Alice in Wonderland High (18 page)

“I need to get inside.” I jutted my chin toward the entrance.

“Did you try knocking?” He tapped the air with his knuckle and clucked his tongue for the sound effect.

I ran a hand over my brow. “That wouldn't make sense.”

He lifted his finger in an
aha
gesture. “There might be some sense in knocking, if for example I were inside and you weren't. Or you didn't bring the keys.”

I jingled my pocket for proof. “Keys, yes. Courage, no.”

“Then you could always sit on the steps until tomorrow. Someone's bound to let you in then.”

I gave him a dirty look. I knew what he was getting at. Why would I call him when there were other ways to get inside without him? “I need to find evidence about something, and I kind of chickened out when I tried to do it alone.”

“And you naturally thought of inviting me? I'm flattered.”

“Would you be offended if I said you were my last resort?”

“If I weren't your last resort, I'd think this was a trap.” He set down the messenger bag and squatted in front of it, his eyes level with mine. “What kind of evidence?”

I might have been stupid for wanting to break into the town hall, but I wasn't stupid enough to tell Kingston my secrets. “You tell me what you're after first.”

“Fair enough. It's probably better if we don't know. This way, we won't get in each other's way.” He pulled out a flashlight and twisted the cap. He pointed the beam at my eyes, forcing me to squint. “Though, if you're trying to prove the township has been brainwashing us with subliminal messages, don't waste your time.” He turned the flashlight to his own face, scary-story style. “I've recorded and analyzed every school announcement. They're clean.”

“Good to know.”

He moved the flashlight away from his face. “Where's yours?”

I outstretched my empty palms. “Um, nonexistent.”

He smirked and tapped the side of his head with the tip of his flashlight. “Good thing you brought me, then.” He handed the flashlight to me and grabbed a second out of his bag.

It was almost sweet that he'd thought of me. Almost. Because really it meant he thought I was too incompetent to do this on my own, which—come to think of it—might have been true. But there was no way I'd ever admit out loud how much I needed him.

Though calling him at three
A.M.
probably sent the message pretty well.

He glanced back at me as he climbed the steps and offered his hand. I refused to show any more weakness. I forced my legs to submit to my commands while my hands took over nerve duty.

“You aim the flashlight. I'll take care of the cameras.” He flashed me a smile more evil than comforting.

“You said you didn't bring a camera!” The flashlight rattled in my hand.

“Not
my
camera. The security ones, dumbass.” He extracted a can of black spray paint from his bag and shook it like a maraca. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”

I swallowed hard. “Kingston . . . I don't know.”

“You don't know much. And that's a fact.” He turned back to me, his eyes sweeping over my rattling hand and defensive posture. “We're not going to get caught.” He invaded my personal space, body heat radiating. His voice went soft. “Not with me here, anyway. Chill.” He squeezed my shoulder. I flinched and he snapped his hand away.

He pulled on the string of his hoodie, constricting it tighter so only his eyes were visible. Extracting sunglasses from his bag, he concealed those too. “Nerves are for convicts.” He reached into my pocket and dug around for my keys.

By the time my reflexes kicked in and I swatted his hand away, he'd yanked the keys free of their vault.

The keys jangled in his hands. “Stay there. Let me get the other cameras first.”

Cement surrounded my feet, holding me down in this spot. I didn't even let my chest swell with breath. My pulse slammed into my neck. Paint fumes wafted to my nose, and the steady spraying of the can drowned out the pulsing in my ears. Kingston rushed through the darkened hallways, flashlight pointed forward. He attacked the security cameras with the paint like an Old West battle, spreading art instead of gunfire. So much for slipping in unnoticed.

He disappeared into one of the far rooms for more than five excruciating minutes. Just when I was working up the courage to check what was happening, I heard a loud noise, like computers shutting down, and then the whirring stopped altogether. Kingston strutted back to me, removing his sunglasses.

“What was that?”

