Chapter Twenty-Seven
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Who would’ve thought finding a last-minute suit rental would be the hardest part of this ordeal.
you owe me biiiiiiig time you little shit
my cars gonna smell like moth balls for months
Normally I’d ignore Tiffany’s dramatics, but she’s right, I do owe her. We still have to pull this off in front of Dean Hughes, but the fact that we were able to come up with something at all is impressive on its own. Let alone within less than twenty-four hours.
Once Tiffany texts me that they’re ten minutes away, I head out to the front entrance. Through the black iron gates, I spot a car in the distance, the dents in the front bumper and fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview making it stand out among the sea of freshly waxed Teslas and sleek sports cars.
“Never again,” Dede announces as he pulls himself out of the car, his rented suit jacket thrown across his arm. “How the hell do they expect these kids to make that drive twice a year?” He tosses the jacket to Tiffany before hunching over a nearby patch of grass, bracing his hands on his knees.
“Someone couldn’t handle all those winding roads,” Tiffany explains with a shrug. To be fair, the twisting single-car road leading up to Kingswood would upset even the strongest stomach.
Tiffany’s expression shifts after she’s thrown the jacket back into the passenger seat, a smile breaking out across her face as she pulls me in for a bone-crushing hug. “Missed you, grumpy.”
Nerves have been prickling under my skin since I left Dean Hughes’s office yesterday morning, but everything fades once Tiffany’s arms wrap around me. The smell of lavender dryer sheets, shea butter, and the essential oils she claims help her sleep. The scent of her, the scent of home.
“Missed you too,” I reply, my words muffled by the fabric of her sweater.
There was no real reason for her to come. All we needed was Dede to pull off the ruse. We don’t exactly look related, but he at least fits the bill age-wise. Now my entire investigation hinges on a prayer that Dean Hughes is the type of person who thinks all Latinos look the same.
But Tiffany came anyway. And even if I tried to fight her on it yesterday, I’m glad she did.
This could all end in a matter of minutes. Dean Hughes could see right through our charade and ban me from campus before I can even grab my stuff from Kincaid. The patter of my rapid heart has been a constant drumbeat since I left his office, but everything slows once Tiffany takes my face in her hands. For a few blissful seconds, the question of my sister’s murder doesn’t hang in the balance. We’re just two people who love one another, finding their way back to each other.
With one arm still around my shoulders, Tiffany takes in the campus and lets out a low whistle. “Damn, why didn’t you tell me this place was so swanky?”
“Figured you’d know that from the price tag.”
She nods, though even I have to admit that nothing will ever do Kingswood justice. This place may be infuriating and rotten to its core, but you can’t deny that it’s breathtaking.
“All right, let’s get this over with,” Dede says through panted breaths, loosening his tie as he rejoins us.
“Well, don’t look so eager, babe.” Tiffany adjusts the knot of Dede’s tie, rewarding him with a kiss on the cheek that makes him roll his eyes. “That’s our cover, by the way,” Tiffany says to me. “If anyone asks, I’m your dad’s younger, but incredibly beautiful, and very mature lover.”
“Gee, thanks,” I mumble. “I’m sure they’ll be dying to know the whole story.”
“As they should.” Tiffany walks ahead of us, despite not knowing where we’re supposed to go. “It’s riveting. Sex, drugs, political scandal. Some of my best work, if you ask me.”
“Hey,” Dede cuts in, yanking Tiffany back toward us by the sleeve of her bright red sweater. “I didn’t sign up for dinner theater. I’m here for Lu, and that’s it. Got it?”
Tiffany lets out a dramatic sigh as she readjusts her collar. “You’re stifling my creative energy.”
After the past week of constantly feeling on edge, it’s nice to laugh. Really laugh. Not the forced act I put on for Poppy whenever she tells one of her rambling stories about how Nordstrom shipped her the wrong heels. Or the fake smiles I give Hunter whenever he kisses me on the cheek. My body feels lighter next to Tiffany, our arms looped together as I guide her toward Dean Hughes’s office.
“So, what’s the plan here? We tell ’em your sister died and you’re going through a rough patch, and then what? They let us go?” Dede asks, flipping through the note cards Tiffany went over with him on the drive, giving him all the details on the story we’d come up with last night.
