BREE SPENT ALL OF MONDAY THINKING ABOUT THE MYSTERIOUS envelopes, squirreled away in her bedroom since classes had been canceled. They were the key to finding a murderer, she felt it in her gut; if she could figure out who sent them, she could exonerate both DGM and John.
Basically, it came down to two options: either there had been two killers—Coach Creed, who killed Ronny, and someone else, who’d killed him—or both murders had been committed by the same person, who’d just been upgraded to serial psychopath.
Personally, she leaned toward the second option. “Serial psychopath” fit in better with the anonymous envelopes, especially the last one. Turn yourselves in or else. You have until opening night.
Two killers or one, the result was the same—a murderer was still out there. And she was tired of letting him or her call the shots.
Bree returned to the list of suspects. Rex and Amber were the next logical choice after Coach Creed, and then there was Margot’s broken-record hypothesis: the killer was a member of DGM.
She had to admit Margot had a point. They had all been inside the club when Coach Creed was murdered, but how hard would it have been to lure him into the alley, slip outside, and clobber him without anyone noticing? Not exactly rocket science.
A few days ago, Bree wouldn’t have thought Olivia, Kitty, or Margot capable of such a crime, but last night’s blowout in the ladies’ room had made her think. How well did she really know them? She hadn’t known about Margot’s suicide attempt or about the photo that had precipitated it. A photo Olivia had taken. And she certainly would never have imagined Kitty would have stabbed one of her teammates in the back, even unintentionally. If she’d do it to a volleyball player, wouldn’t she do it to a member of DGM?
And then there was John. As much as Bree hated to admit it, the photo that had been left in her car was the same one John had torn from the DuMaine Dispatch last week. And he had been in her car last night, placing his Fender case in the backseat while they drove to the Ledge. Could he possibly be the one pulling the strings?
Bree forced the thought from her mind. She absolutely, positively refused to believe that John murdered anyone. Even Coach Creed.
Despite all the options, Bree’s mind kept drifting to Christopher Beeman. So many clues pointed in his direction. Could her junior high crush have returned to Menlo Park as a cold-blooded killer?
She thought of Theo Baranski. Like sixth-grade Christopher, he was short and overweight, and like Christopher, Theo was an observer, the kid who was always watching what everyone else was doing. But there was something off about their personalities, something that didn’t jibe in her mind. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that Theo and Christopher were one and the same.
Logan Blaine, however, was a different story. True, he didn’t look much like the Christopher that Bree remembered, but puberty did that to boys. Could he have returned from Archway a taller, leaner, blonder version of himself? He was starring in the school play, after all. Maybe he was a better actor than anyone realized? She wasn’t sure. She needed a second opinion.
Perhaps it was time to tell the girls about Christopher.
The thought of reliving the events of sixth grade made Bree’s stomach churn. Christopher had been her friend, in the way that most sixth graders of the opposite sex are friends, which is to say that Bree had an enormous crush on Christopher, to which he was totally and completely oblivious. She’d tried everything to get his attention, from sitting next to him at weekly mass to joining his solitary play at recess. He was a loner, picked on by the boys at school as he was a little overweight, preferred art to sports, and had, according to the ruling posse of boys led by Rex Cavanaugh, a “raging case of gay face.”
Which had become his nickname. “Hey, Gay Face!” was a common mode of getting Christopher’s attention, and in typical Catholic school fashion, no adults who caught wind of the name-calling stepped in to correct it.
So after months of hanging out with Christopher, Bree had finally told Christopher that she really, really liked him.
It hadn’t gone over so well.
Christopher had physically recoiled from the idea of romantic feelings for Bree, his face horrified. Humiliated and despondent, Bree did something that she was still so ashamed of, the memory of it made her hands go ice cold. She’d joined in the bullying.
She still remembered the look on Christopher’s face the first time Bree called him “Gay Face” in the cafeteria. As if all the hope had been stomped out of him. His eyes weren’t sad or angry, just disappointed, which was somehow worse than the other two combined. He’d shaken his head and stared at his uneaten lunch.
It was the last time Bree had seen him.
That night, Christopher had made a stunning confession to his parents. Or so the rumor went. He told them about the bullying at school, about the name-calling and the gay shaming. And then he told his parents that he thought he was bisexual, and had already experienced an “encounter” with another boy at school.
A shitstorm ensued. The Beemans pulled their son out of St. Alban’s faster than the Pope could grant absolution. Before Bree could even call him, Christopher’s cell phone number had been changed, his Facebook account deleted, and when their sixth-grade teacher finally addressed the class about what happened to Christopher, Bree learned that he’d been sent away to a military academy in Arizona. Archway.
