take the search for the next boyfriend of the Billings president in a new direction. This particular president was not a Hunter Braden
type of girl. I shoved my hands in my pockets and started walking through town toward school. It was a long trek, but that was fine by
me. It was a clear, cool night and I wanted to delay my return to my room anyway. With nothing better to do, I knew I'd start obsess-
ing about the black marbles and the pink clothing and who might have thought it would be fun to freak me out. All things I didn't want
to consider.
It occurred to me somewhere in the middle of block two that Hunter might come looking for me in his Bentley, but I doubted it. He
probably had yet to notice I was gone. And if he had, I was sure he didn't care. At the edge of town I spotted the old-fashioned light
posts with their big, round lamps that marked off the front of the Easton police station. Not my favorite place in the world. I ap-
proached it, my heart starting to beat erratically as I remembered the last time I had been there, the awful things that had occurred. I
ducked my head and speed walked past, feeling conspicuous. I wondered if Detective Hauer was inside. Wondered what that look had
been about on Thursday night. My heartbeat didn't return to normal until I was well past the bright lights of the building and had
turned onto the relatively dark Hamilton Parkway, which would take me back to the Easton Academy gate.
I kept a good distance into the shoulder, knowing I was barely visible to motorists in my black coat. Cars whizzed by, tossing my
hair into my face with their back drafts. The speed limit on Hamilton was forty-five, but people routinely broke it. I was just starting to
wonder if this walk was the worst idea ever when a slow-moving car approached me from behind. I turned around, expecting to see
Hunter and his newly discovered conscience, but instead of the Bentley, I found myself staring into the headlights of a modest, late-
model Ford. The car pulled up alongside me and Detective Hauer leaned away from the steering wheel toward the passenger-side win-
dow. You have to be kidding me. "Need a ride?" he asked. "No. Thanks. I'm fine." I started walking again, shakily. He inched for-
ward. "I think you need a ride," he said. "No, really. I'm--" "Reed, there's something I need to talk to you about." He reached over and
popped the door open so that it almost hit me in the legs. "Get in the car."
* * *
I sat stiffly in the cold, hard chair, my bag placed on the cracked wooden table in front of me. My coat was still on. It felt colder in
the interrogation room than it was outside. And besides, I wasn't planning on being here long. No need to get comfortable.
Detective Hauer walked in through the door behind me, but didn't shut it. He took a seat opposite me, placed a thick brown folder
on the table, and folded his beefy hands on top of it. As unkempt as ever, he wore a green sweater with some kind of food stain near
the hem, and one point of his white shirt collar stuck out while the other was still tucked in. His brown eyes looked heavier than I re-
membered. Behind me, the station was fairly quiet, aside from the occasional ringing phone. Nothing like the last time I was here,
with the police force bustling around, trying to handle Thomas's murder and failing miserably, routinely arresting the wrong people.
Including Josh. "Don't you need my parents here or, like, someone from school if you're going to interrogate me?" I asked, wanting to
show him how very unintimidated I was, even though I was shaking in my borrowed-from-Tiffany Jimmy Choos. "I am a minor, you
know."
His bushy eyebrows shot up. "I'm not going to interrogate you. I'm just on a fact-finding mission. I want to chat." "About what?" I
spat. "Cheyenne Martin." If I was shaking before, I was trembling now. What could he possibly want to ask me about Cheyenne after
all this time? She had been dead for more than a month. "I understand that you and Cheyenne had quite the contentious relationship,"
he began. My heart was in my throat. "So?" He blew out a sigh and leaned back in his chair, adjusting his semi-twisted sweater over
his belly before lacing his fingers together over its widest point. "Reed, I'm going to be straight with you here," he said. "Cheyenne's
parents have had some time to go through her things, and they've asked us to look into the possibility that Cheyenne's death was not a
suicide."
