“Here!” Mini-She shrieked, as the sirens blared and a full motorcade pulled up in front of the school. A fleet of Secret Service agents-and they didn’t disappoint, dressed in black suits, sunglasses, cocking their heads to the side as commands issued from their earpieces-swarmed out of the fleet of black SUVs, pushing the gawkers back to create a perimeter for the figure emerging from the long black limo.
It was really him, he’d actually shown up. This was officially more excitement than Grace had seen since the eighties, when a movie crew had shown up, along with the requisite stars, trailers, and paparazzi-and then turned around and left a week later, sets built, extras hired, and funding vanished.
Adam waited to feel some excitement now that the big moment had arrived, but he felt nothing.
Let this be the biggest day in Haven High history.
So what?
For Adam, it was just another crappy day.
Kaia had driven all the way to school before allowing herself to consider whether or not to go inside. She’d scanned the local paper that morning, but there was no mention of a lone, British bachelor found unconscious in his apartment. Not that you’d expect the Grace Herald’s crack reporting staff to be on the case so quickly, not when said staff included only two reporters, one of whom worked from his “office” in the Lost and Found, and the other who restricted herself to items on gardening or fashion (preferably both). And though she’d lain awake all night, listening for approaching sirens, an impatient rapping at the door or even a late-night phone call, nothing had happened.
But Kaia had watched too much TV to be fooled into thinking she was in the clear. No, either Powell had woken up and elected not to tell anyone his twisted version of what had happened, or… he hadn’t woken up at all. And maybe wouldn’t.
Kaia couldn’t decide which option she preferred. She wouldn’t even allow herself to consider the question, since every time her mind strayed to the image of Powell lying there, his blood on her hands, she froze. And she couldn’t afford to do that anymore, not while time was running out.
She could turn herself in, tell the truth, engage in the inevitable he said-she said, and hope things swung her way. She wasn’t stupid-she knew that was the responsible thing to do, probably the smart thing to do. But she didn’t feel very smart right now, and she’d never been a big fan of responsible.
She could waltz into school as if nothing had happened. Maybe Powell wouldn’t remember, or wouldn’t want to implicate himself, or wouldn’t…
There were any number of ways this could come out okay and she could slip away from the whole thing unseen and unsuspected, if only she could get it together and put on the right show.
Or she could get back in her car, drive away, and make a new life for herself somewhere. It was the dream option-the impossible one.
The alternatives were all shitty, and so instead of choosing one, Kaia leaned against her car and pulled out her cell phone. There was one thing she was sure she needed to do, even if it was too late.
The voice mail picked up on the fifth ring, which gave Kaia enough time to collect herself and plan her words.
“Reed, I don’t know if you want to hear this, but I need to tell you that I’m sorry. I was wrong, about everything. I’m sure you don’t want to talk to me, but I need to talk to you, to explain and… just call me back. Please. Because I-” She paused, wishing she could bring herself to say more. “I’m sorry.”
Showtime. The art room was serving as a greenroom for the presenters as they waited for the governor’s entourage to settle themselves on stage and the student body to filter in.
Everyone was buzzing about Powell’s “accident” the night before-thanks to a cryptic announcement, they all knew the dreamy French teacher was in the hospital, but for what, and from what, no one had any clear idea. Fragments had spread, phrases like “stable condition,” “unforced entry,” “open investigation,” and “mitigating circumstances” floating through the grapevine courtesy of the sons and daughters of doctors, cops, nosy receptionists, and taciturn administrators. But no one had been able to piece together the full story, and no one could let it go, wondering: Was his pretty face still intact? Was it a bitter student? A jilted lover? Would French be cancelled? Would the perpetrator strike again?
Beth didn’t care about any of it. She sat off to the side, alone at one of the large drafting tables, watching Harper across the room. Even from a distance, Beth could see her fingers tapping compulsively against the side, her knees jiggling, and, like Beth, she was steering clear of the huddling gossipers, locked in her own thoughts.
She looked nervous-but not as nervous as I am, Beth thought, clutching one of Kane’s little yellow pills in the palm of her hand. She’d done some research the night before and decided one should be enough. And, according to her calculations, it was time. You had to give it some time to kick in, after all.
Beth felt like the room was watching her, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and make her move. Two cups of coffee-the lukewarm instant crap courtesy of the faculty lounge. One for her-and one for Harper, with a little something extra mixed in for flavor.
Harmless fun, Beth told herself. That’s all it was. No one would get hurt. Beth would get even.
“What are you staring at?” Harper asked sullenly, when she realized Beth was hovering over her desk. “Just thought you looked a little nervous,” Beth said. “Thought this would help.” She offered Harper a cup, making sure to give her the right one. Harper took a sip and put it down on her desk. Then she lifted it again and took a long gulp.
There’s still time, Beth told herself. I could knock over the cup before she drinks any more. I could forget the whole thing.
“Thanks, I guess.” Harper frowned. “As long as you’re here, there’s something I need to say.”
Here it came. Beth steeled herself. “Yeah?”
“I… I wanted to tell you… well, about… I’m really…” Harper closed her eyes, and a series of expressions flickered across her face as if she was having an indepth conversation inside her head. Then, all at once, she shook her head and her features relaxed into a familiar sneer. “Just don’t screw up, okay?”
Forget turning back.
Beth smiled sweetly.
“Uh, thanks. Good luck to you, too.” Beth backed away, retreated to the other side of the room-but she snuck enough glances to spot Harper downing the cup.
Beth checked her watch. It should take no more than twenty minutes. She couldn’t believe she’d actually done it. She didn’t know how she was going to wait.
At least this time she wouldn’t have any trouble choking out her introduction. The more lovely things she had to say, the higher the audience’s expectations rose, the harder Harper would fall.
Beth checked her watch again. Only a minute had passed. This was maddening. But there was nothing left for her to do now, nothing left to worry about.
All she had to do was wait it out-and then sit back and watch the show.
Play it cool, she’d told herself all night.
Play it cool, she’d insisted this morning as she wolfed down a bowl of cereal, eager to get to school to see him.
It was time to face facts: Miranda wasn’t cool.
For years now, she’d borrowed cool from Harper, but that was over now. There was no one to tell her to keep her mouth shut and go with the flow. And there was no one to calm her down when Kane gave her a casual smile and quick wave as they passed in the hall-then kept going.
Was that it?
Was the whole casino trip a one-time deal? Or was he just keeping it casual, waiting to see what she wanted? Or-
Miranda couldn’t sift through the possibilities like a rational human being. They buzzed around her, worst-case scenario piling on top of dreamscape, misery and ecstasy mixing together, and all the while, she was only half present to begin with, thanks to the chunk of her mind still dedicated to preserving the memory of his touch.