The Dead and Buried (14 page)

In Math last week, the top three high scorers on the test were posted on the board. (Damn, this school knows how to create an atmosphere of competitiveness!) Anyway, I came in number two. One guess as to who came in on top: 11, natch. And that’s fine and dandy except when 11 found out, she turned around and looked right at me with this smirk on her face.

Big. Mistake.

But this is why I’m one of the great ones. The simpleminded will lash out immediately with whatever unplanned, hasty hate-bomb they can scrape up at the moment. I’m patient. I bide my time. I wait until the moment is right and then unleash my revenge.

So I waited until today. Our English papers were due in sixth but I share a study hall with 11 in third. When she went for a bathroom break, she left her laptop and bookbag unattended. I slipped her English paper out of her bag and — to make sure she couldn’t print out another copy — I quickly logged into DOS and formatted her hard drive, wiping out her paper and anything else that was on there.

When she came back and sat back down, I briefly caught her eye.

And I smiled.

D
onovan texted me our meeting place: the gazebo on the green next to the school. On one of those beautiful, sunny fall days, the green would have been full of classmates. Girls lounging around and gossiping. Guys tossing a football. But today was cool and gray, and as I walked toward the center of the green, the only other person there was the shadow in the gazebo. Donovan sat on the bench, head lowered, staring at his clasped hands.

“Hi,” I said, no doubt dazzling him with my superb conversational skills. But I didn’t have to worry about trying to impress him anymore. I was finished with that.

So then why was I still bitter?

“Hey.” He stood up and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

“So,” I said dryly. “You can’t stop thinking about Kayla.”

“About what Kayla said,” he corrected, giving me a confused look. “At your party.”

I paused. “What about it?”

He motioned to the bench. “Want to sit?”

I slipped my backpack off my shoulder and leaned it up
against the side. The wooden bench was painted white, same as the gazebo and the latticework. It was pretty and could’ve been a romantic setting if the conversation weren’t so morbid. I swept a fallen leaf off the seat and eased myself down.

Donovan settled in next to me. “I never thought she was pushed.”

I kept my voice neutral. “Why not?”

“Because I was there. It was just us. We argued. I left. And she was crying really hard. So I thought she fell because she was so upset.” His voice tightened. “I could almost picture it. Her eyes were closed, her hand over her mouth, doubling over sobbing. Then losing her balance, and …”

I cocked my head to the side. There had been more to Donovan’s sadness than I’d known. Despite his innocence, he actually blamed himself for her death.

I watched him with a calm stare. “You thought it was your fault.”

He gave a slight nod. “I thought … if I hadn’t left … if I’d stayed until she calmed down … she wouldn’t have fallen.”

Maybe he wasn’t the broken boy because he still longed for Kayla. He was the broken boy because he felt responsible.

“But now, it looks like she didn’t fall after all,” I said.

“Not that that’s any better. The end result is the same. But …”

But, in some way, it
was
better. For his conscience. She hadn’t fallen in distress over their argument. Someone else did this to her.

He sat up straighter and met my gaze. “So what I’m trying to say is that — because of what happened at your party — I believe now, that she was pushed.”

I wished I could tell him that I knew it for a fact. I’d heard it from Kayla herself, through my brother. But a small part of me worried that he’d think I was crazy. So I only said, “Me, too. And I want to find out who did it, but I barely know where to begin. It could have been anyone.”

“No,” he said, angling toward me. Our knees touched, sending a spark up my leg, and I had to force myself to concentrate on what he was saying. “It was someone she knew. A random killer doesn’t wait in a random house for a random person and push them down a flight of stairs.”

“What’s strange, though,” I said, “is that it seems planned, since the person was probably there, waiting for you to leave. But it also seems unplanned. They didn’t bring a weapon and couldn’t have known Kayla was going to be standing at the top of the staircase. So maybe the person didn’t plan to kill her, but was … overcome. What do they call that?” I knew I’d read the term in a mystery novel or two, but couldn’t recall it.

“A crime of passion.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s a good point. I mean, think about it. They probably didn’t even know if she was dead or not. A fall down a flight of stairs, even hardwood, isn’t an automatic kill.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “It was someone who knew her. Someone we know.”

