Ros snatches the notebook off the top of the stack and begins rifling through its pages. “What the actualfuck, Connor?” she spits. “What was he planning to do with these?”
Connor seems to brace himself for the inevitable fallout. “We believe he was writing a book about the club.”
“A book.”
“It appears he’d already signed a contract. We have the name of the acquiring editor, so we can contact them and make sure nothing—”
The little notebook whips through the air, hitting the wall behind him with an impotent smack. “How could you have missed this?” Ros shouts. “You have one job—one. Keep all our information secure.”
He looks ashamed. “All our systems were designed to search for digital devices.”
“So, what you’re saying is that anyone could outsmart you using a freakin’ pencil, the absolute height of technology.” She slow claps. “Well done, you.”
“Ros.” Greer shoots her a look, but she appears just as shaken. I regret not telling her about the notebooks earlier; she shouldn’t have been blindsided.
“It’s not like we weren’t aware of his problems,” Connor says. “We knew all about his financial issues, the fact that he’d been fired from his job, relapsed into addiction. We offered him money. A three-month stay at the rehab clinic of his choice.”
“And?” Imogen asks.
“He refused. Kept assuring us that he was getting clean and that he’d found work.”
“And by ‘found work,’ he meant selling out the rest of us.” Ros collapses back against the cushions, and it’s only then that I realize she’s started crying. “Fuck him. Fuck him.Fuck him.” She kicks the coffee table with every reprise, its wooden legs scratching the floor as it shifts an inch each time. Then she presses her face into her hands, shoulders hitching up and down with her muffled sobs. Imogen rubs her back, muttering, “There, there.”
Kemy, meanwhile, has started thumbing through the notebooks. “If anyone knew about these, that could’ve been the reason he was murdered. You said they were discovered in his room this morning. Who found them? Where were they?”
“I did,” Connor says, a little too quickly, but no one appears to notice. “I was cleaning out his room and found them tucked under his mattress.”
Hannah’s still staring at the floor. Why lie about who found the notebooks? Is he trying to protect her from their questions?
“It couldn’t have been anyone here,” Imogen says, still rubbing circles onto Ros’s back. “I know all of you; we’ve done counseling together. It has to be someone else.”
Kemy flips to the next page, a scrap coming loose from the binding. “You know, if they’d rushed publication, they could’ve cashed in on the success ofTo Catch a Killer.” She catches my gaze over the top of the notebook. “He’s almost filled Nicola’s. Looks like he intended to focus most of the chapters on her.”
The weight of their attention settles on me. I’ve been here before: pushing my shopping cart through the aisles of Costco, while my neighbors all watched, half-hidden behind the freezer chests and pastry displays, waiting until I’d rounded the corner before they started slandering me, hands cupped around their whispers. But that can’t be happening here, not when everyone in the room’s just like me.
Greer steps forward, positions herself between me and them. “Nic’s identity is already common knowledge. A book wouldn’t change anything for her.”
“Maybe not, but he recorded all her private thoughts, with the aim of making them public. That would be enough to make anyone feel like they’d been violated, especially since some of what she disclosed isn’t the most complimentary.” Kemy gestures to the current page. “She doesn’t, for instance, have many nice things to say aboutyou.”
Greer crosses the room and, before Kemy can argue, swipes the notebook out of her hands. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s going to start reading it for herself, but instead, she passes it back to Connor.
“That sounds like it’d makememore of a suspect than her. Unless you think I want everyone gossiping about what an absolute cunt I am right before my dad’s hearing.” She addresses the room: “The truth is, we all have reasons for not wanting this information out there. Which means we all had sufficient motive for committing this crime.”
The others look away, visibly uncomfortable. Ros is worried abouther family, sure; Kemy, about her career; but thanks to those notebooks, I now understand the others have just as much to lose. Imogen must be thinking about that lawsuit, how the prosecution would react if they discovered to whom she was related. Hannah believes that her mother’s mental condition is improving, but if the press learns who she is, if they begin pursuing her as relentlessly as they have me, then she may never escape that psychiatric hospital. As for Connor, I remember how he hounded Zach at the airport, refusing to budge until he produced the MP3 player hidden in his bag. MP3 players have the ability to record audio, don’t they? Could he have suspected all along that Zach might betray us? And as soon as he received confirmation, would he have done whatever was necessary to ensure the club’s safety?
Greer lets the statement hang there, and when the tension’s started to make the others fidget, shift back and forth on the cushions, she says, “Let’s not start throwing around accusations. All we need to focus on is staying safe.”
“Should we call the police?” Hannah asks, her fingers twisting around the strings of her hoodie.
“We can’t,” Connor says. “Someone broke the tablet.”
Ros looks up, eyes red-rimmed and still damp. “You’re kidding. Like, on purpose?”
Connor and Greer exchange a look, probably remembering the theory she floated last night: that Ros destroyed the tablet to keep us from calling the police. “Like on purpose,” he says, “but it’s all right. If we follow some simple guidelines, we can all stay safe until the bus arrives tomorrow morning.”
“Because you’ve done a real bang-up job of that so far.”
He ignores her. “We need to stay indoors. Make sure all doors and windows stay locked at all times. Double-check, triple-check, and stay together, preferably in groups of three.”
