” the detective said, raising his eyebrows.
'Yes. But then we got back together,“ I said. 'You know how it is.”
I giggled. The detective rubbed his temples and blew out a sigh. I sounded flighty. Flighty and stupid and nervous.
“When did you get back together?” the detective asked finally, making a note on his paper.
“Friday morning,” I said definitively.
Confidence, Reed. This wasn't so bad. I could answer their questions. I had nothing to hide.
“Friday morning?”
They seemed very intrigued by this fact.
'Yes."
“So the morning of the day that Thomas disappeared,” the detective said.
I cleared my throat. Why did I clear my throat? “Sorry,” I said, coughing. “Yes.”
“When did you last see Mr. Pearson?” the detective asked.
“Then. I mean, that morning. In my--”
No. Can't say that. Can't have boys in the dorm room, stupid. Say that and you get thrown out of school before you can say, “Natasha Crenshaw.” Ms. Naylor's eyes gouged caverns in the back of my skull.
“That is, behind my dorm. Bradwell,” I told them. "Before
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breakfast. But I don't live there anymore. In Bradwell, I mean. I live in Billings now. In case you need to know for your... whatever."
Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!
“And you didn't see him for the rest of the day,” they said.
I cleared my throat again. Apparently I was becoming my grandfather. “No. I tried to call him a few times, but I kept getting his voice mail.”
“Miss Brennan, has Thomas Pearson contacted you in any way since you last saw him?” the detective asked.
Well. There it was. He'd finally gotten to it.
“Miss Brennan? Has Thomas Pearson contacted you?”
Yes, he has.
No, he hasn't.
Yes. He has.
“No,” I replied.
“You haven't heard from him at all.”
Well, not technically. You haven't heard anything. You've read something, but you haven't heard anything.
“Reed?”
“No. I haven't,” I said.
Could they get a search warrant for a minor's dorm room? Maybe they didn't even need one. Maybe they were searching it right now. Maybe they were just keeping me here while their goon squad tossed my stuff. I had to burn the note. I had to get back and burn the note now.
“I haven't.”
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The detective and the chief stared at me for a long, long moment. Long enough for me to remember Ariana's advice that I should be prepared for this, that I should know what I was going to say. Long enough for me to start to sweat. Long enough to imagine what it might feel like to be loaded into the back of a police cruiser and taken downtown for further questioning.
Was this the reason for her warning? Was she just trying to make this experience easier on me? Maybe she didn't suspect me of anything. Maybe she was just trying to be nice.
Damn. Why didn't I listen to her?
“You're sure.”
“I haven't.”
They were the only two words I could think or say.
I haven't. I haven't, I haven't, I haven't. If I made myself believe it, maybe they would too.
“Okay, then, Miss Brennan,” the chief said finally. “Thank you for your time.”
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MODEL FRIEND
When I walked out of the office I felt hollow. I felt like I had been used up, wrung dry, and tossed aside. I felt like I needed a nap. I shut the door behind me, leaned back against the cool brick wall, and let out a breath. I looked up at the ceiling, where a frosted- glass light fixture hummed.
Dear God, please let Thomas come back soon. Or call someone. Anything. I just want this to be over.
'You okay?"
Kiran stood up from the wooden bench directly across the hall, unfolding her long legs and snapping her compact closed. Her makeup was freshly applied, with a new coat of shimmering lip balm and ten miles of lengthening mascara. As always, she looked as if she'd just stepped off a runway in Milan, whereas I probably looked like I'd just been run over by a jumbo jet on a whole different kind of runway. In Detroit.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my heart in my throat. I had thought I was alone.
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She looked at me as if I had just suggested she switch to Cover Girl. “I wanted to see if you were okay. God. Sorry for the intrusion.”
“You wanted to see if I was okay?” I asked, stupefied.
'Yes. I heard you were next up on the list and I thought, you know, that this might be . . . difficult for you,“ she said, almost reluctantly. ”But if you want to be alone ..."
She flicked her bangs away from her eyes and turned down the hall. I stopped her with a hand on her arm. The velvet of her jacket was so soft I instantly withdrew, afraid I might damage it.
“No. That's okay,” I said. “Thanks for coming.”
Of all the Billings Girls, I would have thought Kiran would be the last one to publicly display any kind of affection. For me, anyway.
She looked me up and down and flashed a hint of a smile. “No problem. Come on. Before Naylor catches me outside of class. Woman has been trying to snag me all year.”
Together we speed-walked down the hall and into the back stairwell. The very same stairwell I had raced through on the night she and her friends had ordered me to steal them a physics test from one of the downstairs offices.
The good old days. I had been so stressed out about that particular task I had almost lost it. Now I would have stolen a test every night if all this other crap would have just gone away.
Kiran led me down to the ground floor and pushed open the exit doors to the back of the building.
“Do you have to go back to class?” she asked me, slipping on her Gucci shades.
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“No, they said I could spend the rest of the day in the library,” I said, taking out my yellow pass.
“Good,” Kiran said with a nod.
She started off along the winding path that led to the library. I had about a dozen questions for her. Like how she had found out my name was up and how she had gotten out of class. What she meant when she'd said Naylor had been trying to snag her all year. But I didn't ask any of them.
“So, how did it go?” Kiran asked, looking straight ahead. She crossed her arms over her chest and held herself tightly as she walked. Her high-heeled boots click-clack
ed against the flagstone path.
“It was okay. Nerve-wracking,” I said.
“Why?”
“I don't know. You did it already, right?” I said.
She nodded.
“Don't you hate the way they look at you? Like you're guilty of something?”
“They didn't look at me that way,” Kiran said.
Oh. That made me feel so much better.
“Besides, it's not like it was the first time I've ever been interviewed by police,” she said in a bored tone.
“Really?”
“I've had stalkers,” she told me matter-of-factly. "They're always asking me questions, as if I did something to provoke it.
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As if it's my fault these psychos spend hours in front of their computers violating themselves to my picture."
All right then.
“What did they ask you?” she said.
I took a deep breath and tried to erase the mental image of some fat, balding guy in a wife-beater sitting in front of a glowing screen....
Ugh. Mental note: Never be famous.
“Probably the same stuff they asked you and everyone else,” I replied.
“I doubt it,” Kiran said with a laugh. Then, noticing my surprised glance, she added, “You're the girlfriend.”
“I guess. I don't know,” I said, trudging along, kicking at fallen leaves. “They asked me what my relationship status with Thomas was, when was the last time I saw him ...”
“And what did you say?”
“The truth,” I told her. “That I saw him on Friday morning.”
“And that's it?” she asked. “I mean, I'm just curious.”
“Well, they also asked if I'd heard from him, of course,” I said, wanting to flinch even now.
“Right. ..,” she said.
“And I told them I haven't,” I said. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, like, Yeah, right. “Well, I haven't!” I said. “Why is that so hard for everyone to believe?”
Are you all psychic?
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“Probably because if he'd gotten in touch with anyone, it would have been you,” Kiran said flatly. “Thomas is notorious for making his girlfriends the primary relationships in his life. He's a totally whipped boy. Like, with anyone and everyone he decides to date.”