Part 2 (2/2)

”I can't believe this restaurant doesn't have a valet,” Hunter said as he parallel parked his gorgeous Bentley on a side street in the town of Easton. A couple inches of snow had fallen earlier that day, which made it harder to see the lines, and I felt for him. Parallel parking was so stressful. Doing it on a first date couldn't be easy. ”But it shouldn't be too far to walk.” ”Be lieve me, I don't mind,” I told him. Where I came from a fancy dinner out meant not wearing jeans to the Steak & Ale. Yet here I was, decked out in thousands of dollars' worth of couture, with a guy wearing a cashmere coat and leather gloves, looking like a movie star behind the wheel. Walking a couple blocks to the restaurant was not going to kill me.

”No, no. I'll get that,” Hunter said, stopping me as I reached for the car door. I giggled to myself as he got out, strolled around the front of the car, and opened my door for me. Noelle said it all the time and I was starting to agree with her--there was no subst.i.tute for good breed ing. He offered his hand, which I took--as awkward as it felt--and helped me out of the car.

”This is my favorite restaurant in town. It's not easy to get a reservation here, but they always save a table for me,” Hunter said as he used his remote to lock his car. ”Must be nice,” I said as we turned up the sidewalk. ”It is,” he replied with a smile. We walked carefully, avoiding patches of ice on the freshly shoveled walkway. I felt like I should be making conversation, but I was at a loss for the moment. The silence was just starting to feel awkward when we came around the corner onto Main Street and half a dozen flashbulbs flashed across the street.

”Oh, you have to be kidding me,” Hunter groused. He ducked into the doorway of a chil dren's clothing boutique, which had already closed down for the night, and pressed his back to the brick wall. ”What? What's going on?” I asked, looking up. ”Get in here!” he hissed. I did as I was told, hopping up the one step and huddling next to him. ”What is it?” I asked. ”Pa parazzi,” Hunter said through his teeth. ”c.r.a.p. Someone must have tipped them off that I was going out tonight. You date one socialite...” ”Seriously? You're actually being stalked by the paparazzi?” I asked. ”Must be a slow news week for them to come all the way up to Connecti cut,” Hunter said, then cursed under his breath. ”My dad warned me about this. He said they were going to want to get pictures of whoever I dated after the heiress.”

”Which would be me,” I said, trying to make this sink in. ”Which would be you,” Hunter agreed. ”Are they coming over here?” Okay. This was surreal. I was being stalked by the pa parazzi on a date. If the shallow chicks back home could see me now. Well, maybe they would when they opened next week's Us Weekly. Weird. ”Reed! Are they coming over here?”

Hunter sounded desperate. I peeked around the corner. The four photogs were still hanging out across the street, probably waiting for our next move. ”They look like they're staying put.”

”Yeah, until I come out. I'm going to kill whoever did this,” Hunter said. ”Well, why don't we get rid of them? ” I asked. Hunter scoffed. ”No offense, Reed, but how? You have no idea what kind of people you're dealing with.”

I glanced down at the pile of snow that had been shoveled up against the wall of the shop. The idea was so basic, but so deliciously evil at the same time. ”Maybe not. But I do know that no one likes a face full of icy s...o...b..ll. Also, water is really bad for cameras.” Hunter fol lowed my gaze and smiled wickedly. ”I like the way you think.” I crouched to the ground in the black designer coat I had borrowed from Shelby, and Hunter followed my lead. Together we dragged as much snow into our little alcove as possible, remaining hidden from the photogra phers, thanks to the cars and SUVs parked all up and down the street. Quickly, silently, we cobbled together as many s...o...b..a.l.l.s as we could. When we'd used up all the snow, I gath ered a few b.a.l.l.s in my arms and stood, pressing back against the wall again. ”What's the plan?” Hunter asked, his eyes full of mischief. ”We fire at will until there's no ammo left, then make a break for the restaurant. Hopefully they'll be too disoriented to follow,” I whispered. ”I like it,” Hunter said. I felt a flutter of pride in my chest. Hunter Braden liked my idea. ”On the count of three,” I directed. ”One, two, three. Fire!”

