The Girl in the Picture

  “Okay,” I whisper, a sick feeling in my stomach. I take a breath, clear my throat.

  “I thought about what you said before, about the early days of you and me. Were you talking about our visit to Brooklyn? Do you think this was—I mean, could it be Justin Jensen’s revenge or something?”

  The idea of Justin—who could still be in juvie, for all we know—risking his family by coming after Chace sounds as far-fetched as anything else I could come up with. But Chace stops still.

  “Maybe Justin. Maybe someone else…”

  His reflection wavers, and I rush forward, trying to hold him in place. But my hands only brush against air.

  “Don’t go!” I wail. “Stay with me.”

  But our time is up.

  I’m all alone.

  Again.

  OCTOBER 29, 2016

  I know something must be wrong when my phone rings at six a.m. on a Saturday. At first I let it chime on aimlessly, afraid to hear whatever news is on the other end of the line. But on the thirteenth shrill ring, I finally answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Nicole, it’s John Sanford.”

  In my groggy haze, it takes me a moment to remember who he is. And then, with a wave of dread, it hits me. The lawyer.

  “What is it?” I sit up, instantly alert.

  “I’m afraid the police found the email you were composing to Chace the same day he died. It’s still in your drafts folder.”

  “What email?” I ask, bewildered. “I didn’t write him anything that day.”

  “You may not have sent it, but the draft is there in black and white. You wrote that you would never forgive Chace, and that you wished he were dead.”

  The room around me begins to spin. I grip the side of my mattress to keep steady. This isn’t happening.

  “I never wrote that,” I tell the lawyer, my voice shaking in my shock. “There must be a mistake. I’ll log in to my account and show you—”

  “I already saw it, Nicole,” Mr. Sanford says heavily. “Detective Kimble sent it to me first as a courtesy.”

  “But—but that’s impossible!” I cry. “I’m telling you, I didn’t write that. Someone is setting me up.”

  I hear him pause.

  “That’s not the worst of it. Someone turned in your sweater from that night.”

  “What sweater?” Now it’s my head that’s spinning. “I didn’t lose a sweater.”

  “It has Chace’s blood on it—and hairs that match your DNA. I’m afraid we need to prepare for the worst.”

  The violent banging at my door shocks me awake. I blink my eyes open, disoriented. The banging continues in earnest and I pull the covers up over my head to block out the noise. If I ignore it, maybe it’ll go away.

  But then the door to my room is kicked open. I sit bolt upright, a scream lodging in my throat as I see a flash of blue.

  It’s the cops. What are they doing, why are they here?

  “Lana Rivera, you have the right to remain silent,” a burly policeman barks at me, brandishing his badge. His partner throws the covers off me, grabbing my elbow and pulling me out of bed.

  “Stop! Don’t touch me!” I shout.

  But now they’re pinning my arms behind my back, locking my wrists in handcuffs, not even letting me cover myself up as I stand in pajama shorts and a flimsy tank top.

  “Let me go!” I scream. “My mother is a United States Congresswoman. You have to let me go!”

  “Lana.” Someone pokes me in the ribs, then rubs my arm. What the hell? Since when are cops allowed to be so handsy with people? “Lana!”

  I blink my eyes open. Stephanie is standing over me in pajamas, her hair a tangled mess. I look wildly around the room, but it’s just the two of us.

  “You were having a nightmare,” she tells me. “It was freaky. You just got up like a sleepwalker and started yelling.”

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I fall back into bed, practically wilting with relief. It was a dream—just a dream.

  I burrow my head back into the pillow and close my eyes, but all I can see are the panic-inducing images from my nightmare. Looks like sleep is out of the question. I mindlessly reach for my cell, and find it already blinking with a new message. Who would be texting me at two in the morning? Mom, of course.

  Turn on the news.

  My heartbeat quickens. I jump out of bed and grab my laptop off my desk.

  “What are you doing now?” Stephanie groans, but I ignore her, clicking open the Google News window. And there it is, right on the front page: “Nicole Morgan, ‘The Girl in the Picture,’ Taken into Police Custody in Chace Porter Case.”

