Hunt a Killer, page 10
Julius grinned. “You heard about that? I think it was more to deter Whit from applying to Brown. She ended up getting into Cornell, so I don’t think the school reported the suspension either way.”
I glanced back down at the paper. “I can’t believe they put her on the front page.”
He shrugged. “Maddie’s the editor, so the news is a bit slanted.”
“I have AP Spanish with her and there’s no way her GPA is legit. She has to be bribing someone to do her work. Or paying for her grades.”
Okay, maybe Frankie was right about me not being so subtle.
Julius hesitated, thinking for a minute. “A lot of the Ivy chasers in senior class do one or the other. But you don’t want to get involved with Maddie, trust me.”
“Because of her dad?” I stepped in front of him, trying to catch his eye. “Do you think it was him on the voice mail to Mr. Medina? I know I recognize the voice, but I can’t place it—”
He stopped, looking around before lowering his voice. “I don’t know why I let you into his office. Is this the case you’re actually working? Not some off-Broadway star? You need to leave this alone. Seriously. Don’t get involved.”
“Is it because you’re involved? Is that what the work study was for? Did you get caught cheating?”
He stiffened. “I’ve never paid for a single grade or test score.”
“Then why do you care? What do you think you’re protecting me from?”
“Aren’t you the detective?” He nudged past, not looking at me. “See you around, Kelley Green Eyes.”
Thursday, March 3, 8:40 a.m.
THURSDAY, I WAS five minutes early for AP Calculus. Unfortunately, so were a bunch of other students, doing some last-minute studying for a quiz I’d blanked on. By the time class ended, I felt confident I had at least a solid B based on my answers. I gave myself a pat on the back for only using my eeny-meeny-miney-mo technique on three questions.
I waited until the class filtered out before approaching Ms. Taylor. She was similar to Mr. Medina in some ways. Both had their own ways of pushing the limits of the faculty dress policy. Today she rocked high-waisted dark slacks and a cropped canary-yellow sweater, the smallest sliver of her dark brown midriff making an appearance whenever she moved.
“Ms. Taylor?”
She glanced up from her desk, her braids falling over her eyes. “Jolene. It was nice to see you before the late bell this morning.”
My cheeks flushed a little. “Sorry about that. I’ve been working on it.”
“I’ve noticed.” She smiled. “What can I do for you today?”
“I heard you’re one of the proctors for the SAT exams. I have another year before I really need to worry about my scores, but I thought I could start with study groups. Do you have one that you lead?”
“Changed your mind about community college?”
I faltered. “How did you … ?”
“I spoke with Mr. Medina about your attendance and commitment at the beginning of the semester. He told me about your postgraduation plans.” She stepped around the front of her desk and leaned against the edge. “I’m not sure how you heard about me proctoring the SATs, though. I only did it once. It was … not for me.”
“How so? I mean, I assumed teachers just graded papers or read during the exam.”
“There’s a bit more to it than that.” She let her last words linger as she crossed her arms, almost as if to hug herself, as if my questions made her uncomfortable.
“I know of a few seniors who formed their own study groups in the past—Madison Ryan, Julius James,” she continued. “If there are any other students asking around, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Ms. Taylor.” I turned to leave class, and lo and behold, Julius stood in the doorway. I pushed past him.
“You don’t quit, do you?” he muttered.
“Nope.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket as I left Julius behind.
Frankie:
Finally managed a hit on Deputy Mayor Khara and why he wasn’t at the press conference. Family trip to Cancun. He took his daughter and two of her friends for her eighteenth.
Sabrina:
The privileges of the upper class.
Frankie:
I actually couldn’t get an answer out of his office, but his daughter’s IG had a highlights reel and plenty of photos. Check it out.
I clicked the link Frankie sent and found pictures of Sheetal, Natalia, and Antonio living their best life, drinking fruity mocktails with their manicured toes in the sand. The deputy mayor and his wife sat with their own drinks in the blurred background.
