Private 8 - Revelation (3 page)

Answer? No.

I placed the disc along the edge of my desk and lifted my fist.

Noelle stepped forward. "What are you--"

But she was too late. I brought my hand down on the side that was hanging over the edge of the desk. The thing split right in half with a satisfying crack.

"Huh. I can't believe that worked," I said. I turned and Frisbeed the two halves at Noelle's feet. "There you go. There's your precious disc."

Everyone just stared down at the broken pieces.

"That's fine," Noelle said finally. "They'll send me a new one." She checked her watch. "Reed, you have thirty-three minutes."

She slammed the door on her way out, and everyone let out a breath. Astrid dropped to the ground to pick up the pieces of the disc. "How bad was it, really?" she asked me, her dark eyes nervous as she held up the remnants.

"I really only looked at mine, but it was bad," I told her. "It listed my parents' income, how much I made last summer, all my exes.... There was even stuff on my brother on there."

"Scary," Astrid said, launching the pieces into Sabine's plastic garbage can.

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"Do you really think she can just get another one?" Sabine asked.

"Probably," I said with a shrug. "But you guys are all pretty normal," I joked. "You have nothing to worry about, right?"

"Right," they all chorused, looking at one another in a snagged way.

Then we all cracked up laughing. I couldn't imagine that the secrets in their files were anything all that awful. Maybe to them they were, but considering some of the secrets people like Ariana and Cheyenne had kept, how bad could they be?

"Come on. You heard her," I said flatly. "We only have thirty-three minutes."

"I can't believe this is really happening," Sabine said, getting back to work. She shook her long black hair back from her shoulders and her ever-present shell earrings clicked and swung. "Maybe I can put in for a transfer!" she said excitedly. "We can room together in Pemberly." I was touched at the offer. Clearly Sabine cared more about me than Billings, which was unprecedented. But I couldn't do that to her.

"You heard what Noelle said. It's a single," I told her. "There's no way we'd ever fit. But thanks for the offer."

Sabine's face fell. "Well, then, we should just talk to everyone. Get them to vote again..."

"No. I don't want to be all 'pathetic and whiny about it,'" I said, quoting Noelle.

"You're right," Astrid said, shoving a throw pillow into the now bulging garbage bag. "Chin up. Screw her. That's the only way to deal with this."

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"Maybe if you just go and live in Pemberly for a while she'll cool down," Constance suggested, chewing on her bottom lip. "Maybe... I don't know... maybe they'll all come around."

Pemberly. The very thought of the old, gray dorm with its tiny little windows, paint-chipped door, and ancient, abused furniture made my skin crawl. I wasn't meant for Pemberly. I was meant for Billings.

But I couldn't argue with Constance's logic. I might be better off trying to fix this thing from afar.

"This is so unfair," Sabine said. "You are Billings."

The words hung in the air like a funeral dirge. They all looked at me mournfully and I felt as if my heart was breaking. From my angle I could still see the two halves of the broken disc shining in the garbage can. "Not anymore," I said.

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NEIGHBORS

The Pemberly single was one of the most depressing things I'd ever seen. The old wood floors were scratched and gouged, and a crusty stain seeped out from beneath the single bed. All the old, dingy furniture was shoved up against the walls--bed to my left, desk straight across, dresser to my right--leaving just enough space in the center of the room to walk through. Above the bed was one tall, skinny window with peeling paint all around the pane, and the whole thing looked like it might fall off if I tried to open it. I turned to check out the closet right next to the door. It was one-tenth the size of the one in Billings and closed over by a folding accordion door in faux wood.Compared to my room in Billings, this was a prison cell--a really, really cold prison cell. Maybe the Crom should use some of that five mil to renovate Pemberly. These girls' parents were paying ridiculous amounts of money for them to live like inmates.

I shoved open the closet's accordion door, which instantly came

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off its top runner, and threw my bags inside on the floor. A dust bunny skittered across the room and I felt tears well up in my eyes. How had this happened? I had made one mistake. One big mistake, but still. That meant my whole life was over?

