“Seem?” I shrug. “She seemed fine.” I think of the fight in the cafeteria and how she watched it intently. But the detective isn’t asking about the Abbott boys, and I’d like to keep it that way. “She was with some of the other cheerleaders. Maybe you should talk to them.”
“Oh, we’re in the process of doing just that,” Detective Wilsonassures me. Unlike Chase, she remains standing, leaning a palm on the notepad splayed open near the edge of the desk. “Only so far, none of them have been able to tell us exactly what Miss Russo was doing in the woods.”
“Well, I don’t—I mean, I didn’t really talk to Kennedy much. Not since we were chemistry partners last year. Our teacher assigned the pairs.”
“I see,” Wilson says, jotting down notes in her pad. She then skirts the desk to approach my chair, carrying a Polaroid camera. “Would you mind if I take a look at your hands, Miss Phillips?”
She extends her own hand in demonstration, but I hesitate. “Are you sure this is routine?”
“Of course,” she says, though it doesn’t keep me from feeling like I’m a suspect.
“Is this—was Kennedy…?” Did Kennedy fight off her attacker? Are they looking for scratches? Blood or skin beneath my fingernails?
“There’s evidence of foul play,” Wilson says, “if that’s what you’re asking.”
My fists are still clenched in my lap. I know I have nothing to hide. Still, I ask, “Well, can you tell me why you need to see my hands?”
“Like this,” she says, ignoring my question and indicating that I hold both hands palm up.
I hold them both out, and she snaps a photo. When she gestures for me to turn my hands over, I do, and she snaps a second photo.
Before I can ask another question, Wilson says, “So you weren’tfriends with Kennedy. We heard you do have some good friends at the school, though. The Abbott triplets?”
My heart shoots up into my throat. “Yes,” I force over the lump. “Why are you asking about them?” But I know exactly why she’s asking. My fists curl in my lap as I ready myself to defend the Abbotts.
“Were any of them particularly friendly with Miss Russo?” Wilson asks, ignoring my question.
“No,” I say more sharply than intended. “If anything, they stay far away from the Russo family.”
The detectives exchange another look, surprise in this one, and I know I’ve said too much. “Why is that?” Chase asks. “Wasn’t it Dr. Arnold Russo who handled Adam Abbott’s surgery last year?”
I wring my hands now, wishing for a way out of here. “Yes, he was.” Dr. Russo also organized a group of parents in petitioning the school board to have the Abbott boys expelled. It made no sense, since the boys were never charged with anything. But rather than add to the spectacle by fighting those parents, Mr. and Mrs. Abbott had the boys finish out the year through independent study.
“I didn’t mean they stay away from the Russo family,” I attempt to clarify. “I just meant that after everything last year, they’re trying to keep…healthcare visits and bills to a minimum.” I cringe at the terrible but necessary lie and then wonder if I can go down for perjury based on thiscasualinterview.
“Mmhmm,” Wilson says, tone unconvinced. “So there was nofriendship—no relationship of any kind between any of the Abbott brothers and Miss Russo?”
“No—er, not that I’m aware of, at least.”
“Miss Phillips, are you familiar with a blue sweatshirt that each of the Abbott brothers owned?”
I nod, my skin starting to prickle. This is about that rumor I read on Instagram. Kacey said she’d gone to the cops already. “I had them made for the triplets. They were Christmas presents.” But it seems pretty obvious the detectives already know this.
“And did you see if any of the brothers were wearing the sweatshirt yesterday?”
I clench my teeth, not wanting to answer. “Yes, but you have to know something about the kids at this school—”
“Just, stick to answering the question, Miss Phillips,” Chase says. “Did you see any of the brothers wearing the blue sweatshirt with the letterAon the back yesterday?”
“They wereallwearing it,” I say, throwing up a hand. “But it doesn’t mean anything.”
“Miss Phillips, I’d like to show you something,” Wilson says, turning a laptop around on the desk to face me. She hits a button, and a video starts to play.
I watch for a moment. The image is grainy, but I can still make out Kennedy’s long red hair and pink sweater as she walks through the grass behind the school. Instead of following her classmates to the right—in the direction of the playing fields—Kennedy scans the area before darting off to the left. She disappears behind the cornerof the building. There are only two destinations off-screen in that direction: One, the parking lot, had she continued along that path that lines the building. And two, the woods, a straight shot ahead.
The video doesn’t end there, though. For a split second, Kennedy’s hand darts back into the frame to motion someone forward. In the direction of the woods.
And then it happens. A figure in a dark blue sweatshirt—hood drawn to cover its owner’s head, the white letterAlike a beacon on the murky screen—follows right behind her.