  I stare at the headline, rereading it until the words swim together, turning into gibberish. And then I click the link, pressing play on the video.

  The screen reveals Nicole, her scar ghastlier than ever against the paleness of her skin. She shuffles between two cops, who push her up the steps of the Centre Island Police Station. Her arms are locked behind her back, just like mine were in my dream. At the edge of the frame are Nicole’s mom and a grim-faced man, the two of them following close behind her. Mrs. Morgan’s eyes are watery with tears.

  The din of shouting, hungry reporters accompanies the video, and suddenly Nicole stops still, turning toward the camera to face them.

  “I didn’t do it,” she says in that quietly determined voice of hers. “I could never have done it. I’m being set up. And I know exactly who—”

  My heart is in my throat, waiting for her to finish her sentence, when the man accompanying them jumps in front of her.

  “My client has nothing further to say.”

  So that’s her lawyer. I watch as the cops shove Nicole through the doors and she disappears inside, trailed by her mom and the attorney. A wide-eyed NBC News reporter fills the screen.

  “For those of you just tuning in, Nicole Morgan, the student who became infamous on social media this past week as The Girl in the Picture, has been arrested in connection with the murder of Chace Porter. While much was made of the murder weapon being tested for fingerprints on Friday, no match was found on the knife itself. However, an anonymous tip revealed a sweater from the night of Mr. Porter’s death, stained with his blood and carrying hairs belonging to Miss Morgan.”

  I recoil, covering my mouth with my hand.

  “Omigod.” Stephanie is wide awake now, bolting out of bed to my side. “So she really did it, then? This is insane….Are you okay, Lan?”

  I wanted her gone, and now I’m getting my wish. The universe is repaying me for all the hurt she caused, for turning me into this person I no longer recognize. I shouldn’t just feel okay. I should feel triumphant.

  But instead, I run to the bathroom and vomit into the sink.

  It’s all anyone can talk about in the morning, not just at Oyster Bay Prep, but everywhere. “Girl in the Picture” is trending on Twitter, while Nicole’s scarred face fills my entire Facebook feed, as practically everyone I know feels the need to post an article about the arrest. Even my mother comments publicly, telling the Washington Herald:

  “My daughter took Nicole Morgan in as a friend. We even brought her into our home last year for the holidays. It’s been truly terrible for my family to learn that she appears to be responsible for this horrific crime. None of us could have imagined it.”

  Except you, Mom. You imagined it, all right.

  I keep waiting for relief to kick in, but instead all I feel are the walls of my dorm closing in on me, and the fear of another vision from Chace. He’ll want me to pay for this. And finally I can’t stand it anymore. I pick up the phone.

  “Mija.” She answers on the first ring. “It’s over now.”

  “Because of you.” My voice shakes. “I can’t believe you went that far.”

  She pauses, and then lets out an indignant sputter as she realizes what I meant.

  “You think I turned in the sweater?”

  “Well, who else had it?”

  Mom lowers her voice.


  “You honestly think I would risk turning in anything of yours? That sweater was Nicole’s, and if you don’t believe me, come have a look in my closet.”

  I stare at the phone, more confused than ever.

  “She’s obviously guilty, and you need to accept it,” Mom says crisply. “Honestly, I thought you’d be glad.”

  She’s right, I should be—maybe not glad exactly, but at the very least relieved. So why can’t I shake the feeling that something seriously shady is going on?

  My phone vibrates soon after we hang up, and I’m tempted to chuck it. But it’s not my mom. The name flashing on my screen is Ryan Wyatt.

  This is so insane. I’m freaking out. I never would have believed it about Nicole. How are you holding up?

  That’s a surprise. I thought Ryan couldn’t care less how I’m doing, but he’s also asked when we’re out on public display, saying what he thinks he should say to me. Like everyone else. Maybe he feels guilty now, for always being Team Nicole.

  I’m handling it about the same as you.