Okay. No crying. No crying allowed. I will not let Noelle get the better of me.I sat down on the bed, which creaked loudly beneath my weight, and pulled my coat closer to me, wondering if the heater was working at all or if I'd have to complain to maintenance tomorrow. Through the open door I could hear laughter and music and voices from down the hall. Unfamiliar sounds. Unfamiliar people. And suddenly I was overcome with grief. I missed my room. I missed the space and the cleanliness and the private, connected bathroom. I missed my view and my closet and the frosted lights in the ceiling and the warmth. And I missed Sabine. I missed everyone, actually. Even though they had turned on me--maybe because they had turned on me--I missed them so much it hurt. Couldn't they have at least given me a chance to explain? Couldn't they have given me a chance to win them back?

I pulled my knees up under my chin and was about to give in to tears when I stopped myself and stood up.

"No. I am not going to cry," I said under my breath, splaying my fingers out at my sides. "No crying allowed."

Instead, I turned and snatched up the pink sheet of paper that was propped up on something in the center of the desk. The words PEMBERLY HALL RULES AND REGULATIONS were printed at the top above a list

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of ten items. Rules and regulations. Yes. I could distract myself with this for about ten seconds. I was just about to start reading when I noticed the items that had been propping up the page. Both my hand and the paper fell.

A small white place card with my name handwritten in pink calligraphy sat in the center of the desk. It was my place card from Cheyenne's last official meeting as president of Billings. And in front of that was a tiny velvet bag with pills spilling out of it. White pills with a blue dot design. The pills that Cheyenne had OD'd on. No--the pills that someone had used to kill her.

I staggered back a few steps and slammed into the bit of wall between the closet and the doorway. Pain radiated up my spine, but I barely felt it. My heart was going ballistic, pounding in my ears. Who had done this? And what did it mean? Did it mean I was next? Cheyenne had died the night she was kicked out of Easton. I had just been kicked out of Billings. Had the person who had killed Cheyenne left these here for me as a warning? Did this mean I was going to die? Tonight? I wildly checked the room as if someone was going to pop out of nowhere horror-movie style, but there was nowhere for anyone to hide. Still, my mind reeled as I clutched the pink paper in my sweaty palm. No one had known I was moving into Pemberly aside from the Billings Girls. Had someone in my old dorm left these here for me? And if so, who? Why? Why was this happening? Why couldn't whoever was doing these things just leave me alone?

"Well, well. Look who's slumming it."

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A cold chill raced through me. I whirled around to find Ivy Slade leaning against my open doorway, a satisfied smirk on her witchy face. Instinctively, I backed up until I was blocking her view of the place card and pills. The very sight of her on top of what I'd just found was not good. I suddenly felt light-headed and had to clutch the desk chair behind me to keep from trembling.

"I am just so psyched we're going to be neighbors!" Ivy said with false exuberance.

"What... what're you talking about?" I said, somehow finding my voice.

Ivy took a couple of steps into the room, which left about three feet between us. At least she was toothpick-thin in her skinny jeans and flowy black top, so she didn't take up much room. As I stood there paralyzed, she looked around, her raven ponytail swinging.

"All year I've been pissed off that there was an empty single next door," she said. "I asked Cromwell to let me have it, like, a dozen times, but he refused." She paused and her black- eyed gaze flicked over me. "Maybe he knew all along that you'd end up here."

Inside, I fumed at the comment, but I couldn't seem to find a comeback nestled among my paranoia and confusion and fear. "Actually, now that I see it, I'm glad he didn't give it to me," she said, wrinkling her nose. "It looks like no one's cleaned this place in forever. And what's that smell? " She sniffed and looked me in the eye, her own as black as pitch. "It smells like something died in here."

I almost choked on my own tongue.

Died. Died, died, died. Her eyes continued to bore into mine. Was

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it her? Had she left the pills? Was Ivy Slade going to try to kill me just like she'd killed Cheyenne?

"Well, sweet dreams!" she said merrily.

Then she turned and strode out of the room, giving me one last amused look before slamming the door behind her. I couldn't move. Could hardly even breathe. About two seconds later, loud rock music shook the wall right next to my new bed. The bitch lived right next door. Right. Next. Door. The girl who had committed herself to making my life a living hell. The girl who had snagged the love of my life. The girl who might have just subtly threatened to murder me. Right. Next. Door.

