The stylist was nice. Incredibly chatty and constantly trying to dig for information, but I remained tight-lipped. Not about to give away a thing. She fixed my hair like a miracle worker, the color now a soft, butter yellow she called “trust fund blond,” instead of brassy streaks of orange and gold—like a stray ginger cat I once fed.
“You look just like Carolyn Kennedy,” she told me as weboth stared into the mirror to check out the results, her hands on my shoulders making me uncomfortable. I don’t like it when strangers touch me.
I don’t like it when anybody touches me.
Other than JFK and Jackie O, I can’t tell one rich, beautiful Kennedy from another. But I put on Belinda’s voice and said, “Carolyn! I was thinking the same thing.” The stylist beamed a too-white smile at me through the mirror.
My phone buzzes, and I check it to find another notification from Peter.
Peter Vale:
Read the dossier.
Dossier. Called it. Snobs are so predictable. I scowl at the folder already open in my lap.
Me:
Doyou mean all those papers you gave me? Sure. I’ll read them soon.
I’m lying. I read as much as I could before the road turned into nothing but nausea-inducing curves. I can’t imagine why knowing the history of Wickham Academy is pertinent info when my goal is finding out who tried to unalive my sister, but maybe knowing this stuff is second nature to the students here. It’s ABCs and 123s for us public school kids, while it’s family trees stretching back to Queen Elizabeth I and obscure histories of private schools for kids to the manor born.
Whatever.
If Belinda needs to know that Wickham was founded in 1879 by the families of a few Harrow School dropouts whose sons kept getting “sent down” for misbehavior, so be it. My takeaway? Wickham Academy has always been a safe haven for kids whose families have too much money and way toomuch privilege.
Though to be fair, an article in the dossier claims the current headmaster, Percy Harrington, has donethe mostto solidify Wickham’s reputation as “an institution for rigorous academic excellence.” I guess being infamous for sheltering the children of the rich and lazy isn’t good for long-term endowment.
My stomach twists as we take another hairpin turn, and I wrap one arm across my waist. How am I going to pull this off? I have no idea how to act like some fancy rich person, and no amount of reading school histories is going to help with that.
For a moment, I want to fling open the door and jump out of the car. No need to even slow down. The urge to run away is so strong, even a broken leg sounds appealing. At least I could get a room alongside Isla to recover in. But just thinking her name, remembering her helpless body in the hospital, has me squaring my shoulders.
Determination fills me, and I take a deep breath, holding it for a second before I exhale. I need to remain strong so I can figure out what happened and who might’ve done this to my little sister. The sweetest girl ever, who wouldn’t harm a soul.
I glance down at the most recent news article Peter included in the dossier. The headline reads MURDER-SUICIDE AT WICKHAM CLIFFS.
Two black-and-white pictures are framed on the left. One is Isla, smiling brightly with her blond hair in a thick ponytail, and the other is her best friend, Emily Wells, with dark hair cut just above her chin. I scan the article and frown. Nothing I haven’t read before since the night my father called, but still,seeing my sister’s name splashed throughout the article as an assumed murderer leaves a bitter coating on my tongue. The reporter claims police are investigating a theory that the two girls went up to a cliff near campus, got into a fight, and Isla pushed Emily. Isla allegedly jumped after her in an attempted suicide.
I read the whole article, though my stomach heaves at the words: “A source close to the investigation who asked to remain anonymous shared that the police had ruled out a suicide pact based on the position of Wells’s body. ‘She couldn’t have fallen as far as she did if she jumped. She was thrown or pushed, no question.’”
But I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.
Neither does Peter.
