BREE FELT UTTERLY HELPLESS AS SHE STARED AT THE PHOTO of Margot and Logan. That son of a bitch had them, and here she was, trapped at home, waiting for John to check in. He shouldn’t be there. He should be home, safe and sound, not facing a maniac in Bree’s place. She felt like a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest: totally and completely useless.
“Darling, you’re going to walk a hole through the carpet.” Her mom stood in the doorway of Bree’s room, a small plastic water bottle in hand.
“Sorry,” Bree said. “I’m just anxious.”
“Oh!” her mom cooed, perking up. “Why didn’t you say so?” Without another word, her mom hurried to her room and returned a moment later with a plastic pill organizer. “Let’s see . . . How about a Klonopin? That’s always a good start. Or maybe a Xanax? No, that will make you sleepy.” She glanced up at Bree. “Do you want to be sleepy?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so.” She returned her focus to the medication cornucopia. “I find a Celexa-Cymbalta cocktail has a nice one-two punch, or if you want to cut to the chase, I can give you a Haldol and be done with it.”
Should she be concerned that her mom was apparently a one-stop shop for mood-enhancing prescription drugs? “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing you need?”
Bree thought about asking for her mom’s help. Maybe if she sent Olaf down to the gym, they’d stand a chance? She opened her mouth, but before she could get a word out, her cell phone rang. She grabbed it from the table and answered it without looking.
“You’re late,” she said with a nervous laugh.
“What?” Olivia asked.
“Oh!” Bree said. “Sorry. I thought you were—”
“It’s Ed!” Olivia yelled into the phone.
“What do you mean?”
“Ed is the killer. He lied to us. It was him all along!”
“That’s impossible,” Bree said. She had no idea what Olivia was talking about, and yet she could feel the panic in her friend’s voice. “He has an alibi.”
“Fuck the alibi!” Olivia screamed. “My mom has video from opening night of Twelfth Precinct on her phone. I just saw the curtain calls and Ed was there, in the theater, leaving through the stage door.”
“Are you sure?” Bree asked.
“Positive.” From Olivia’s end of the phone, a horn blared. “I’m heading to school. You’ve got to warn everyone.”
Bree froze. Had it been Ed the Head all the time? But Sergeant Callahan had the watch. How was that possible? Her brain had difficulty processing it all. Ed’s alibi was a fake. He’d been at the theater that night. He’d murdered Ronny and Coach Creed and Rex. Not to mention the other DGM victims. Now Logan and Margot, and . . .
Oh God. John was meeting Ed at school.
“Hello?” Olivia cried. “Did you hear me?”
Bree forced her voice to work. “He’s with John. At school. Ed has him.”
Olivia was silent for a moment. “I’ll find Kitty.”
Bree wasn’t sure what Olivia and Kitty could do by themselves, but she was in no position to argue.
“Call the police,” Olivia said. “And don’t panic. I’m sure John is fine.”
Bree hung up and immediately dialed John’s number. Without even ringing, his voice mail picked up. She dialed again, hoping it was just a cross call, but again voice mail. Again. And again.
Bree dropped the phone to her bed and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the image of a dead or wounded John from her mind. No, she wasn’t going to picture it. John was smart, and John was tough. He’d figure some way out of this.
“Bree?” her mom asked, her voice firm. “What is wrong?”
“I . . .” It would take too long to explain. “Hold on.” She needed to try and convince the police that a serial killer was at the Bishop DuMaine gym. Yeah, that wouldn’t sound crazy at all.
“Santa Clara County 911, please state your emergency.”
“Um . . .” Bree swallowed. What was the fastest way to get the police to respond?
“Is this a prank call?” the operator said, clearly annoyed.
“I’m calling to report a . . . a suspicious package at the Bishop DuMaine gym.” Bomb threats always worked with the cops, didn’t they? “I’m here for a volleyball tournament and I saw a guy walk into the gym with a large bag, drop it by the door, and leave.”
“Mm-hm,” the operator said. “You said Bishop DuMaine, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting. This is the second call we’ve gotten today claiming that there’s a bomb at that school. Kind of convenient considering just yesterday we got a memo from Sergeant Callahan at Menlo PD.”
Bree groaned. She didn’t like the sound of this.
“And he warned us,” the operator continued, “to expect some prank calls from high school students in regard to Bishop DuMaine.”
“Ma’am,” Bree said, trying to communicate the appropriate amount of seriousness in her voice. “I promise, this is not a prank. This is—”
“Young lady,” the operator said, interrupting her. “Do you have any idea of the penalty for making false statements to emergency response? The list of offenses is—”
Bree didn’t wait for the rest of the lecture before ending the call.
“Bree Deringer,” her mom said, hands on hips. “You tell me what is going on this instant.”
“I think we screwed up. Bad.”
Her mom sighed. “Obviously. What can I do to help?”
Short of convincing her buddy Sergeant Callahan to send the entire Menlo Park police force down to Bishop DuMaine, she didn’t know . . .
Bree caught her breath. There was one way, one foolproof way to make sure the police went exactly where she wanted them to.
“What is it?” her mom asked.
Bree smiled at her. “I need to borrow the car.”
Her mom arched an eyebrow. “You want Olaf to disable the house alarm and take you somewhere?”
“Nope. I just want the car.”
“But the alarm will go off as soon as you leave the house. The police will trace your GPS signal.”
Bree smiled. “Exactly.”