Spurred by a sudden rush of fear-tinged adrenaline, I grabbed my desk chair and shoved it under the doorknob as I had seen done in so many movies. Then I backed away, wiping my sweaty palms together, wondering if there was anything else I could do to protect myself. Even if I was wrong--even if Ivy hadn't just threatened me and her comment had been a coincidental insult--there was still a killer on campus. A killer who had just left their murder weapon in my room. There was no way I was going to sleep tonight. No way in hell. Why was this happening to me? Why couldn't I be safely tucked into my bed in Billings right now, with Sabine just a few feet away? There was safety in numbers, right? And suddenly, I was completely alone.

Finally, the unfairness of it all overcame me. The sadistic unfairness of it all. I sat down on the cold floor, my back up against the

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side of my bed. Ivy's loud, angry music jolted my senses and forced the tears right out of me. I pulled my knees up and buried my face between them, clinging to my legs with both arms as I sobbed. At least with the music on, Ivy couldn't hear me. At least she wouldn't know that she'd won.

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***

As predicted, there was no sleep that night. Earlier I had sneaked out of the room for all of one minute to flush the pills and the place card in one of the toilets in the communal bathroom (after all, if the police were going to be investigating a murder, I didn't want to be caught with the cause of death), but they still haunted me. Every noise I heard--every creak, every whistle of wind, every footfall--brought my heart to a screeching halt and my eyes to the door. And between these excruciating moments, there were too many thoughts swirling in my mind. Too many humiliating memories popping up to replay themselves and make my heart and stomach clench. Too much to regret. Too much to wish away.

I wished I had never started e-mailing with Dash at the beginning of the school year.

I wished I hadn't had all those drinks at the Legacy.

I wished I had never gone up on that roof. 32

I wished Josh had never found us.

I wished I had told Noelle the truth from the beginning.

I wished I had seen Ivy taking that stupid video so that I could have bitch-slapped her right then and there and nipped this whole thing in the bud.

I pulled my pillow over my face and groaned into it. At that moment Ivy's laugh, clear as day, filled my room. I tossed the pillow aside. It wasn't just that the walls in Pemberly were paper thin--which they were--but there was a vent right beneath my bed, through which I could hear almost everything Ivy and her roommate, Jillian Crane, said to each other. At least, that is, when they were being loud and I was listening. I glanced at the clock on my desk. It was after midnight. What the hell was Ivy laughing about over there?

Her laugh was followed by a giggle and some quietly murmured words. My hands curled into fists. I recognized that tone. She was talking to a guy. Flirting. And not with just any guy--with my guy. Josh was, right now, whispering sweet nothings to cold, evil Ivy.

Suddenly filled with ire, I flung my covers aside and sat up straight. It was still frigid in the room, so I had worn sweatpants, a turtleneck, and a sweatshirt to bed, along with some thick socks, which now protected my feet from the icy floor as I paced in a teeny, tiny circle. I had to think. I had to figure this out once and for all. Several lives might depend on it, including my own.

Okay. Deep breath. Think. What do I actually know?

First, according to the police, Cheyenne was definitely murdered. So what did this mean exactly? It meant the suicide note had 33

been faked. It meant that both suicide notes had been faked. I stopped in my tracks, suddenly seeing it all with a cold clarity. The night she died, Cheyenne hadn't sent me that haunting "Ignore the note. You did this" e-mail. She hadn't blamed me for her death. Because she hadn't intended to die at all. Whoever had sent me that e-mail was the murderer. For some reason, the murderer had wanted me to feel responsible for Cheyenne's death.

Instantly, this bizarre feeling of relief overcame me. For months I had been walking around feeling guilty, thinking that Cheyenne's last thoughts before she killed herself had been of me. Thinking that she had gone to her grave cursing me. But it wasn't true. None of it was true. Cheyenne hadn't blamed me. The very thought was like a huge boulder being lifted off my shoulders.

But of course the relief was short-lived, replaced instantly by a new and intense fear. Did this mean that my stalker was also the murderer? It made sense. The murderer had sent the e-mail, then backed it up by leaving all of these things around to remind me of Cheyenne. To torture me. To make me feel even more guilty. The pills and the place card weren't the only thing the murderer had left for me. There had been the Billings black balls, Cheyenne's pink sweater, her perfume, and all those other awful things.