“The person was probably at your party,” Donovan said.

“I’m thinking more like someone who wasn’t there.” I thought again of all the crime novels I read. “Sicko serial killers love going back to the scene of the crime, but someone who didn’t mean to kill her? Someone who felt guilty about it? They probably wouldn’t want to go.”

Donovan countered, “But if they had known Kayla, they’d have to go or risk the appearance of guilt. Maybe they’d make an appearance and then leave.”

Like Alexa
, a voice in my head added.

“They certainly wouldn’t have stayed once the Ouija board came out,” Donovan added. “Just in case Kayla really could finger her killer, they’d get out of there fast.”

My thoughts turned to Kane. His sudden fierce reaction to the idea of us contacting Kayla. Or Faye, who’d been avoiding me ever since and wanted no part of finding out who killed her supposed best friend. My mind was spinning. There were so many possibilities.

Donovan rested his hand on my knee, causing my mind to still and a wonderful electric shock to race through my body.

He said, “If we want to do this, we have our work cut out for us.”

We? Do what?

His sky blue eyes turned steely. “I know you want to find out who killed her. I do, too. I want to clear my name, once and for all.”

He cleared his throat and that vulnerable look returned. “And I was wondering if you’d like to team up.”

Back in my room, I opened a fresh notebook and wrote down the names of anyone who could be a suspect. I started with the major players, then listed anyone from Kayla’s old group. All the people I’d met at my party and at the clearing. I put them all down.

When I was done, I stared at the long list and sighed. That overwhelmed feeling was starting to creep over me again. The idea of having Donovan to talk things out with had temporarily sated the doubt monster, but it returned in full force now. It leaned over my shoulder, whispering,
You can’t do this. You’ll never figure it out. You won’t be able to save Colby.

I slapped the notebook closed and pushed my chair back from my desk. My jewelry box called to me from the top of the bureau, so I brought it over to my bed. The bedsprings squeaked as I sat in the center, opened the box, and started my ritual.

Sometimes, in the months after my mother’s death, this was the only thing that could calm me. Though I relied on it less now, I felt my anxiety begin to wane as I touched the first gemstone and whispered its name.

“Rose quartz.” I rolled the smooth gem between my fingers and remembered its origins. It’s a pink, romantic stone used to both attract new love and heal old love’s wounds. It fixes the fissures of a broken heart.

I replaced the quartz and picked up another. “Watermelon tourmaline,” I said, in barely a whisper. It helps you see the silver lining in every situation. The stone was pink enfolded in
green, just like a sliced watermelon. But much more expensive. This had been one of my mother’s favorites.

I picked up my amber pendant, the one Donovan said reminded him of my eyes. I ran my finger across the polished amber, the smooth sensation calming me. I closed my eyes and smiled.

But before I could pick out the next stone, my eyes snapped open. The energy in the air had changed. I wasn’t alone anymore.

I straightened and looked around the room, even though I already knew, from the thickened, charged air, that it wasn’t a family member in here with me. It wasn’t anyone that I could see. Just feel. I’d gotten good at sensing when Kayla was around, watching. And she was here now.

A cold breeze tickled the back of my neck, like someone was right behind me, lips pursed, lightly blowing air on my exposed skin. I shivered and rubbed it.

“I’m working on it,” I said to the empty room. “Leave Colby alone. I’m getting you what you want. I have a … list of suspects and I’m working on it.”

After a moment’s pause, the hostile energy drained from the room. Warmth immediately returned to my goose-pimpled skin, like someone had taken a blanket from the dryer and draped it over me. All was back to normal.

I got the message.

Back to work.

W
hen my mother died, I laughed.

Dad and I were in the hospital waiting room, surrounded by family and friends, waiting to hear something, anything about the surgery. Time had never passed so slowly and it had taken far too long. When the surgeon came down the hallway, I should have known just by looking at him. But I figured, he was a surgeon — that serious, somber expression was probably permanently etched onto his face.

