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Suicide?
He wouldn’t bet on it. If Nona had wanted to off herself, swallowing a bottle of pills would have been a whole lot easier, and though all prescriptions were carefully monitored, there was a black market on campus, just as there was in most prisons. If someone wanted something badly enough and was willing to pay, trade, or barter, they could get it. Despite what all the glossy literature about Blue Rock Academy claimed about being drug-free, there were cracks in the shiny veneer.
There had been discussions of how to curtail the problem but no permanent solutions.
If Trent were to bet on the source of the black market, he’d probably pick some of the TAs. They seemed to get far more privileges than just a year or two of good behavior should warrant. Roberto Ortega and Tim Takasumi spent a lot of time in the clinic and computer lab, areas restricted to the regular students.
And they knew a lot about the kids who were enrolled here—not only by hanging out with them and working in the classroom, but also through other means, or so Trent concluded. Assistants such as Missy Albright, Kaci Donahue, and Ethan Slade worked in the counseling offices, too, close to sensitive files. Zach Bernsen and Eric Rolfe had access to the stables, water craft, and weapons used in survival skills. Yeah, the rules were decidedly loose for the group of kids who’d elected to stay on after graduation. Privileges granted.
Andrew Prescott was being considered, after his graduation, to become one of the youngest teaching assistants, a new recruit. Reverend Lynch had mentioned it in the last staff meeting and had indicated that Andrew’s parents were interested in him being a part of the program. What Andrew had thought of it, Trent didn’t know and wondered if he, or anyone else, ever would.
Because Andrew was now fighting for his life.
What the hell had happened in the hayloft? Trent asked himself for the millionth time as the tires crunched through new snow and slipped into icy ruts. From all appearances, it seemed that Nona Vickers had met Drew Prescott for the express purpose of sex. Their clothes were piled together. The unzipped sleeping bag in the loft had been mussed, the flannel lining probably stained with blood and semen.
So if it started as a romp in the hay, something had gone wrong.
Something had happened.
He’d considered and discounted various theories involving rape, a gang bang, or a suicide pact. But he kept getting back to the fact that these kids had been found in a love den, and they were both naked.
Were they having sex when a third person had discovered them in the hayloft?
But who?
And why?
What other person had been skulking around the stable deep in the night?
Trent remembered Nona’s body. There were no contusions other than the bruising around her neck, no cuts or scrapes or broken fingernails. If the hanging didn’t kill her, she had died by a means that didn’t leave other visible damage. And it had been no quick snap of the neck, as evidenced by the petechial hemorrhaging. He’d made sure that the detectives on the scene, Baines and Jalinsky, had noted the tiny broken blood vessels in Nona’s eyes. It pointed to a slow suffocation.
As for Drew Prescott, he, too, had been naked, so it seemed unlikely he was leaving the scene. Even if he’d been scared away, his natural instinct would have been to grab his pants. Right?
No matter how you sliced it, the evidence pointed to a third party in that loft.
He thought of Shaylee Stillman’s hat. The only clue connecting her. He discarded the cap as a plant, left to point the guilt her way. If Shaylee had gone to all the trouble of stringing Nona from the rafters and getting rid of Drew, she would have snagged her yellow cap rather than leave it as a beacon shining the blame right on her.
Unless she’d been too freaked out and made a mistake.
She could have gotten careless.
Hell. He flipped the wipers onto a higher tempo as the snowfall increased.
And what was Shaylee’s motive for killing Nona?
Privacy? A room to herself? Was her roommate an easy target? Then what about Drew? And how could she pull it off?
No, it just didn’t make sense.
But nothing did.
There were so many threads dangling and no way to tie them together.
Scowling as he stared through the windshield, he remembered seeing the flash of yellow-blond hair or a light-colored cap the night the filly had been left out. Shaylee’s University of Oregon hat? Missy Albright’s platinum hair? Something else? The woman he’d overheard had worried that something would happen to her.
Who knows who could be next? she’d worried aloud.
Had she been talking about Lauren? That would be Trent’s guess. Had the speaker been Nona Vickers, predicting her own demise?