He ignored me, pivoting on his heels to face the reception desk. He dragged the spray paint across it, swirling blurry letters on the mahogany wood.

“What are you doing?!” I rushed forward, panic rising.

“Might as well leave them a thanks while I'm here.”

I grabbed his arm, interrupting a letter and sending the spray paint onto the top of the desk, blackening some typed papers that were stacked in a neat pile. He shook me off. “The file room's the last door on the left. You can start if you want.”

I reached again, but he raised his arm in the air. Horrible déjà vu came over me. Lost games of monkey-in-the-middle, me racing back and forth while the taller girls kept the ball away. I braced my hands against his side and pushed. He didn't even flinch, just wrapped his free hand around my body, pressing me closer to his in a death grip. He actually smelled kind of good, if you ignored the cigarette scent masking the floral aroma. In any other circumstance the gesture might have been romantic, but being enemies and watching him vandalize my sister's workplace kind of put a damper on that. Also, he was Kingston.

“You gotta stop that. This will only take a sec. Shine that over here.”

“Right, because holding me hostage is going to get me to obey you.” I switched my flashlight off.

He blindly aimed the graffiti. When he finished, he set down the spray paint and turned on his flashlight so I could read. So considerate.

I know what you did.

“What is this, a horror movie?”

“It's only half the message. I hope I can add ‘
and I can prove it
' later.”

“Like you proved all your other conspiracy theories?”

“Correction: I disproved them.” He started for the file room.

I didn't point out that they were clearly strange and false to begin with. Probably similar to whatever reason he had for being here tonight. Still, I trotted after him like a puppy dog. The sweat that had been clinging to my body started to freeze, and I knew I wasn't that skilled in the art of staying cool. “What did you do to the heat?”

“Nothing. They must have it on automatic.” He yanked open the file-room door.

How did I ever think I could accomplish this alone? I'd have been caught on fifty security cameras and turned on all the lights within the first fifteen seconds.

The file room contained rows of file cabinets protected with locks, but they might as well have been spells because I couldn't crack them. I went around and tugged on each drawer, coming up with nothing but a strained muscle.

“Hey, genius.” Kingston jangled Lorina's keys and jammed one into a lock.

It's a sad day when you realize someone like Kingston might be smarter than you.

The drawer slid open with ease. Too much ease. In fact, this whole operation was too easy, thwarted only by my nerves and not, you know, the police. Things were never this easy . . . unless people were overlooking something.

I joined him at the drawer and set my flashlight on top. A beam of light flooded the ceiling and illuminated the room. My fingers bypassed folders with labels that didn't seem helpful.
Echolls case. Catalano file, one of two.

“You're going too fast,” he snapped.

I slowed my stenographer fingers. “It's hard when I don't know what you're looking for.” Sleuthing with the enemy? Not the best method for productivity.

He lifted one folder. “Hey, these are dated.” He stuffed the folder back into its spot. “June two thousand ten. I don't need this stuff.”

I pushed the drawer shut. “Next.”

He opened the next drawer and checked a file. “May two thousand ten?” He made a face. “I don't like things that begin with M.”

“I agree with you on that.” After all, murder began with an M. As did menstrual cramps. “If this is all two thousand ten, then I don't need this entire cabinet.”

He slammed it shut. “I knew that cabinet looked suspicious. It was giving me the stink eye.” He grabbed my flashlight and brought it over to a cabinet a few down from the first. “What date are you looking for?”

I fiddled with the zipper of my hoodie. “Um . . . like April two thousand twelve. Give or take. You?”

He eyed me. “Now you're the suspicious one.”

“Why?”

“Give or take the same date.” He broke eye contact and twisted the key in the next drawer. “I'm curious what you're looking for.”

“And you weren't before? Told you I had a reason to be in the group.” I picked up a file and checked it. “Right cabinet, wrong date.”

“I did wonder what could possibly make a squeaky-clean girl like you sneak out in the middle of the night and attempt to enter the ranks of criminals.”

