4
The next morning, a knock at the door wakes me.
Last night, we learned that emergency personnel had pronounced Kennedy Russo dead at the scene. She was never even taken to the hospital. All after-school activities were canceled. School for today was canceled.
On the drive home yesterday, Bram kept saying he couldn’t be locked away again, the way he had been after Mariana’s death, when he and his brothers were forced to stay home from school to do independent study.
For months they’d had to avoid going into town until the rumors subsided.
They’d just come back to school, and now their world was collapsing all over again.
After the news last night, I’d tried calling Bram. But he didn’t answer my calls or reply to my texts. Next I tried Henry, to no avail. Then I attempted to sleep, unsuccessfully for the most part. The last time I checked my phone, it was well after three in the morning.
Now, Dad walks in, looking red-eyed, and I can tell he had a rough night too. “You okay, hon?”
“Yeah.” It wasn’t like I was close with Kennedy. We ran in different circles. But growing up in Silver Creek means that no one is truly a stranger. Kennedy and I used to be friends in elementary school, before our personalities were fully developed and before she became…well, too popular for me.
“I just kept thinking about Betty and Arnold all night.” He lowers onto the bed, and I let him hug me the way Kennedy’s parents will never hold their daughter again. When he releases me, I can tell by his hesitation that it’s going to be bad news. “The police are asking to interview you, Hayden.”
“Me?” I get a sudden hot streak of guilt at what little I spied through the trees, through the crowd. “Why?”
“All they would tell me over the phone was that they’re interviewing everyone who was there in the woods after school. Someone must’ve mentioned you. Sounds like it’s routine.”
“Routine when someone is murdered,” I say.
“Routine when the police have questions,” Dad corrects. “But I asked if I should be there, and the woman on the phone said it wasn’t necessary. You’ll be in and out in ten minutes.”
“Okay,” I say slowly, nodding. “Where? Central Springs?” Silver Creek doesn’t have its own police station.
The town’s law enforcement is managed by the Vermont State Police, whose nearest location is a tiny office in Central Springs.
We took a tour of it once, back in second grade, where this big officer with a kind smile inspired us all to want to be cops one day and to never do crime.
I don’t remember his name, but right now, I secretly hope he’s the guy to interview me.
“No, the interviews are at the school. I took the morning off, so I can drive you.”
“Thanks.” Dad is a manager at the one bank in town.
Before Mom got sick, he aspired to set out on his own and become an independent financial advisor.
But after losing her and her modest yet steady preschool teacher salary, he decided the job security outweighed the dream.
His hours and income are stable, for the most part.
We aren’t Abbott-level rich, but we’re doing fine.
I sit for another moment, staring at the square on my quilted comforter that’s stained red from a nail polish spill years ago.
Mom and I were snuggled up here, watching a movie on her laptop.
She was painting my nails bright red, and when she reached out to pause the movie, the polish dripped off the brush onto the comforter.
The tiny drop sat in a bubble for a moment before bleeding out into a splotch.
Mom said she’d try to get it out, but we both knew it was a lost cause. It only spread at her efforts.
Now, I look at the stain and can’t help seeing Kennedy’s blood spilling onto the forest floor. “Well, I should probably hop in the shower.”
“Okay,” Dad says, looking distracted for a moment as he fiddles with the corner of a throw pillow.
“Hon, I know you’re close with the Abbott boys.
Uh”—he clears his throat, and I don’t like where this is going—“you know I’ve never paid any mind to the rumors about them. But you will be careful, won’t you?”
It feels like a gut punch. But before I can respond, he hugs me again, sniffling as he whispers into my hair, “You’re the only thing I’ve got left, you know that.”
My throat swells, and I force out a muffled “Yeah” past the retorts still lingering on my tongue.
When he leaves the room, I get out of bed and search for something appropriate to wear to a police interview.
I land on jeans and a white short-sleeve button-up shirt.
Only instead of heading to the shower, I pick up my phone and call Henry.
When he doesn’t answer, I’m antsy enough to do something I know I’ll regret; I open Instagram.
Sure enough, the first thing that pops up on my feed is a post from Kennedy’s best friend, Lydia Costas. It’s Kennedy’s cheer photo from last year, along with a simple caption:
I will never be me again without you. Miss you so much, Ken.