Jolene:
That alibis three of the students.
Sabrina:
I recognize Sheetal and Nat. Who’s the third?
Jolene:
The one with the iridescent Speedo and flawless complexion? That’s Antonio Garcia. Pretty sure they’re also the one who stole Maddie’s boyfriend.
Sabrina:
Jealous. Not about Maddie, but everyone’s tans. I’m getting so pale this winter.
Jolene:
I love your priorities.
Jolene:
I have an update on my end with the proctors, btw. Things might have started falling apart once Mr. Callahan left. Ms. Taylor only proctored once after that, and I get the feeling she didn’t want any part of it.
Frankie:
Do you think Mr. Medina poking around had something to do with it?
Jolene:
I think he spooked the first proctor. But maybe he warned Ms. Taylor next?
Sabrina:
That leaves us with five students, including Maddie and her DAD.
Sabrina:
Oh, and I did email Mrs. Medina about shadowing. She’s going to set it up for Monday when she gets back. Okay if I spend the night Sunday, Jo?
Jolene:
Should be no prob. It’ll give us an opp to go over your plan for Emile.
Frankie:
It’s Thursday. What can we do for four days while we wait?
The hallway fell silent, the usual noise of kids running to class dying down. Without hesitation, I broke into a run. I had less than a minute to get to AP Spanish, and Mr. Perez was the type to lock you out. The late bell shrilled as I slipped into the room, him glaring as he closed the door behind me.
Mr. Perez was a round old man who always wore an off-white short-sleeve button-up, half untucked for reasons unknown, and a black clip-on tie. Today, he still had on his winter coat and a scarf wrapped around his neck. He pointed to his throat, then to the chalkboard.
“Did you lose your v—”
“ Español!” he rasped.
“Dang, okay. Lo siento,” I muttered. Heading back to my seat, I read the directions to break into groups of three for our discussion warm-ups. Maddie and Nat were the only ones not already paired with a third. Lucky me.
I scooted my desk over to theirs.
“Uh, perdón me, señorita.” Maddie scrunched up her face as she spoke with the most offensive Spanish accent. She had curled her frosted hair to shape it into a bob, resulting in some weird framing of her face. She smacked her bubblegum-pink lips together.
“You said ‘excuse me’ wrong,” I mumbled, then pointed to the board. “And it says groups of three.”
Maddie squinted at the board as though she could actually read it.
“Didn’t Mr. Perez just yell at you about not speaking Spanish?” Natalia retorted, flipping her auburn extensions over her shoulder before folding her arms over her hand-knit cardigan. As much as she annoyed me, I did admire how she always found a way to add style to the school uniform. It looked incredible on her curvy frame while my uniform felt boxy and did nothing for my pear shape. In another life, she and Sabrina would’ve been friends.
“If I said it to you in Spanish, would you have understood me?” That seemed to quiet them both. “I’m not trying to be rude. Congrats on Brown by the way, and Yale.”
Maddie shrugged. “Thanks, I guess.”
“I’ve been thinking about Harvard. Well, my dad has at least. He has some family in Boston,” I started, trying to see what I could get them to say. Maybe I could make them think I needed in on the scam, too. “My PSATs are in the mid-1300s.”
Maddie twirled her fingers through her hair. “You’re going to need more than that for Harvard. And I’m pretty sure you can’t afford it.”
“Maddie!” Natalia shot her a glare.
“Relax. It’s done.”
I looked back and forth between the two, feigning ignorance. “Like a tutor? Ms. Taylor said something about study groups—that you and Julius had one.”
“Sure. Julius was a tutor.” She smirked. “He was a hot commodity once, but he’s retired now. No more after-school activities after his close call with expulsion. Almost lost his scholarship, too, but the donor had pity on the literally poor orphan.”
I clenched my jaw. Her tone was condescending, and she knew it. “What for?”
“Hmm?”
“What did he get in trouble for?” I gritted out.
