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I didn’t care.
Denton. Bryce. They both had money. So did I. My father made sure my inheritance was substantial before he disappeared years ago.
Then the lawyers told me that my mother was at the police station. She wanted to see me, but I shook my head. I didn’t want to deal with her. I hadn’t for the last few years, why start now? The two, now three, people that I did want to see were advised against coming. Their names needed to be clear from this media frenzy.
My head popped up when they said that, and a lawyer told me as if he were a robot and I were a rock, that paparazzi were already outside. Grace Barton’s death was linked back to Marcus’ and since Bryce was connected, along with Denton, it was going to spread all over the country. A movie star and soccer’s newest star, both in love with the same girl—I couldn’t stop the cringe when I heard that—was gold for social media.
Everyone would know my name.
That was when I stopped listening. I didn’t want anyone to know.
Corrigan’s shout from earlier ripped through me. I never looked at him. I didn’t dare. I would’ve bolted for him, and he would’ve fought for me. And then what would’ve happened? We would’ve both been in police custody. But then again, a small chuckle slipped out, it would’ve been like the old days. Except Corrigan was the one that always seemed to be calling us from the police station, and Bryce and I would come do
wn to post his bail.
The humor left me then. It was me this time, but I wasn’t in for a high school prank.
As I was led through booking and had my prints and my mugshot taken and then was told to wait in an overcrowded cell, I wanted to wake up. I wanted all this to be a dream, a nightmare, but then I found a corner in the back and sat down against the cold wall. I shivered and refrained from hugging myself.
A few girls were already sizing me up.
I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t about to start acting like it now.
I lifted my chin and gazed back. Everything in me was numb now.
I was being charged with Grace’s murder. What worse could happen?
CHAPTER TWO
Lawyers posted my bail that afternoon, and instead of being led out the front, they took me out the back. We went down a flight of stairs and came out into the basement of a parking garage. A black limousine was parked in front, but two of the lawyers directed me to a car behind it. There were two other cars, all black, all nondescript.
We waited a moment, and I stood there while the lawyers bent their heads with a few of the police officers. They kept looking toward the wall and gestured with wide arm movements. It was then I realized I was hearing a buzz. I frowned as I tried to concentrate. That sound wasn’t normal. Something was off, and then I heard a surge of shouts and a few flashes made their way into the basement.
Media.
I glanced up, taken aback. That’s what this whole thing was about. They were creating a diversion for me. What they had said before had been true. But then one of the lawyers came toward me and gestured to one of the smaller cars. As I got in, he sat beside me, and we waited again.
I tried to see from my window. Two police motorcycles passed us. I assumed they took the front. Their lights flashed against the cement wall around us, and then I twisted around. There were two more behind us, along with a squad car. I could only imagine another squad car was in the front as well.
And then we inched forward. The police first, the limousine second, the third and fourth cars after them. We turned right when they inched to the left.
Paparazzi swarmed around them. I couldn’t believe it. There were television camera crews and reporters everywhere. The limousine couldn’t even move. A few men climbed on top of the limousine. Some tried to take pictures through the blackened sunroof.
My throat went dry at the sight. They were there for me, because I was linked to Bryce and Denton. And because they thought I killed my friend.
The lawyer beside me handed me a newspaper. He spoke in a bland voice, “You’ve been nicknamed already. You’re ‘The Queen Bee Killer.’”
I took the paper and saw the headlines. In bold capital letters was what he said. I saw a picture of myself from school, one of Bryce at one of his games, and one from the latest movie premiere Denton had attended. My stomach twisted, and I crumpled the newspaper into a ball. I glanced at him, disgust in my gut, and asked, “You think that’s funny?”
He shrugged. “You’ll get a lot of coverage from it. It’s a good name.”
“It’s a lie.” I lifted my mouth in a snarl.
The grin didn’t leave, and he shrugged again. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
My eyes went flat. “Or maybe it’s true. Maybe I did kill her. You want to piss me off? I might gut you here and now.”
His head whipped to mine, and the smirk vanished.