Attempt?

He opened the next drawer.

“And I wondered what could make you put someone else before yourself.”

“Are you calling me selfish?” He yanked the drawer open hard, and a few files flew to the floor.

“It was the blackmail that clued me in.”

“You think I'm selfish. That's . . . ” He fanned himself with the files. “Awesome. Quite a compliment, actually. Normally I hear the entire thesaurus worth of synonyms for
loco
. I've been working hard to make people think otherwise.”

“Well, there's a fine line between assault and flattery.” I bent and scooped up the files, then paused before I stood up. This was weird. Even if Kingston and I had the same goal, we shouldn't be working toward it or acting civil to one another. Even weirder? I was having fun teasing him. I was sure if I got caught they'd skip jail and send me right to the psych ward. Guile, interrupted.

My eyes caught the numbered stickers on the side of the file. “This is it.”

“Way ahead of you.” Kingston snatched up a large stack of files. He lifted one knee onto a chair and balanced the files on his lap, furiously flipping through them.

I opened the first folder in my hands. My eyes roamed over some sort of soil-analysis report. I placed that folder beneath the others.

Outside the room, something crashed. I jumped, heart going frantic.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, growing louder as they approached our room.

The footsteps outside triggered fight-or-flight mode. Apparently, I chose the same path as most deer when faced with an oncoming car. Fight. Or more accurately, freeze, since I certainly didn't choose flee. Kingston clicked the flashlight off and tugged me into a standing position. On wobbly legs, I managed to follow him, knocking into a table in the process.

“Shh!” he whispered.

My hip throbbed where I'd smacked it, but I bit my lip to keep from crying out. We squeezed behind a desk and crouched down, pressed between the wall and the chair. My leg muscles strained from the squatting position. I tried to readjust, but Kingston slapped a hand on my shoulder and steadied me. The folders in my hand cut into my skin.

The footsteps in the hallway grew louder.

My body betrayed me, erupting in tiny earthquakes of convulsions when all I wanted was to be taxidermied into this very position, like a trophy moose mounted on the wall. Kingston snaked his arm around me and pulled me to his chest to muffle me. His heart competed with mine for the quickest to have an attack.

The footsteps entered the room.

I sucked in a diver's breath. The blaze in my chest could ignite a whole forest. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the eerie darkness, I could make out the faint outline of shoes on the opposite side of the desk. They paused, one pointed toward us. Kingston squeezed my arm.

My lungs ached and I leaked a trickle of air through my lips, eyes squeezed shut because I knew how this would end. I'd get caught and arrested, and would never be unfashionable again because all I'd ever wear would be an orange jumpsuit like everyone else in jail.

The footsteps pivoted and headed to the open file-cabinet drawer. Papers rustled as whoever it was shuffled through them.

Kingston and I exchanged glances. Someone else arriving at three
A.M.
on a random day to sift through the same files as us? That couldn't be a coincidence.

The mystery person slammed the drawer shut, making my teeth clatter. Heart racing, breath desperate, I waited once again for my sentence. This time the footsteps grew softer, and then the door to the room banged shut.

I let out a breath and started to rise, but Kingston held me back with a shake of the head.

He flipped open his cell phone and set it on his lap, a makeshift, less-obvious source of light.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

He texted so I could read:
Shh. Coast = not clear. Not wasting time just in case.

He opened the top file on his lap and started perusing. My hands were so clammy they could lubricate a desert, but I followed suit, if only to distract myself from the inevitable end to my freedom. Being grounded actually seemed tempting.

The file on my lap was bulky with papers. I slid the top page off and held it up to the light, leaving the rest of the open folder balanced on my lap. It looked like a phone transcript. All the names of the speakers and phone numbers had been blacked out, as well as some of the lines of dialogue. My eyes immediately fell to my parents' names, like a beacon, halfway down the page in the dialogue.

The pages trembled in my shaky hands. Kingston glanced over at me.