“Oh, you didn’t know? He took a swing at a teacher. When was that, Nat?”
“Ooo, I think it was, like, a month ago, maybe?”
I blinked. She had to be lying.
“You seemed surprised, Jolene. I just thought you should know about the people you’re spending time with. Don’t want to get too close to a boy like that. But then again, you are a little low on options and probably can’t attract much else. I’ve seen your IG. Did your parents send you here to trap a trust fund baby?” She dragged her eyes over me. “You look like you could use a dollar, maybe a few thousand.”
Hands shaking, I stood up, my chair falling back.
I can’t be here right now.
A voice called after me in Spanish—I could only assume Mr. Perez by the rasp—but I kept going, walking straight out of the classroom. I didn’t stop until the cold winter air slapped me in the face.
When I finally peeled my eyes open after hours spent hiding in my bed, it was pitch-black outside my window. The tray where I’d left bits of crust from a smoked ham sandwich had been replaced with a bowl of frozen grapes.
I popped one into my mouth, the cool burst of juice calming my nerves. It had been a while since I let someone like Maddie bother me.
Being a scholarship student came with the usual jabs from entitled kids. I thought I was over it, but Maddie’s tone, along with the low blows at Julius, my family—the things she insinuated—that didn’t help. Pile that on top of the emotions I’d been bottling away and I was a wreck.
This investigation seeped into every part of my life. Cold cases I could box away. Not this, though. The investigation pulled at me, as though waiting for me to unravel and snap.
Snacking on the grapes, I freshened up and changed out of my school uniform before wandering downstairs, following the delicious, savory smell of collard greens slow cooking in our Crock-Pot. I stopped when I got to the kitchen. Mom sat at the table reading Hollywood Homicide, wearing an oversized tie-dye sweatshirt, dark yoga pants, and her plush corgi slippers—a gift from Dad last Christmas.
“You didn’t wake me for dinner.”
“I did not.” She marked her place with a napkin before putting the book down. “Mr. Perez called to let us know you had walked out of second period, distraught. Dad came home early. He said you were closed up in your room.” She stood, going to the refrigerator to pour two tall glasses of iced green tea. “We decided to give you some space.”
“Thank you,” I whispered as she handed me the glass before sitting back down.
“You know it took me a long time to get over losing Nana Josette. It’s been two years and it still hurts.”
I sat down at the table across from her. “You didn’t cry, though.”
“I cried every night. For weeks, after you went to bed, I walked myself down that hall to her room and cried until there was nothing left.” She sipped her drink. “I don’t want that for you.”
“I know,” I said. I tapped my fingers along the glass, the weight of this morning heavy on my shoulders. “That’s not what made me leave school, though. I just … I want to be myself and for that to be enough. For you, the kids at school …”
My mom sat up. “Is something wrong at school? Is someone bothering you?”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing. But—I …” It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to my mom, but all I could think about was our last conversation. “Why can’t you accept this private investigator thing?” I whispered.
She leaned back in the chair. “Your grandfather died on the force, your uncle, too. It’s like a cycle in our family. Dying while trying to protect others.” There was a bit of sarcasm in her voice.
“I’m not going—”
“I chose to be a public defender, to take a different route. It might not have been much, but it was something. I wanted to break that pattern, and for you to just go back to it … I want more for you—better for you. I want you out of this place. You have so much potential. You’re more than this.” She gestured to the windows and what was beyond it. Our neighborhood.
I sat there quietly, staring into my glass and at the crushed ice swirling inside. A few hours ago, I had fallen asleep to the sounds of sirens and thought nothing of it. “But this is where we’re from. What we do. Why is that so bad? We help others—”
“At a cost to ourselves. But you, my darling, are sixteen.”
“How is it any different from what you do at the courthouse? I want to help the people here. Who else is going to? I don’t want to be like the stuck-up rich kids at school, looking down—”
She placed her hand over mine. “I’m not asking you to be like them. I’m asking you to look at those who came before you, how each generation took that one step to do better for the next. You don’t have to forget your roots to do that. And you always, always, give back. But there’s more than one way to do that, Jo. I’m trying here. I need you to try, too.”