  Shit. Want to go somewhere and talk? Just feel like I need to be around someone who was close with Chace too.

  I pause, contemplating his offer. I don’t particularly want to be around Ryan, or to talk about this with anyone. Then again, is holing up in my dorm and listening to Stephanie’s incessant chatter on the topic any better?

  Sure.

  I meet Ryan off campus at the hole-in-the-wall known as Pete’s Canteen, the neighborhood’s idea of a diner that only serves five things: burgers, tuna melts, milk shakes, fries, and one sad garden salad. Still, now that Headmaster Higgins has loosened her stance enough to let students out within a two-mile radius, at least it gets us off school grounds and onto a quiet backstreet, away from prying spectators and cameras. I spot Ryan already in a booth, and I slide in across from him.

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” He gives me a weak smile in return.

  “So.” I drum my fingers on the table. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll never have a worse Halloween weekend than this.”

  “Tell me about it.” He shifts in his seat. “This whole Nicole story has just blown my mind. I mean, can you believe it?”

  “You know how I felt about her,” I say curtly.

  “Yeah.” He hangs his head. “I just can’t help feeling…responsible somehow. You know—because I decided to give the drinks an extra kick. I only wanted to make the night more fun for all of us by getting us buzzed faster, but what if it’s my fault that she turned violent?” He looks at me desperately, as if I might have the power to wave away his guilt.

  “Well, it was screwed up of you to get everyone so plastered. I’m not going to sugarcoat that, and if I hear about you pulling this crap ever again, I won’t hesitate to get you in trouble for it,” I warn him. “But. You’ll notice no one else killed anyone that night. So it can’t have been all you.”

  Ryan lets out a long exhale.

  “Don’t worry, I learned my lesson this time. And listen, there’s another reason I wanted to see you. I feel like I owe you an apology for, you know…always defending Nicole.”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, trying not to roll my eyes. I knew this is why he wanted to see me.

  “Not to be cheesy, but I hope we can be friends now. I feel like we can both help each other through this.” Ryan gives me a knowing glance, and I bite back a laugh. He doesn’t actually think now is an opportune time to hit on me, does he? Guys really are one-track-minded.

  “Hey, I’m going to hit the men’s room, but feel free to get whatever you want. My treat.” He slides his wallet across the table toward me.

  Okay, he’s definitely hitting on me. No one just hands a girl their wallet unless they want something. Wishful thinking, Ryan. But I will take a milk shake.

  I’m walking up to the ordering window when I hear the strains of a vaguely familiar voice, talking furiously under her breath. It’s coming from the corner booth, the one half hidden by the fake Christmas tree that Pete seems to put up earlier and earlier each year.

  “Are you kidding me with this?”

  There’s something about that voice. I turn to look, and…it’s Brianne, of all people. She’s hunched over in her seat, alone in her booth, so riveted by her phone conversation that she doesn’t even see me.

  “You can actually say that, after everything I’ve done for you?” She pulls at her dirty-blond hair, her face scrunching up in anguish. I take a slight step closer.

  “No, you can’t. Not when I risked everything so we—”

  A look of shock crosses her face, and she holds the phone in front of her. The person on the other end of the line must have hung up. She slams the phone down onto the table, and as I watch, a strange chill runs through me.

  “Hey, did you order—”

  I clap my hand over Ryan’s mouth to shut him up the second I hear him join me. I’ve never spared much—if any—thought for Nicole’s dull friend, but right now I can’t take my eyes off her as she throws a clump of dollar bills onto her table and storms out of the diner. That determined walk of hers reminds me of…something. I need to find out what she’s up to.

  “Come on,” I tell him. “We’re following her.”

  “What for?” Ryan looks at me like I’ve just sprouted two heads.

  “I’ll explain later, just hurry up and be quiet.” I yank his arm, and with a shrug of his shoulders, he falls into step beside me.