All the oxygen was sucked right out of the room with those few words. Was not a suicide. Was, therefore, a murder. I knew they
had checked into this in the very beginning, but I thought they had come up with nothing. They had cremated Cheyenne's body, for
God's sake--the most important piece of evidence according to any of the ten billion police procedural dramas on TV. How could they
even begin to investigate something like this now? "So you think Cheyenne was murdered," I heard myself say. "Personally? No," he
replied, sitting forward. "But I believe we owe it to the family to check out every lead." Okay. Okay. So he didn't think it was a mur-
der. Only her parents did. That was better, right? If the detective was unconvinced?
Hauer flipped open his folder and slid a piece of paper toward him. "That said, I wanted to talk to you in particular because we've
just finished going through Cheyenne's computer files." Oh, shit. Oh, crap; oh, crap; oh, crap. The room was no longer cold. Quite the
opposite, actually. Was that the devil breathing down my neck? "And we found something interesting in her e-mail outbox," he said,
looking over the top of the page. "Any idea what that might be?" He had the e-mail. He knew. He knew that Cheyenne had blamed me
for her death. My worst nightmare was coming true, right here and right now. Under the table, my hands gripped the wool of Shelby's
coat and my feet slipped out of Tiffany's shoes, too wet to hold them on any longer. "Do I need a lawyer?" I asked, Up went the eye-
brows again. "Do you feel you need one?"
"I didn't do anything, if that's what you mean," I replied quickly. "Okay then." He placed the page on the table, turned it to face me,
and slid it across with his fingertips. "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" It was a printout of the e-mail. Her address, my
address, the time sent, the subject line empty. Then the lines that had become so excruciatingly familiar over the past few weeks. Ig-
nore the note. You did this to me. You ruined my life. My empty stomach clenched at the sight of them and a dry heave rose up in my
throat. But I swallowed it back. As terrified as I felt-- what did Hauer think this meant?--I also felt a slight sense of relief. Someone
else had read the e-mail. It was real. It was right in front of us. Both of us. Part of me had started to wonder if I had imagined all the
Cheyenne-related oddity that had been swirling around me lately. But not this. This was real. I wasn't going insane.
I took a deep breath and released Shelby's coat from my sweaty palms. "You already know Cheyenne and I were fighting." I knew
this because my friends had told me the cops had been asking about us when I'd returned from a weekend in New York with Josh.
They had told me that the cops knew about Cheyenne's and my screaming argument over Josh. "I got this the day after she died. "Why
didn't you report it?" Detective Hauer asked, sitting up straight again. "I didn't think it was important," I replied automatically. He
gave me an incredulous look. "A girl blames you for her death and you don't think it's important?" "No! Not like that," I blurted, sud-
denly frustrated. "Obviously I think it's important. It's practically all I think about, that she might have killed her
self over something
she thought I'd done to her. I mean, I don't know if she blamed me because she wanted my boyfriend and she couldn't have him, or if
she blamed me because she thinks I somehow got her expelled or what, and I'm never going to know. And believe me, that is impor-
tant to me. But is it really important to you? I mean, doesn't this e-mail sort of prove that she killed herself?" I asked, holding it up.
"This was just her last-ditch effort to get to me."
"Actually, I do think this is our best piece of evidence for suicide," Hauer said. "I just wanted to hear what you had to say about it."
I took a deep breath. It felt good to have this out there. To have someone listen. Even if it was Detective Hauer. "I wasn't Cheyenne's
biggest fan and she wasn't mine," I said, placing the page down again, feeling a bit more in control. "But I'm sorry she's dead, and I
had nothing to do with it." The detective picked up the e-mail printout and placed it atop the other pages in his folder. "All right then,"
he said. "There's just one other question I have to ask. Do you know if Cheyenne had any other enemies at school? Anyone else who
could help shed some light on what might have been going on in Ms. Martin's mind?" Instantly, a name popped up in my mind. A
knowing smirk. Cold blue eyes. The eyes of someone who had known Cheyenne but had grown to hate her. "What is it?" Detective
Hauer asked, clearly noting the change in me--the realization in my eyes. "Ivy Slade," I said, a bit too loudly. "You definitely want to
talk to her."