“Hopefully,” I reply. “I still don’t understand why he wants to talk to you in the first place.”
“Maybe he has a poor-people kink,” Tiffany suggests as she pulls a packet of gum out of her pocket. “Like, he gets off on the idea that he’s helping these sad little poor kids from the ‘rough’ side of town.”
Wouldn’t surprise me.
We’re able to make it across campus without calling too much attention to ourselves. Dean Hughes was able to schedule us early on in his “very busy” day. So early Dede and Tiffany had to wake up at three in the morning to make the drive up. They both look worse for wear because of it, but you can’t expect anyone—especially parents—to look put together at this hour of the day. Most of campus is still asleep, with a few early risers making their way to the dining hall. Fewer people around to notice us.
It’s just my luck Poppy decided she still wanted to cash in on her UCLA essay favor today, despite the fact that her answer sheet is what landed me in this situation in the first place. All that work to try to get back into her room to search for answers, and I might not even be here within the next hour.
Charlisa is waiting for us in the entrance hall, dressed up for the occasion in a gray wool suit.
“Thank you so much for coming in, Mr. Flores.” She extends her hand to Dede, clasping his tightly as her voice lowers two octaves. “And I am so sorry for your loss.”
Dede grunts in reply, nodding and keeping his gaze averted from hers. He’s a man of few words, which works to our advantage. The less he says, the less material they have to poke holes through.
Her brow furrows as she turns to Tiffany. “And … you are?”
Before Tiffany can open her mouth, I land a swift kick to her calf that shuts her up. “She’s my cousin,” I answer for her. “Dad’s license expired last month, so he needed someone to help him make the drive.”
As fun as it would be to watch Tiffany and Dede play lovers, we need to check the over-the-top backstory at the door.
Charlisa gives Tiffany a wry smile, but holds out her hand regardless. “Thank you for making the trip …” She trails off, giving Tiffany the chance to introduce herself.
“Chantal. Chantal Witherspoon,” she says with a radiant smile while Dede and I stifle a groan.
With introductions out of the way, Charlisa gestures for Dede to follow her down the hall, holding up a hand when Tiffany and I come along. “We’ll only need to meet with Mr. Flores. This shouldn’t take too long. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
We nod, giving Dede a discreet thumbs-up once she has her back turned. As soon as the door closes behind them, I whack Tiffany in the chest. “Seriously?!”
“What?!” She huffs, cradling her heart like I just stabbed her. “I’ve always thought I’d make a good Chantal.”
Before I can call her out on her bullshit, she turns on her heels and heads out of the building. I glance back at the dean’s closed door, holding for a beat to see if I can hear anything. No screaming or multilingual profanities yet. So far, so good.
By the time I catch up to Tiffany, she’s muttering under her breath as she struggles to get her lighter to hold a flame. She’s kept the thing for years, even though it barely works at this point. Something about how it was the first thing she ever swiped from a store without getting caught. Says it has sentimental value.
She scoffs, settling down on a nearby bench and huddling closer to the flame in hopes of getting it to hold long enough to light the end of her cigarette.
“We need to talk,” she says once she’s given up on the lighter, tossing it onto the bench with a huff.
She makes it sound like she’s breaking up with me.
“About how you said you were gonna quit this year?” I sit down beside her, picking up the lighter and giving it a few half-hearted flicks, but I don’t have the magic touch either.
Tiffany ignores my question with an eye roll. She tucks the unlit cigarette into the pack and pulls out her phone instead, gum wrappers and one of Todd Lowry’s crumpled “IT’S NOT TOO LATE TO SAVE YOUR SOUL” postcards falling out of her pocket and into the snow. “First, found your girl Izzy.”
She hands over her phone, open to an article in the Seattle Tribune . “Her socials are all locked, but I managed to find this.”
SEATTLE FENCER MOVES ON TO NATIONALS
Smack at the top of the article is an action shot of a girl removing her helmet, saber still in hand. Her dark brown skin glistens with sweat, black-and-pink braids spilling down her shoulder. Her gold septum ring glimmers even in pixel form. Beneath the photo, the caption reads:
Isabella Tucker, formerly of Kingswood Academy, will be representing Seattle Prep at this year’s Spring Nationals.