And it was Bree’s fault.
Now two people were dead, and Christopher Beeman seemed to be the key to the killings. Would he kill again? Would a member of DGM be next?
Bree clenched her fists. She wasn’t going to let that happen.
She may have ignored 95 percent of what her father said, but one piece of advice had stuck with her: in politics, the best defense was a good offense.
It was time to fight back.
When school resumed Tuesday morning, Olivia’s first thought was that she needed to talk to Margot.
She’d looked for her in the halls between class and in the quad at lunch, but without any luck. Rehearsal after school would be her next opportunity, and with an hour to kill before her first scene run-through, Olivia headed backstage. Margot usually camped out in a dressing room, taking sign-ups for line coachings. But today, the dressing rooms had been requisitioned for costume fittings.
The hall that led into the rehearsal room was filled with actors, sporting the various gang uniforms from the movie The Warriors. There was a group in striped shirts and denim overalls, another in shiny purple vests and feathered pimp hats, and still another in orange gis.
Peanut stood in front of a mirror in the rehearsal room, staring dejectedly at her reflection. She was wearing a pin-striped baseball uniform, complete with stirrups and matching cap. The costumer pinned the pants to be hemmed below the knee, while Mr. Cunningham looked on appreciatively.
“Why am I dressed like Derek Jeter?” she asked.
Mr. Cunningham made a note on his clipboard. “You’re a member of the Baseball Furies gang,” he said, without looking up. “Don’t you remember the film?”
Peanut grimaced. “Am I going to have to paint my face like a mime?”
“Yep.”
Peanut’s eyes met Olivia’s. “I hope your costume isn’t this heinous,” she said.
“Sleeveless denim vest and camo pants,” Olivia said.
Peanut sighed. “Figures. You’ll probably look ridiculously hot in it too.”
“Mr. Cunningham,” Olivia said, changing the subject. “Do you know where Margot is? I wanted to run the final scene with her.”
“She’s in my office.” Mr. Cunningham looked at her quizzically. “But she told me you didn’t need any more coaching.”
“She did?”
Mr. Cunningham nodded. “This morning. She told me specifically not to schedule any sessions for you.”
“Oh.”
Olivia wandered out of the rehearsal room and back into the wings of the theater. Margot clearly did not want to talk to her. And did she blame her? At the end of the day, she’d wounded Margot in a way that did not deserve forgiveness.
“Psst!” someone hissed from the darkened wings behind her. “Olivia.”
“Bree?” Olivia said, turning around.
“We need to talk.” Bree grabbed Olivia by the arm and dragged her to the corner, behind the curtain that lined the back wall of the theater.
“We shouldn’t be seen together,” Olivia said.
Bree snorted. “It’s a bit late for that. Did you get another envelope last night?”
Olivia hesitated. Was there any point in keeping it a secret? “Yeah.”
“See? Whoever’s behind this already knows who we are and how we’re connected.”
Olivia peeked behind the curtain. “What do you want?”
“It’s time we played a little offense,” Bree said, her eyes gleaming. “Fight back against whoever’s been pulling our strings.”
“Fight back?” Olivia dropped her voice. “Turn yourselves in or else,” she quoted. “What do you think that means, Bree, huh? This guy is a lunatic. He’s already killed two people. What makes you think he won’t come after one of us next?”
“Don’t get hysterical.”
“Hysterical? There are cops stationed in every hallway. I was patted down on my way to rehearsal. Father Uberti’s getting an armed escort back to the rectory every day after school because they think he might be the next victim.” She felt her voice getting higher and higher as the panic set in, but she didn’t care. “If the cops can’t stop him, what makes you think I can?”
Bree pursed her lips. “I have a plan. All we have to do—”
“We?” Olivia shook her head. “DGM is finished. Besides, what if Margot’s right? What if the person sending all those clues is one of us?”
“Do you really believe that?”
Olivia couldn’t look Bree in the eye. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“All I’m saying,” Bree continued, “is that we can’t let this anonymous tipster go on murdering people. The best way to avoid that ‘or else’ is to call him out.”
“I . . .” Olivia’s voice trailed off. She looked around the theater. This was her home; this was the place she felt the most alive. Not with DGM. Once they graduated from high school, all of their missions would be a distant memory, and Olivia’s real life of theater could begin.
But she had to get that far.
“I can’t,” she said at last, stepping out from behind the curtain. “I’m done.”