Then he said those terrible words. And I laughed. I didn’t think it was funny. Not even amusing. Just absurd. My mind couldn’t make sense of it. Couldn’t process an appropriate response.

I was as shocked as everyone else when this fake, almost insane-sounding cackle bubbled up out of me. Before I knew it, I was doubled over. The laughs became gasps as I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried. In and out. Faster. Faster. But I wasn’t getting any air.

Someone said, “She’s hyperventilating,” and then arms were around me, leading me toward a chair, but I didn’t make it. I woke up sometime later on the rug, hoping I’d only been dreaming. I hadn’t been.

So I know all about poor reactions. Sometimes your mind goes a little berserk and produces an unexpected and completely inappropriate reaction to the situation at hand. It’s understandable.

What scared most people away from Alexa wasn’t so much the inappropriate things she sometimes said, but her reactions — or lack thereof — to people. Madison wasn’t the only one who suspected Alexa was capable of pushing Kayla. Now that my little detective project was public, a couple more people whispered to me in the halls on Wednesday that I should look into Alexa. Apparently, Kayla had bullied her to the point where any other girl would be nothing but a bucket of tears, but Alexa had kept her steely eyes down and ignored her each time. This cold, nonemotional response seemed to frighten the other girls.

But I respected it.

As I followed Alexa’s car in my own after school for our planned “hang out time,” I thought about how hard that must have been for her. To be the target. To have no one else backing you up. To feel so alone.

I wished I had been here back then to protect her.

But I reminded myself to be on guard. Just because I liked Alexa and her quirky personality, that didn’t mean she was innocent. I had to keep my mind open and not let my personal feelings cloud the facts. Alexa had a motive. A real one.

Her car signaled right and took the turn. I followed — onto a road filled with the most gigantic houses I’d ever seen. I was
glad we weren’t in the same car, because I couldn’t hold back my audible gasp.

Did Alexa
live
in one of these?

She took another right. I followed her down a long driveway. The middle door of the three-car garage opened as Alexa’s car approached.

She lowered her window and yelled, “You can park in the circle!”

I followed the winding drive as it circled around a fountain. I parked near the front door and got out onto the clay pavers. I’d never been anywhere near a house like this before. I looked down at my hoodie and jeans and felt under-dressed. Though I had no reason to. Alexa wore a simple white button-down blouse and jeans herself. She was so unassuming. I never had any idea she was a gazillionaire. I knew rich people. Rich people carried giant thousand-dollar handbags with tiny dogs in them and wore oversized sunglasses, even at night.

“What’s wrong with your mouth?” Alexa asked when she reached me.

I realized my jaw had been hanging open like I’d taken a punch and was physically unable to close it. “I was not …” I managed. “I wasn’t expecting your house to look like this. I mean … you drive a regular compact car.”

“This,” she pointed to the cascading fountain with one hand and the double doors with the other, “is my parents’ taste. Not mine.”

“Oh” was all I could muster.

“Now you understand why it wasn’t worth my while to fight the athletics requirement for the Bodiford Scholarship.”

Ah, yes, the scholarship she’d ranted about because it wasn’t just based on academics. It went to whoever had the highest class rank
and
made all-state in a sport.

“It’s not a need-based scholarship,” Alexa continued. “But they do have a maximum family income and we surpass that.”

By a lot, I guessed.

I followed her inside, feeling the need to remove my shoes before I stepped on the gleaming floors. But since Alexa didn’t take hers off, I kept mine on. We passed a living room that looked like no one had ever lived in it. For one, it didn’t have a TV. Just stiff-looking furniture and a glass coffee table. Maybe that’s what a sitting room was. Someplace you just … sit. We passed several closed doors and another room marked by white floor-to-ceiling columns. Alexa didn’t stop to give me a tour or explain what anything was until we stopped at one of the closed doors and she opened it.

I was expecting her bedroom, but there was no bed. Only a computer desk and bookcase after bookcase. “You can drop your bag in here,” she said.

“Is this your dad’s office?”

“No, this is my office. My mother’s is the next room and my father’s is after that.”

They each had their own office. I let that percolate as I dropped my bag on the floor.

“So do you want to watch TV in the theater room or get a snack in the kitchen?” she asked.