I quickly skim the rest of the article. Looks like Izzy was competing in the tournament on the twentieth, which writes her off as a suspect, but I’m sure she knows something. She didn’t respond to the voicemail I left her on Sunday, so there’s no telling whether she’s going to heed my warning and come back for her stuff. If she does, she’s only got a day left to do it.
“And Mr. McMillion isn’t your guy,” Tiffany continues when I finish reading the article. “He was at some charity ski event in the Alps when—”
“I know,” I interrupt through gritted teeth. “He hurt her … but not that way.”
Tiffany softens, resting a hand on my knee. “I’m sorry.”
We sit in silence, until Tiffany takes my hand in hers.
“It’s time for you to come home, Lu,” she says, her voice so gentle I almost don’t hear it over the wind. But there’s no mistaking what she just said.
“I can’t,” I snap, anger jumping from simmering to boiling at lightning speed. “There are people I still need to look into, stuff I still—”
“We need to leave, Lu,” Tiffany interjects, cutting me off like she just zipped my lips shut.
It takes me several seconds to respond. I wait for the anger to cool, until I can process what she just said. I run the words through my mind twice and they still don’t make any sense. “W-what?”
“We need to move,” she says, slow and deliberate this time. She bites her lip, waiting until it’s clear that I have nothing else to say before continuing. “The landlord is being a prick and wants to up the rent again. Either we cough up an extra hundred bucks a month, or we need to be out by the fifteenth.”
“But that’s next week,” I protest. “He can’t do that.”
She gives me a withering look. “Just because it’s fucked up doesn’t mean he can’t.”
Another hard lesson in the way the world works. Why do we always have to learn by example?
“We can figure something out, though,” I continue. “I’ll pull some extra shifts when I get back, we have the …” I trail off before I can finish. The money we would’ve used for Solina. One less mouth to feed, one less bill to pay.
Freedom at the cost of my sister’s life.
Tiffany shakes her head as she lets go of my hand. She pulls her jacket tighter across her chest, burrowing into the warmth of her scarf. “We were barely covering our asses as it is. And we both know the place isn’t worth another grand a year.”
I can’t fight her on that. The busted radiators. The leaky faucet. If anything, they should be paying us back.
“This could be a fresh start for us. A chance to put everything in the past and move forward.”
Her words feel like a slap to the face. I’m not ready for a fresh start. I don’t want to move forward. I don’t want to slam the door on my sister. Not again.
“I’m not leaving yet,” I croak, my voice on the edge of cracking. “I’m close to finding something, I know it.”
Something passes through Tiffany, her expression unreadable as she reaches for her phone again. When she hands it to me, her expression changes again. Pity.
“I found this too …”
She’s pulled up another webpage. An online obituary for someone named Laura Santiago. I almost scroll past the unfamiliar black-and-white school photo, freezing when I spot the familiar crest on the lapel of her blazer. A Kingswood blazer.
“This was—”
“Izzy’s roommate,” Tiffany finishes for me.
That night at the bonfire comes rushing back. The scoffs and eye rolls at the mention of “Laura something.” Her OD treated as a minor inconvenience, like bad weather or a stomach bug. Is this what really happened to her? The “incident” in Izzy’s file?
Did Kingswood brush a student’s death under the rug like she was nothing more than dust?
“Keep reading.” Tiffany takes the liberty of scrolling farther down the page for me. A message asks that, in lieu of flowers, donations be made to a local suicide hotline in Laura’s name.
I swallow hard around the lump in my throat. That single sentence opens up a whole new set of possibilities. Poppy said Laura was expelled. Claudia hasn’t talked about her at all. Is this what happened to her after she was sent back home? Or did it happen here, on these lush and perfect grounds—the staff working overtime to hide the aftermath from the students?
I wouldn’t blame Izzy if that’s why she decided to transfer. This place is brutal enough as it is.
“Maybe this is what this place does to people,” Tiffany whispers.
My stomach churns at the implication behind her words. This place is cruel, and stifling, and cold, but Solina wouldn’t have done that. She would’ve talked to me. Even if I’d lashed out the night before, she would’ve come back.