My eyes sting, thinking not only of Kennedy but of Lydia.
The pair had run for student council together this year, winning president and vice president.
They’d been best friends since the third grade.
My mind goes to Henry. Just the thought of losing him—of never being able to talk to him again—steals the air from my lungs.
I scroll down to the comments, where, true to form, my schoolmates are already speculating that one of the Abbott brothers must be responsible. It’s full of baseless accusations, mostly from football players.
TELLISON: this has the looney bros written all over it
THEREALDEALNEIL: first that freak tries to break my arm, then when I show him up, he goes after poor kennedy
Nausea rises in my stomach. You’re a true saint, Neil. I scroll further, finding, to no surprise whatsoever, that Sage has chimed in.
SAGEWHEELER: Ortega never should’ve let those monsters back in the school after what they did to my cousin
THEREALDEALNEIL: everyone was better off with them locked away in their castle on a hill
TELLISON: my grandparents were right about those weirdos
But after the back and forth, everyone echoing the exact same unfounded sentiment, there’s a comment that stops me in my tracks. A strangely specific comment.
SPIKEATTACK77: I saw one of them walking off into the woods with Kennedy, yesterday during the fire drill.
TELLISON: seriously? I knew it
SAGEWHEELER: @spikeattack77 you have to tell the cops
SPIKEATTACK77: I did
SAGEWHEELER: which one was it?
SPIKEATTACK77: not sure but his hoodie had an A on it
I huff under my breath and click on spikeattack77’s profile, just so I can call this jerk out the next time I see him. The hoodie is the kind of detail anyone could easily make up. There’s no proof.
I soon discover that the account belongs to Kacey Ross, a volleyball player—not a dude named Spike—and someone I’d always thought of as a nice person. Guess I misjudged her; she’s just like every other hateful gossip in town. I close the app without reading another word and head to the shower.
***
Once I enter the school, I immediately see why the police chose it as their interrogation center.
They’ve rounded up more students than would fit in the cardboard box–sized station over in Central Springs.
Roughly ten kids sit slumped on the hallway floor outside the office, backs against the wall, awaiting their turn.
There’s no sign of the Abbotts, but I spot Sage near the front of the line. Avoiding eye contact, I take a seat at the back.
My hands are fidgety, so I pull out my phone to play a game.
Only I have no attention span for it and lose in the first few seconds.
Not knowing if the boys have already gone through this is making me anxious.
I keep checking my text messages, though I would’ve heard the ding if Henry or Bram had texted me back.
After twenty minutes or so, I text Dad to tell him about the wait and that he might as well head to work.
At some point I hear my name and start to get to my feet, thinking it must be my turn with the cops.
Only when I look up, it’s Sage standing over me, apparently having finished her interview.
I keep my lips pressed flat, my eyes disinterested.
I refuse to talk to someone who’s been spouting off inflammatory rumors that could wreck the lives of real human beings. Human beings I care for deeply.
“You need to wake up, Hayden,” she spits with enough venom that I flinch. “Your friends are murderers. And if you’re not careful, you could be next.”
She spins on her heels, and I’m too stunned to speak until she’s way down the hall. My heart is thumping so loudly that I barely hear the man calling the next person in line—me—into the office.
I get up, still seething. When the man says hello and offers his hand, I merely grunt.
“I’m Detective Chase,” he tries again, looking more amused than offended.
He’s about fifty, with wrinkles around his green eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, and my only thought is that he’s in good shape for an old guy.
Immediately, I note his title: not Officer—and he’s definitely not the friendly man who gave our second-grade tour—but Detective.
“And this is my colleague, Detective Wilson.” He gestures to a woman in her thirties, hair slicked back in a low bun.
They’re both wearing suits, and since they’ve taken over the principal’s office, they direct me to the chair that usually seats kids who’ve either done something very good or very bad.
Why do I feel like the latter?
“Sorry, I’m Hayden,” I say, settling into the chair. “Phillips.”
“Ah,” Detective Chase says, sharing a look I can’t read with his colleague, “yes, Hayden. How are you this morning?”