The theater room sounded amazing but if we were watching something we wouldn’t be talking. And I needed to get her talking. “Yeah, let’s head to the kitchen.”

My first thought when I entered was: Marie would love this kitchen. Not Mom, she wasn’t a big cook. But Marie was. And this place had countertops for miles. A kidney-shaped island that could seat more people than our dining room table was centered in the room beneath a hanging iron pot rack.

I climbed onto a stool at the island while Alexa rummaged through the fridge. “Soda and grapes sound okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

“One healthy, one unhealthy.” She smirked. “It’s all about balance.”

Alexa placed a porcelain bowl of grapes and two sodas on the countertop.

“How’s the essay for MIT going?” I began.

She shook her head, almost angrily. “I wrote a draft and it was terrible. I scrapped it and have to start again.”

“You’re probably being too hard on yourself, Miss Perfect SAT Score.”

She smiled. “What was your score?”

“Not perfect.” I shrugged. “But I did get the highest of all my friends back home.”
All two of them
, I added silently.

“What’d you take? Kaplan? Princeton Review?”

“Nothing. We didn’t have places like that in my old town.”

Alexa gaped at me like I’d told her we didn’t have running water. “Then how do students prepare?”

“They mostly just … take the test. I suppose we could take a course online somewhere. I bought a book. A study guide.” I nearly laughed at the horrified look on Alexa’s face.

She could probably talk academics all day, but I needed some segue into a different conversation. A framed photo was centered on the island. I pointed at it. “You and your parents?”

“Yes. From a vacation in DC.” She picked up her soda and started chugging it.

I gazed down at the picture. The three of them stood together in front of the gates of the White House. They stood stiffly, smiling without showing their teeth, each parent with one hand on a much-younger Alexa’s little shoulders.

I replaced the photo, let my eyes wander the room, and sighed. “I still can’t believe you live like this. It must be like waking up in a beautiful dream every morning.”

Alexa’s finger trailed along the outline of a tile over and over, making the same square. “Yeah, sure, we have money but there are drawbacks.”

“Like?”

“Impossibly high expectations. Stress. Inherited perfectionism.” Her finger stopped retracing the pattern. “Sometimes I wonder. What if I didn’t
want
to go to MIT? Or any college, for that matter. What if I loved art and I wanted to move to the city and live a bohemian, artsy lifestyle? I truly think my parents would never speak to me again.”

“Well,
do
you want to?”

She shook her head. “No way. I hate art. I love numbers. I love to memorize them, manipulate them, play with them. I want MIT so bad I dream about it almost every night.”

“If you and your parents want the same things, then what’s the problem?”

“It’s the ‘what if,’ I guess. What if somewhere down the road, I
do
disappoint them?”

In my old school, I was smart. Not Alexa smart. But probably one of the top three smartest girls. Here, I was average and I knew it. But Dad and Marie never pressured me. I imagined for a moment what it must be like to be Alexa. To feel the weight of those expectations on your shoulders.

“Would they be mad if you didn’t end up graduating valedictorian?”

“I don’t have to worry about that,” she answered point-blank.

“Why not?”

“No one else is close enough to catch up with me now.”

The little hairs on my arms rose.
Now.
As opposed to then — when Kayla was alive.

“So Kayla was your only real competitor?” I asked innocently.

Alexa tensed and risked a quick glance at me before she returned her eyes to the tile. “Yes. But she was a cheater.”

I rested my elbows on the counter and leaned forward. “She cheated on tests?”

“Not every time. She was very smart and could do fine on her own. But sometimes she got too busy with soccer or parties
or whatever. So she’d cheat now and then. Or she’d sabotage other people’s —” Alexa stopped herself. “I didn’t like her very much.”

Here it was. All I had to do was push a little bit more. “I heard that she gave you a nickname.”

Alexa’s face closed down and she waved me off. “I don’t want to talk about her anymore. Let’s go to the theater room.”

She picked up the bowl of grapes and started walking. I followed, knowing I’d reached a wall. What was beyond it, I didn’t know yet, but I wasn’t getting past it today.