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Cheese Breath and Zit Lady pulled me forward, manhandling me around the corner and to the back of Hull Hall, where an unmarked police car waited, idling in the small, faculty-only parking lot. I wrenched my neck, trying to look over my shoulder at the window of Headmaster Hathaway’s office. I could see that the light was on and I willed him to look outside. To save me just like I’d been hoping he’d save Noelle.
But now, Noelle could not be saved. Because now, Noelle was dead.
Just like Thomas. Just like Cheyenne. Visions of funerals and wakes and black clothes and dark limousines and bawling friends flashed through my mind. Visions of a life without Noelle. It wasn’t possible. It was not possible.
I wanted my mom.
“Wait,” I said. “You can’t just take me. You have to tell the headmaster. You have to call my parents.”
“Done and done, kid,” the original cop said. Zit Lady got into the back seat and slid all the way to the opposite door, while Cheese Breath shoved my head down and practically kicked me in the shin to get me to join his friend. As I bounced onto the seat, I felt my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. I’d started to keep it there for the last couple of days, so I’d be sure to always have it on me. “We’re going to the station.”
Then, the door slammed. “She’s not dead,” I said, as the lead cop sat down behind the steering wheel. Cheese Breath dropped down next to him and picked up a fast-food drink from the floor to take a nice, long sip. How could he suck down root beer at a time like this? “She can’t be dead. Tell me where you found her. Tell me what’s going on.”
But they merely slammed their doors and then, just like that, we were peeling off into the night, leaving the lights of Easton Academy winking in the rearview mirror.
I sat back in the seat and tried to breathe, the muscles of my upper arms crying out in protest at being forced into such an odd angle. I knew the route to the Easton Police Station well, having been there many times after Thomas’s disappearance and Cheyenne’s death. I wondered if Detective Hauer still worked there. I practically salivated at the thought of seeing a sympathetic face right then. I needed to talk to someone I knew. Someone who had long since learned that Reed Brennan was not capable of murder.
Murder. Noelle had been murdered. Someone had murdered Noelle. Had it been painful? Had she known it was coming? Had she been scared?
Tears blurred my vision as the car whizzed through the green light at the bottom of Main Street, Easton. I caught a glimpse of the illuminated light posts that marked the front of the Easton police department, halfway up the hill. Suddenly, I was sitting up straight.
“Where’re we going?” I asked. “The station is back that way.”
I saw Gruff and Cheese Breath exchange a look. Zit Lady sighed and looked out her window.
“No one said we were Easton PD,” Gruff said, taking a turn so late the tires squealed. I was flung into Zit Lady’s side, and she shoved me off her as the car righted itself again.
My heart was now officially in overdrive. “If you’re not Easton PD, then who are you?”
“We’re state police,” Cheese Breath replied, taking another sip of his soda. “Kidnapping and murder are a bit bigger than local jurisdiction. Now how about you just sit back and shut up?”
I slumped down, feeling as if I’d been slapped. Was it normal for cops to be so outright rude? I’d just found out my best friend was dead. But then, I guess to them I was a murder suspect, which made no sense at all. Noelle had been alive this time last week. I’d seen a video of her. And I had an alibi for pretty much every second of my life since then. Besides, I had no motive, no reason on Earth to kill Noelle. What kind of evidence did these people think they had against me?
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, keeping my voice as even as possible. Outside the window there was nothing but trees. We were on some kind of dark country road with no lights, no gas stations, no nothing. One lone, chipped sign read: SOLDIER WOODS CAMPGROUNDS, 2 MILES.
“That’s for us to know and you to find out.”
Suddenly, Gruff yanked the wheel to the right and we were on a skinny, one-lane road winding through the woods. After about five minutes, we came to a clearing, and a big, abandoned house loomed in fron
t of us. It looked like something out of a movie about the old south, all white plank siding, slanted roofs, and dormered windows. But all the windows were boarded up, the plank siding was chipped and rotting, and the slanted roof on the north side had completely collapsed. The iron fencing around the snow-covered garden was bent, battered, and rusted, and the stone steps to the green front door had crumbled in spots, leaving a pile of debris at their foot.
Gruff stopped the car and the two men in front got out. Zit Lady stayed where she was, avoiding my gaze, but blocking me from making a play for her door. Gruff yanked open the door on my side, grabbed my arm, and dragged me out. Only then did Zit Lady emerge from the car, jogging ahead to the house. She stepped over the broken bits of stairs and shoved open the front door.
“What is this?” I demanded, trying to wrench free from Gruff’s grasp. He held firm, tripping me forward toward the house. “Where are we? Shouldn’t we be at a police station right about now?” I asked, as he guided me up the stairs.
I’d seen enough cop movies to know that this type of unexpected twist was not good. Were they bringing me here to coerce a confession out of me?
“Our job was to get you off campus and bring you here, kid. The FBI guys’ll be here any minute to pick you up,” Gruff said. He shoved me through the door, where the old, wooden floorboards creaked beneath our feet. There was one chair in the center of the parlor room off to the right and he deposited me onto it. My phone jammed into my butt cheek and I winced, but no one seemed to notice. There were no lights on in the place, but the moonlight poured through the huge windows behind me, lighting the room. It felt even colder in here than it had outside, as if the heat hadn’t been turned on in ages. Still, Gruff took his hat and gloves off, tossing them atop the half-wall dividing the parlor from the front hall. His brown hair stood straight up on the sides as the three of them stood before me, forming a semicircle of stern faces and crossed arms.
“In the meantime, how about you tell us what, exactly, happened to Noelle Lange?” Zit Lady said, speaking for the first time. She walked around behind me and I heard a jangle of keys as she unlocked my handcuffs. As they fell away, I whipped my hands quickly into my lap, savoring the freedom.
“I thought you said I had the right to remain silent,” I replied, rubbing my wrists.
“Oh, you do. It’s just … if you tell us the truth now, we might be able to help you cut a deal later,” Zit Lady said, slowly walking around my chair.
My heart started to pound. “I watch The Closer, you know. I’m not an idiot. You’re trying to get me to confess without a lawyer around.”
Zit Lady snorted a laugh. “You don’t want to talk, fine. You can tell it all to the FBI when they get here.”
