I, on the other hand, ran unopposed for my position as school treasurer.
The annual retreat is the best part of being on student council. But things are still a little tense with Sage, so I’ve been on the fence about attending.
“You have to come,” she says, linking her arm through mine. “Please, don’t leave me alone with the Abbotts.”
“The Abbotts?” I scan the hall, spotting Henry waiting for me at the lockers.
“Apparently, they’re really interested in student government all of a sudden. It’s so obvious they’re just trying to pad their high school résumés after everything last year. And Mr. Fuller is the only club advisor stupid enough to fall for it.”
“He’s stupid for letting high school students…join a club?”
“Yeah,” she says, like it’s obvious. “For letting murderers join a club.”
“Bye, Sage,” I say, tugging my arm out of hers.
“Allegedmurderers, then,” she calls as I stride ahead of her. “You’ll come though, right?”
“Maybe,” I call back. If Henry’s going on the retreat, that changes things.
I make my way through the crammed hallway to him. “I guess congratulations are in order.” When he arches a brow, I add, “On your student government appointment. What, uh, is your title exactly? Vice Keeper of the Striped Polos?” Henry rarely veers from his uniform of jeans and a striped polo shirt, though he’s changed up the top half today. “Nice sweatshirt, by the way.” It’s the navy-blue zip-up hoodie I gave all three triplets last Christmas when no one else—not even their parents—gave them a present. Embroidered on the back of each hoodie is a large whiteAforAbbott.
“It’s my favorite, though I think this one might actually be Bram’s,” he says, tugging at the pouch pocket.
“I thought it smelled a little like rain and gloom.”
“And my position isKeeperof the Striped Polos, Second-in-Command to No One.”
“Atta boy.” I knock my fist against his arm. “So this is for real? And you’re going on the retreat?”
“Well, yeah. I thought you’d be going,” he says, causing my insides to melt.
“I am,” I say. “But you never actually said what the three of you would be doing on student council.”
“Mr. Fuller said we could be senior class reps. I guess he had to fire a couple of them for misuse of power—a.k.a. stealing snacks from the teacher’s lounge when they were supposed to be making copies.”
“You and Bram could easily get back on the football team,” I suggest. “I mean, they obviously need you. They haven’t won a—”
“Not without Adam,” he says, shutting the idea down.
I get it. Football has never truly been Henry or Bram’s thing. They only played for the sake of their brother, Adam, who’d been the team’s star wide receiver and hero of both the school and the town—at least until last year. The accident that killed Mariana left him physically incapable of playing again, as well as the town’s number one murder suspect.
I guess student government is the only thing all three brothers can do together. And considering how their schoolmates have treated them since they returned to Silver Creek High last month, they need each other. Strength in numbers.
The brothers—fraternal triplets actually, who look nothing alike—have been working in their family’s auto repair shop since they were old enough to hold tools. The shop is located at the base of their massive property, just down a winding dirt road from their nineteenth-century hilltop mansion. Back in the 1950s, the boys’ great-grandfather Peter J. Abbott worked as a private auto mechanic for the reclusive elderly mansion owner. The wealthy man who’d first built the place had collected some of the earliest automobiles, including a Ford Model B that’s still displayed in a special showroom in the house. Cars back then were luxury items that needed constant work, so the mansion had its own dedicated repair shop. The wealthy family’s enthusiasm for cars continued to the next generation: the man who hired Peter. Over the years the old man came to consider Peter a son more than a hired hand, and when he passed away, he left the entire property and the shop to Peter.
The inheritance made waves in town, stirring up talk that the old man hadn’t died of natural causes. The story goes that someone even came forth claiming to be the man’s real son and demanding to see the will. But Peter’s employer had been well into his eighties, and his lawyer had overseen the changes in the will himself. There wasn’t any substance to the whispers—they’d likely come from the town’s elites, the snobs with homes up in the hills near the mansion. The Abbotts, in their eyes, didn’t deserve a place beside them.
Eventually the suspicions died down, and Peter Abbott thrived in his newfound life, living in the mansion with his family and training his son to be a mechanic. His son, the triplets’ grandfather, saw the opportunity to expand and opened the repair shop to the public, singlehandedly turning it into the go-to auto shop for the residents of Silver Creek.
The triplets’ father, Jonathan Abbott, never took to the auto business—he prefers spending money to earning it, jetting off to Bali or Marrakesh whenever he can. The boys, though, have no intentions of living off trust funds forever. They learned everything from their grandfather and took over as much of the business as they could after he passed away, working after school and on weekends to keep up with the town’s auto repair needs.
One day after school, the brothers were working on Mariana’s sedan. When they finished, Mariana said goodbye and started driving the car, which burst into flames before she’d even exited the property gate. The ambulance had to come all the way from Central Springs, the nearest hospital, and by the time it finally arrived,Mariana was dead. Adam, who’d attempted to pull her from the burning vehicle, sustained second- and third-degree burns to his hands, arms, and face.
Our town, having long awaited just such a scandal, began to speculate that the explosion was no accident. The car had been tampered with, they claimed. And Adam hadn’t tried tosavethe girl—he’d been burned trying to keep her inside as the flames swallowed her whole.
It’s nothing but ridiculous rumors. These people had been biding their time, waiting for some crack in the Abbott family’s handsome and opulent exterior. Waiting so they could jump in and knock the family and their mansion to the ground.
But I’ve been the Abbott boys’ neighbor my entire life. Okay,neighboris a bit of a stretch. My house at the base of the hill is the closest one to their property. To get to their house, I have to trek twenty minutes along a dirt lane, past the fields of crops and the woods that span the Abbott property. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and when my mom passed away three years ago, the brothers took care of me. They left their lavish abode to come into my humble one, so Dad and I wouldn’t be alone.
