I can’t sleep so I pull my whiteboard out of the closet, set it on an easel and work on Sloane’s case beneath the strained light of my lamp.
Over the last eight months, I’ve been collecting data and piecing scraps of related information together.
The night Sloane was murdered, she got a call from Harris.
She left my place in a hurry.
By the end of the night, she was found in pieces in a bodybag.
I’m trying to pin together what happened after Sloane left my place. It makes no sense that a sixteen year old would disappear without a trace and then suddenly turn up dead at the hands of a psycho. A crime of passion? Since when? Sloane never told me about having a boyfriend and she talked to me about everything.
Well, everything except why Harris was calling her that night.
All the journalists and reporters were happy to swallow the story the police fed them. Despite telling the cops about Harris’s call, no mention of it was reported in the news.
What was mentioned was Sloane’s ‘problematic’ history. The media blasted the fact that her mother was a stripper. One particular comment said Sloane was ‘known to be promiscuous’. It was as if she’d earned what happened to her.
Thinking about it infuriates me and I stare harder at the whiteboard, wishing the pieces would snap together on their own.
“What am I missing, Sloane?” I whisper, tapping my pen against a picture of Redwood.
My last big break in the case was ages ago. I made friends with the officers responsible for Sloane’s case and took them out for drinks. Once they were drunk enough, I started questioning them about Sloane.
Someone let a nugget slip. Sloane was seen at Redwood the night of her murder. The higher-ups were told to scratch that out of the files, but it had already made the rounds in the precinct.
Harris.
Redwood.
It’s all linked to Sloane’s demise.
However, I haven’t made any progress since then.
Feeling like my head is about to explode, I push the whiteboard back into its hiding place, throw my clothes on top of it and slip downstairs.
I’m dunking my fork into leftover cobbler when I hear heavy footsteps. I freeze, seeing a tall shadow.
It’s Finn.
He comes to an abrupt stop on the stairs. He’s entirely naked from the top up, and I’m surprised by how ripped he is. Under his neat Redwood Prep uniform and cold manners, the bassist is shredded.
Finn swings his head around as if he’ll move back up the stairs.
“You don’t have to run,” I say, pushing the plate at him. “Want some?”
He narrows his eyes at me, considers it for a moment and then patters to the kitchen, bare-foot and mysterious.
I bring a fork out of the drawer and hand it to him.
He takes it hesitantly.
I push the plate further in his direction.
Finn scoops out a bite and, the moment the cobbler gets into his mouth, his expression tightens.
“It’s good right?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah… wow.”
I think that’s the first thing he’s ever said to me.
Mom’s cobbler must be made of magic.
We eat in companionable silence for a while.
“I’m sorry about today,” I say quietly.
Finn glances up at me, an eyebrow arched.
“I heard you got suspended.”
“Only for a day,” he responds, his voice vibrating through me.
It always catches me by surprise how deep his voice is. Finn’s bassy timbre reminds me of the drums I learned to play tonight. Rolling and dark and powerful enough to rattle the walls. Since he rarely speaks, he must always catch people off guard.
“Zane was the one who got a week-long suspension.” Finn pushes his fork around. “Since he threw the first punch.”
My shoulders roll with tension. “It’s okay to blame me.”
“Blame you for what?” Finn balances on his elbows. “He decided to protect you, so we all protect you. That’s how it is.”
My throat tightens.
He pushes the cobbler away. “That was good. Thanks for sharing.”
I nod.
He moves to the fridge, grabs a water bottle and heads to the stairs. I set the plate in the sink and pour water on it so it can soak. As I move, I feel someone staring at me.
I look up.
Finn is paused at the base of the stairs, watching. The light hits his sharp cheekbones and makes his almond-shaped brown eyes glisten.
I wait, sensing that he’s about to say something.
“Zane’s always been obsessed with doing things people say he shouldn’t. If you tell him he can’t have something, he’ll kill to get his hands on it.”
“He’s a rebel.”
“He’s an idiot.” Finn’s lips soften at the edges. “But he’s brave. Way more than me or Dutch. He doesn’t hold back. Doesn’t overthink. He just goes for it.”
“Perfect way to get hurt.”
“Or a perfect way to feel alive.”
I stare at Zane’s brother, feeling a bunch of dark emotions in my chest.
“You’re that thing he can’t have. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“But it’s different with you.”
My mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?”
“For the first time in his life, I don’t think Zane wanting you has anything to do with it being wrong.”
I flinch when I hear the word ‘wrong’. “But it is.”
“He’s eighteen. Legal—”
“He’s a student. And I’m his teacher. We’re not a love story, Finn. We’re a scandal. And scandals can only exist in the dark.”
“Not if you convince everyone the light is on.”
Something shakes loose in my brain.
“Convince everyone…” I mutter excitedly. “Oh my gosh.”
Finn looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Finn, you’re incredible!” I rush forward, grab his face, and give him a kiss on the cheek. His eyes widen, but I’m already flying past him.
Inside my room, I haul out my whiteboard and fish through the photos I took of the files in the basement.
How do you break the rules in plain sight?
Convince everyone the light is on.
Finn was right. If you tell everyone what’s wrong is right, eventually, they’ll believe it. Even more, they’ll argue with everyone who tries to convince them otherwise.
My fingers whip through the printed files.
My heart is pounding in my ears.
While I was investigating the basement, I found old administration documents that referenced ‘The Grateful Project’. They were nothing but long inventories—wine, decorations, cups, food, cleaning services. I took the picture out of principle but didn’t expect to get a hit.
“I know I have it. Where, where?” I mutter, thumbing through the pictures I printed out.
The Grateful Project was a school-sanctioned meeting between donors and scholarship students. I attended a couple with Sloane during my years at Redwood and thought it was just another way for the school to humiliate us, but what if it was something more?
“Come on,” I hiss.
When I was snooping, I found a ton of invoices for The Grateful Project. Back then, I thought all those documents were just copies of an original, but now…
Finally, I land on one.
The words ‘The Grateful Project’ are stamped over the top of the page. There’s a list of items, presumably used for that particular event.
“Date,” I mutter.
There.
I grab my phone and scroll to an old calendar. Official ‘Grateful Project’ dinners happen in December or early January.
This invoice is dated March.
A foreboding feeling washes over me.
I’m getting close to something big.
“Names, names.” I slide my thumb down the paper.
There are no names.
“Damn it.”
I start to put the page down.
And then I snap it back up.
My eyes narrow on a series of numbers.
I’d recognize that sequence anywhere.
It’s Sloane’s student ID.