“Don’t start coming at me with that bullshit,” I snap, storming away from the bench. There’s nowhere I can go, not when I still have to wait for Dede. But I can’t just sit there and let Tiffany feed me the same half-baked story the Luster police came up with.
“I’m not saying it’s what happened, but there’s something to it, Lu. You can’t ignore that.”
I pace in circles a few feet away from the bench, avoiding Tiffany as she follows after me. “What? You’re gonna team up with Cartagena now? Rat me out to him and get the case closed for good?”
“Jesus, Lu. Not everyone who disagrees with you is out to get you. I just want you to listen to some fucking facts for two seconds.”
“NO!” I shout, loud enough to echo in the silence. I’d be worried about my voice traveling all the way to the dean’s office, but there’s too much rage simmering inside me to care.
Solina wouldn’t leave me behind with this kind of weight on my shoulders. Wondering for the rest of my life if I was the reason she lost hers. I’m still learning that my sister had sides to her that I didn’t know and won’t ever understand. But I know she wouldn’t have done that to me.
“Someone hurt her.” A statement, and I won’t let anyone tell me otherwise. I’m running low on leads, but I’m closer than I ever was now. The letter slipped under my door. Proof that someone here wants her, or me, gone. But I can’t tell Tiffany that. Knowing someone threatened me means she’ll force me back to the car even if my nails bleed from dragging against the cobblestone.
Holding back tears stings as harsh as the bite of the wind, but I won’t break down again. Even if my last lead doesn’t pan out. Even if it means starting at square one, I know the answer is here. Buried under the snow or in a box under a bed or in the back of someone’s mind.
Someone here knows what happened.
“I know it.”
Tension keeps us rooted in place. Our breath comes out in white clouds, mingling and evaporating in the space between us. Quiet enough that the wind’s howl covers up the crunch of the snow as footsteps approach us.
“Thank God that’s over,” Dede says with a sigh of relief, wiping off his brow and immediately pulling his tie loose again. “You’re off the hook, kid. No suspension, just a warning. You can retake that exam next week. And you’ve gotta go to some counseling sessions with the lady that was back there.”
Neither me nor Tiffany turn to look at him.
“Now what the hell did I just walk into,” Dede mumbles when we don’t pay him any attention. “Break it up, break it up.” He waves his arms as he comes between us, batting us in opposite directions. “I did not wake up at the ass crack of dawn for you two to pick a fight the second I walked away. Play nice.”
Well, I’m tired of playing nice with people who want to put Solina in a box.
Tiffany reaches into her pocket, pulling out a thick piece of paper. “I bought you a train ticket.” She holds it out to me. The two of them hold their breath as I reach out to take the paper. A one-way ticket back to Luster, leaving tomorrow. “Come home, Lu. Please. Starting over doesn’t mean leaving her behind.”
I swallow hard around the lump in my throat, tears blurring the words on the page in front of me. I’d thought Tiffany understood. That she wanted to find who did this as badly as I did. But the one person I thought I could trust is just like everyone else. Willing to believe the easiest solution because the truth is too hard to face. I close my fist around the paper, crumpling it and shoving it into my pocket.
“Thank you,” I say to Dede directly, before turning on my heels and walking toward Poppy’s dorm, because I still have a murder to solve.
“What the hell did you say to her?” Dede mutters as I storm off.
I can hear Tiffany push him aside, her boots sinking into the snow. “You’re not the only one who lost someone,” she shouts at me. “You think you’re the only one who’s hurt? We all lost her, Luna. We’re all trying to figure out how to move on from this. And I’m not going to lose you too.”
The smallness of her voice, the lack of confidence or passion or excitement, makes me stop in my tracks. But the reality of what she’s asking me to do keeps me from turning back. I can’t give up now, not when I’ve worked this hard to find the truth. So I keep walking and ignore the call of Tiffany’s voice until it fades into the breeze.
I shove my hands into my pocket and push forward against the wind. Something cold is sitting in my pocket. Tiffany’s faulty lighter. For half a second, I consider turning around and tossing it to her. But what’s the point in giving back something broken that she refuses to throw away?
I let out a humorless laugh as I shove the lighter into my pocket and keep moving, never looking back.