Together the two of us jumped out of our hiding s.p.a.ce and launched our s...o...b..a.l.l.s. My first hit one of the cameras right in the lens, splattering all over its owner's face. Hunter didn't quite have my arm, but he managed to bean a couple of guys in the shoulder before we reloaded. There were a few desperate camera flashes while we grabbed more s...o...b..a.l.l.s, but when we came up again, we managed to smack two more guys directly in their faces. The cursing and sputtering across the way was utterly ridiculous, and Hunter and I laughed the en tire time. ”I'm out! Let's go!” Hunter shouted, grabbing my hand. We raced up the sidewalk, me teetering in my high heels, Hunter leading the way through klatches of moviegoers and couples walking off their dinners. Before long he was opening the door of the restaurant for me, and with a glance over my shoulder I saw that none of the photographers had followed. Our a.s.sault had done the trick.

”That was intense,” Hunter said, catching his breath just inside the door. He looked gor geous, all ruffled and ruddy-cheeked from the cold. So gorgeous I almost felt unworthy in his presence. ”That may have been the most fun I've had all week,” I replied with a grin. Hunter shrugged out of his coat and looked me up and down with a new admiration in his eyes. ”And we're just getting started.” Okay. This was going to be the best date ever.

NOT MY NIGHT.

Or not. After five minutes alone at the table with Hunter Braden, I couldn't for the life of me figure out how anyone had ever lasted more than five minutes alone at a table with Hunter Braden. Every other sentence out of his mouth started with the word I. He couldn't go for more than ten seconds without talking about himself, so if I was in the middle of a sentence, and more than ten seconds had gone by, he would interrupt me mid-syllable to tell me some thing super fascinating and totally out of context about him, like how he'd gone deep-sea div ing last summer or how he'd beaten the world chess champion when he was fifteen. But of course, no one knew about that, because Hunter didn't want to ruin the guy's life. Plus, he wasn't one to brag. Yeah, right. At least he was nice to look at. In a perfectly cut dark blue suit and striped tie, he looked completely at ease and comfortable, like he'd been born in formal wear. I was feeling quite sophisticated and s.e.xy as well, in all my couture. Not that Hunter had said a word about it or even appeared to notice. He did, however, check himself out in every reflective surface available, including the weathered silver platter that hung on the wall next to our table. No surprise, he always appeared pleased by his own reflection. I had thought he was so cool when he'd gone for the snow war idea. But clearly that had just been a means to an end to him. I had helped him stay out of the tabloids for another day. And come to think of it, he hadn't even thanked me for it.

The restaurant was a tiny French bistro with only six tables and twice as many waiters. I tried to orchestrate a short evening by skipping the appetizers and going straight for the en tree, but Hunter--shockingly--didn't take my cue. He ordered a salad and an appetizer, then sat there and ate it in front of me while my stomach growled audibly and I sipped my ice wa ter. I was going to have to kill Vienna later. Or, possibly, eat her.

”So I'm definitely getting into Columbia early admission and my father has already put the down payment on the apartment I picked out,” Hunter said as he nibbled on his foie gras. ”We start renovations over Christmas break, so it should be exactly the way I want it by fall.”

”Columbia. That's great,” I said, taking a stab at enthusiasm. ”How's the campus? I've always wanted to check it out.” ”Who cares? It's the only Ivy in New York,” Hunter replied with a shrug. He looked up and snapped his fingers, signaling a waiter to refill his winegla.s.s.

”There's no point in even looking at the others. I have to be in New York.” Oookay. ”Speaking of New York, I'm going down there next weekend,” I said, attempting to turn the conversation toward myself for a moment. ”We're going to hold the fund-raiser there.” ”What fund-raiser?”

he asked, taking a sip of his wine. ”The Billings fund-raiser,” I said, surprised. The whole Billings scandal had been all anyone could talk about for the past week. ”You know... how Headmaster Cromwell challenged us to raise five million dollars to save the--”