* *
I speed-walked back to Billings after Hauer dropped me off on the circle, hoping that no freshmen or sophomores with big mouths
saw me getting out of the detective's car from their windows in Bradwell. If they did, the news would certainly be all over campus in
the morning--Billings president leaves campus with Hunter Braden, returns with police--and that could not happen. No one was going
to know about my meeting with Hauer. No one was going to know that Cheyenne's parents had asked the police to open up a murder
investigation. Not if I could help it.
I remembered all too vividly the dreary, morbid, terrified atmosphere on campus once it was revealed that Thomas had been mur-
dered. I couldn't go through that again. This school couldn't go through that again. Especially considering there was still a good chance
Cheyenne had taken her own life. I mean, if she hadn't, then why had I gotten her suicide note? It made no sense. I wished Hauer had
told me what kind of evidence her parents had discovered that had spurred them to reopen the case. I couldn't imagine what it could
possibly be. The girl had been found alone on her floor with pills and a note. No signs of a struggle. No one in the dorm had heard a
scream. How could she possibly have been murdered?
High on nervous adrenaline, I hurried up to my room and found Sabine sitting on her bed, working on her needlepoint. Big Satur-
day night for my roommate. But then, maybe she had the right idea. Going out hadn't exactly been enjoyable for me, to say the least.
"Reed! It's so early," she said, tucking her needlepoint ring away. She sat up and scooted forward, all ears. "How was the date?" "Aw-
ful," I replied. "I left early and walked myself home." "Oh," she said, sounding overly disappointed. I whipped off Shelby's coat and
started for the closet, but immediately changed my mind and tossed the coat on the foot of my bed instead. "It's no big deal," I told
her, running my fingers through my hair. "So the guy's a jerk. Half the guys at this school are." "Maybe more than half," Sabine said
under her breath."What?" I turned on my computer, more determined than ever to do a little research on Ivy Slade. Now that I had im-
plicated her to the police, I had a sudden desire to back up my claim. To find some kind of evidence that she was, in fact, capable of
very bad things. "Nothing, it's just... I was over at Coffee Carma earlier and Missy came in...." Sabine trailed off, looking squeamish.
My heart thumped extra hard. "Missy came in and what?" "She said she saw Josh and Ivy in front of Pemberly... kissing," Sabine said
with an apologetic look.
The floor went out from under me, but I quickly grasped at the first straw I thought of. "And you believed her?" Sabine's brow fur-
rowed. "You think she lied?" "She's Missy. She hates me. And she would just love to spread a rumor like that." "Oh. Well, it didn't
seem like she was lying," Sabine said. Then, on seeing my face, she quickly added, "But if you think she was, then I'm sure she was."
"I'm sure she was," I affirmed. I hoped she was. Please, God, let her be lying. But I couldn't believe it. I refused to believe it. He
couldn't have really moved on so fast. Despite what I'd heard from Jason, I'd thought they were just becoming friends. Close friends.
Which sucked, but still. It wasn't as bad as the alternative. "Reed... what exactly happened between you and Josh?" Sabine asked. "No
one knows and everyone's speculating.... It might help if you talked about it." "I really don't think so," I replied.
No one was ever going to know that I'd cheated on Josh with Dash. For many, many reasons. Well, aside from the random drunk
and stoned partiers in the hallway that night who had witnessed our fight--but apparently none of them had been from Easton or they
were just too far gone to remember, because so far, there were no rumors flying around campus. Thank God. If the Billings Girls
found out, I was sure that they would be able to forgive me for hurting Josh--they were, after all, my friends, and most of them were
dedicated to instant gratification and having fun above all else. But no one would ever forgive me for betraying Noelle. And Noelle, of
course, would kill me. That was reason enough. "Did he cheat on you?" Sabine prompted, toying with her silver ring. "Did he and Ivy
hookup at the Legacy or something? Because if he did, that's just reprehensible and I'm glad you dumped him. I mean, how anyone
could do that to someone they loved--"
"Sabine, I really don't want to talk about it," I said, cutting her off as the ever-present guilt in my gut started to expand. "Okay. Sor-
ry," she said quickly, "but if you ever do--" "I won't. But thanks."