  Throwing open the diner doors, I spot Brianne several yards ahead, turning into the alley that leads back to school. We trail behind her, me pulling Ryan down with me to duck every time it looks like she might turn around—but I’m only being paranoid. She couldn’t be less aware of our presence, crying as she stalks through the alley. Every few moments she lets out a wail of fury, like some kind of wounded animal, and Ryan gives me an indignant look.

  “Shouldn’t we go help her?” he hisses in my ear. “What the hell are we doing?”

  I hold my finger up to silence him as Brianne comes to a halt in front of the Dumpster. She stares from the phone in her hand to the Dumpster before her—and then hurls the phone with all her might, before breaking into a run.

  As soon as she’s disappeared from view, I turn to Ryan.

  “You said you wanted to be friends, right? Well, now’s your chance. I need you to dumpster-dive and get me that phone.”

  In my cell, there’s only enough room for rumination. I lie on the cold metal floor, forgoing the lumpy yellow cot in favor of something that more closely matches my pathetic state. The girl with the scar, stuck behind bars. No more music, no more future on the Lincoln Center stage.

  “Chace,” I whisper, angry tears springing to my eyes. “You said you chose me, that you weren’t going anywhere till I was okay. So where are you now?”

  The sound of skidding footsteps reverberates through the metal floor and stone walls. I sit up.

  “Mrs. Porter, you can’t just—”

  This is my chance. I rush forward, flinging myself at the bars of my cell.

  “Mrs. Porter!” I cry.

  Chace’s mother freezes in place. She stares straight ahead, pretending she didn’t hear me, and my heart sinks. But then she turns sharply on her heels, marching to my cell.

  “You’ve got the wrong person!” I cry out. “I didn’t do it, they’re setting me up—I loved your son, I would never—”

  My voice falters as she stops right in front me, her features contorted with rage. She slaps her palms around the bars, covering my hands with hers, digging her sharp fingernails into my skin.

  “Was this your idea of revenge?” she hisses.

  “What? I told you, I’m innocent!”

  She tightens her grip on me.

  “Don’t you dare lie to me any longer.”

  That voice. Once again, the sound of it gives me a prickly feeling of familiarity; it sends a wave of dread through me. I can hear that cold voice murmuring something else in my ear, as she stood over
my hospital bed.

  “Stay away from my son.”

  The fog lifts, and at last I remember. I remember that night.

  And I know we’ve met before.

  “Mrs. Porter!”

  A guard jumps between the two of us, prying her away from me.

  “We understand you’re upset, but accosting the suspect is not acceptable—”

  “She murdered my son!” Mrs. Porter shouts. “I can do whatever I want!”

  I stumble backward, retreating into my cell as the guard leads her away. I slide down against the wall, leaning my head against the cool stone and letting the flood of memory wash over me.

  MAY 31, 2016

  JUNIOR YEAR

  At first I think I must be dreaming when Lana approaches me at lunch, smiling like her old self. It’s been almost three weeks since we shared a table in the Dining Hall or said so much as a word to each other. She managed to convince Headmaster Higgins to change her dorm assignment in record time—I can’t imagine what she had to have said about me to finagle that one—and from the moment I walked into our room and found every trace of her gone, I assumed there would be no forgiveness. Is it possible…could I have been wrong?

  “Lana.” I stand up from my new lunch table, which Brianne was nice enough to let me rejoin.

  “Hi. Can we talk?”

  “Of course!” I start to make room for her on the bench, but she shakes her head.

  “Not here.”

  “Oh, yeah. Duh.”

  While our classmates have caught on to the rift between me and Lana, no one has a clue what it’s about. Chace and I kept our promise. As far as the public knows, the two of them are still an item, and he’s never looked at me twice. It’s no wonder she wouldn’t want us rehashing things within earshot of Brianne and the rest of orchestra.

  “I’ll see you in class,” I tell Brianne, bending down to give her a quick hug.

  She gives me a disapproving look as I join Lana, and I feel a pang of guilt. I’d hate for her to think I’m blowing her off now that Lana’s talking to me again—but I also can’t miss this chance to make things right.