”Five million dollars,” Hunter scoffed. ”My apartment will be worth more than that once I'm done with the overhaul.” My jaw clenched and I found myself clutching my tiny purse under the table. G.o.d, I missed Josh. Even though he hated Billings, he would have at least listened to me. If we were still together, he'd be supporting me right now, helping me with ideas, at least letting me finish a d.a.m.n sentence. What I wouldn't give to go back in time and give preLegacy Reed a good slap across the face. If only I could tell her to take Josh up on his offer in the woods and just stay home that night. If only I could tell her not to go up to the roof at the Legacy. If only I could impress upon her what a nightmare that whole party would be.... No. I was not going to think about that. I was supposed to be on a mission here. Creating a new Reed. Unfortunately, I was starting to think that the new Reed was too good for the cur rent Hunter. ”I'm definitely going to create my own major,” Hunter was saying. ”Something not boring. Like water-sports marketing. I could definitely be a pioneer there. I know I--” That was it. I couldn't take it anymore. If I heard the word I one more time, I was going to break some thing. ”You really like talking about yourself, don't you?” I said. Hunter paused, looking at me across the table with interest for the first time all evening. For a moment I thought he was go ing to backtrack, to apologize, to ask me something about me. But then, he smirked, wiped his mouth with his linen napkin, and leaned his wrists on the table. ”If you were me, wouldn't you?” That was when I got up and walked out. I snagged my coat from the coat-check girl, told her to get her tip from the jacka.s.s with the permanent smirk, and headed into the cold night.

As soon as I was outside on the quaint Easton sidewalk, I tipped my head back and let out a groan, watching the cloud of steam from my breath disappear against the stars. I glanced around for lurking photographers, thinking I might tell them exactly where Hunter was and that I had just ditched him, but they were nowhere to be found. Oh, well. One thing was clear, how ever--it was time to take the search for the next boyfriend of the Billings president in a new di rection. 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 obsessing 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 approached 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 Park way, 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 pa.s.senger-side window. You have to be kidding me. ”Need a ride?” he asked. ”No. Thanks. I'm fine.” I started walking again, shakily. He inched forward. ”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 be sides, 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 s.h.i.+rt collar stuck out while the other was still tucked in. His brown eyes looked heavier than I remembered. Behind me, the station was fairly quiet, aside from the oc casional 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 relations.h.i.+p,” 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 lac ing 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 G.o.d's sake--the most important piece of evidence according to any of the ten billion police procedu ral 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 for ward. ”But I believe we owe it to the family to check out every lead.” Okay. Okay. So he didn't think it was a murder. Only her parents did. That was better, right? If the detective was uncon vinced?

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, s.h.i.+t. Oh, c.r.a.p; oh, c.r.a.p; oh, c.r.a.p. The room was no longer cold. Quite the opposite, actual ly. Was that the devil breathing down my neck? ”And we found something interesting in her email 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 night mare 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 eyebrows 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. Ignore 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 re lief. 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 incred ulous look. ”A girl blames you for her death and you don't think it's important?” ”No! Not like that,” I blurted, suddenly frustrated. ”Obviously I think it's important. It's practically all I think about, that she might have killed herself 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 go ing to know. And believe me, that is important 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 want ed 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. Mar tin'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?” Detec tive 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 soph.o.m.ores 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 murdered. 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 discov ered 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 Sat.u.r.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?” ”Awful,” 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 imme diately 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 implicated 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... kiss ing,” 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 furrowed. ”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 ly ing,” 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, G.o.d, let her be ly ing. 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 be tween 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 rea sons. 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 G.o.d. 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 grat ification 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? Be cause 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. Sorry,” 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-fas.h.i.+oned way. As Sabine settled in with a book, I Googled Ivy Slade. Luckily, it was not a common name. I got only thirty listings. The first, an obituary. Victo ria Slade, 89 Boston Socialite Was Groundbreaking Feminist I scrolled through the cached ar ticle 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 men tions 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 LakeSlade. 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 de cided it might be fun to bust into Grandma's house to s.n.a.t.c.h G.o.d knows what. That pair of Jack Kennedy's boxers the elder Ms. Slade is rumored to have tucked in her trousseau, per haps? Too bad the prodigal grandkid never noticed during all those Sunday teas that Grand ma had a state-of-the-art security system installed. Miss Slade was pinched, and we're all tick led 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 fab ulous 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 investi gate her in Cheyenne's death. Didn't a girl with a record--one who was so intimately connect ed 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 something 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 s.h.i.+ver 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 answered brightly, tossing her book aside. I took a deep breath and grabbed my deck of cards. Thank G.o.d there were still a few normal things to do around here. Maybe I should just leave the investigating of potential psychos to the cops.

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