I turned toward my computer and went straight to Google, trying to focus on the task at hand. Trying not to think about Sabine's
opinions--about how reprehensible she would find me if she knew the truth. I thought about taking out my disc full of info on the
Billings Girls, but I didn't want to crack that open in front of Sabine, and I wasn't certain it would have anything on Ivy, since she had
never actually been a Billings Girl. I could always check it later. For now I was going to search the old-fashioned way. As Sabine set-
tled in with a book, I Googled Ivy Slade. Luckily, it was not a common name. I got only thirty listings. The first, an obituary. Victoria
Slade, 89 Boston Socialite Was Groundbreaking Feminist I scrolled through the cached article for Ivy's name and found her listed as
one of Olivia's survivors--her granddaughter. Olivia had died over the summer, having suffered a stroke more than a year ago.
Sad. But unhelpful. I closed the obit and went back to my list. There were a couple of mentions of Ivy attending this party or that
fund-raiser. Then, jackpot. The headline: millionaire teen caught stealing... from own MATRIARCH. I clicked the link, which took
me to a Boston gossip site called Dish of Beantown. Okay, not the most reliable source, but I had to see what this was all about.
Sources inside the BPD have confirmed that the "minor" whose name was withheld from the Boston Globe's front-page B&E story
/>
yesterday was in fact Boston princess Ivy Slade, r6, daughter of financier Colton Slade and former supermodel Esmeralda Lake-Slade.
Apparently home for the weekend from her tony Connecticut boarding school, Easton Academy, Miss Slade got tired of inspecting her
diamonds and organizing her couture and decided it might be fun to bust into Grandma's house to snatch God knows what. That pair
of Jack Kennedy's boxers the elder Ms. Slade is rumored to have tucked in her trousseau, perhaps? Too bad the prodigal grandkid nev-
er noticed during all those Sunday teas that Grandma had a state-of-the-art security system installed. Miss Slade was pinched, and
we're all tickled pink to see what happens next. Is this the new fave pastime of the rich and semifamous? Better get out the shotguns,
people, before all the kids in the others start emulating the fabulous Miss S. We could have an inept-crime trend on our hands!
I covered my mouth to keep from laughing in shocked glee. Ivy was arrested for breaking into her own grandmother's house? Why?
What was she hoping to steal? Clearly the girl had everything she needed. But even more baffling was the fact that the police had yet
to investigate her in Cheyenne's death. Didn't a girl with a record--one who was so intimately connected to the victim--merit a first
look? I sat back in my chair and saved the pertinent files to my hard drive. At least I had proven one thing--there was definitely some-
thing off with that girl. But was she capable of murder? I couldn't wrap my brain around that--the idea that there was another student
at Easton who was that evil, that insane. An image of Ariana's cold, hard face flitted through my mind and a dreadful shiver raced
down my spine.
No. There was no way it had happened again. Cheyenne had committed suicide. End of story. Still, I needed a distraction. Now.
"Sabine?" She looked up from her book. "Yeah?" "Do you want to play, like, Spit or something?" I asked her. "Absolument!" she an-
swered brightly, tossing her book aside. I took a deep breath and grabbed my deck of cards. Thank God there were still a few normal
things to do around here. Maybe I should just leave the investigating of potential psychos to the cops.
SO MUCH FOR THAT
Sunday morning dawned crisp and cold. So cold that I had to huddle close to Noelle, Constance, Vienna, and London as we hurried
across the leaf-strewn campus toward the dining hall. As the wind whipped my hair back from my face, I burrowed my chin into my
scarf and wished I had thought to bring my wool hat. All I wanted to do was get inside again as quickly as possible. All my friends
wanted to do was talk about my date. "I can't believe you walked out on Hunter Braden," Vienna said, clutching London's arm in her
shearling coat. "No one walks out on Hunter Braden." "Reed Brennan does," Noelle said, sounding proud. "I'm sorry. He's just... not
my type," I told them, my words muffled by my scarf. I wriggled my chin out and ducked it over the woolly fabric. "He's everyone's
type," London replied. "Until you talk to him," I told her. "Just trust me. It was the most boring night of my life."London and Vienna
looked at each other and rolled their eyes. "Fine. We'll go to the next candidate," London said, whipping the printed F.Y.R. list out of