She gave my hand a squeeze before leaving me alone at the table. She meant well, but it didn’t keep the anger from boiling at my surface. She still wasn’t listening to me, hearing me. And she certainly wasn’t “trying.” Her words left me suffocated.
It was easier when Mr. Medina was here. But he left me—I sucked in a breath. Letting my thoughts go there was a slippery slope. I needed to scream, but I couldn’t let it out. I couldn’t give in. Not until this investigation was over.
“Knock, knock.”
My door creaked open, revealing a tuft of red hair with graying roots before the rest of my dad’s face appeared. “You have a visitor.”
I sat up in my bed. “It’s after ten on a school night.”
“I know. Are you decent under there?” he asked.
I pulled off my covers so he could see me in the unicorn onesie Sabrina gifted me for my birthday in January.
Dad grinned. “Perfect.” He opened the door the rest of the way, and Frankie stood behind him in a pair of sweats and a long-sleeve fitted Under Armour shirt.
“Thanks, Mr. K.” He slipped through the door to sit on the edge of my bed.
Dad cleared his throat. “Ahem.”
Frankie got up, moving to my desk chair.
“Great.” Dad pushed the door open as wide as it could go. “Head home in about an hour, okay, Francis?”
“Heard, Mr. K.”
Dad nodded, satisfied with Frankie’s answer and our seating arrangement. He stepped back into the hallway, off to his own room.
“Your dad is hilarious. I thought you told your parents about the whole demi/ace thing.”
“I did—it’s just demi, but honestly I still don’t fully understand it.”
“A case that Jolene Kelley has yet to solve.”
“It’s a case that I can solve later. In another chapter of my life. Right now, my dad is a dad, and you’re a teenage boy.”
Frankie grinned. “Fair.”
“What are you doing here?”
“You know how you said me and your mom are a lot alike?”
I groaned. “She called you?”
“You know it!” He leaned back and kicked up his feet over my desk.
“Well, that’s not embarrassing at all.”
The smile faded from his lips. “You didn’t tell us you walked out of class. You just stopped texting.”
“I thought you’d be happy I was taking a break.”
Frankie moved to the edge of my bed. “Talk to me, Jo.”
I sighed. “I want to be myself and not be judged for it,” I whispered. “Not judged for what I like, where I live, what I want to do.” I pulled at my plum comforter. “I’m alone at that school. I want to be alone in peace. And I can’t even have that.”
“I think this case with Mr. Medina, losing him, it’s hardest on you. And I know why, and I think you do, too, but you don’t want to say it.”
I locked eyes with Frankie. “I don’t—” I shook my head. “I can’t think about that.” I clenched my fists in the sheets.
“How about we think about something else?” Standing up, he walked over to my desk, clearing off the old evidence from the cold case we worked before the off-Broadway star.
“You still scrapbook each case?”
I nodded, sitting up.
“Put this entry in your book while I print out a few things.”
I took the stack of photos and papers from him and pulled out my scrapbook from under my bed. It was an old canvas book, with plenty of pages yellowed with age. I’d found it at a secondhand shop and would never know the owner or who it was meant for, just that the first page, and only page written on when I found it, had my initials.
The mechanic whirl of my printer turning on and paper cycling through it sounded behind me as I snipped photos and taped them onto the next blank page. I’d forgotten how much journaling calmed me down. When I finally turned around, I expected to see evidence from Mr. Medina’s case. Instead, I found the stormy-gray eyes of Chloe St. James.
“She still needs you,” Frankie murmured.
I walked over to the desk, eyeing the photos I’d taken of the evidence box contents mixed with playbills I hadn’t seen before. It felt like that trip to see Officer Halligan at the records room had been months ago.
_preview.jpg)
