Take the Fall(82)

“Aren’t you supposed to be learning or something?”

The door of the guidance office clicks shut behind me. I look up to find Shelly walking toward me in uniform.

“There was some stuff I had to clear up for my scholarship.” I glance around, looking for the sheriff or Amir. If Marcus turned in the recording, I expect to have half the sheriff’s office and my mother down my throat. But Shelly’s alone. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m just covering for Deputy Brennan. His wife had a baby last night, so I got volun-told to cover the school, and you, for a couple weeks.” She winks at me.

I breathe a sigh of relief. He hasn’t handed it over yet . . . though I’m not sure why he’d wait. “Thanks again for pitching in at the diner Monday. It really meant a lot.”

“Glad I could help out. It was fun working with Dina again.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re heading off to college already. We’re all so proud of you.”

“Thanks.” I hesitate, clearing my throat. “Even my mom seems to want me to go now.”

“Are you kidding? I thought she was going to freak right out when you got that scholarship. She busted in on the sheriff’s meeting with the mayor, she was so excited.”

I squirm. “That . . . sounds like my mother.” Shelly isn’t one to exaggerate, but sometimes it’s hard to tell my mom’s happy excitement from her panicky angst. I’m pretty sure her enthusiasm is a recent development.

“She knows it hasn’t been easy, but you’ve worked so hard. And for you to do it all by yourself . . .”

She doesn’t finish her thought, but I dig my fingernails into my palms. I’m not surprised my mom blabbed to her about the Meyers’ offer to send me to college. I never want to know what strings Gretchen pulled to convince them to do it. I’m just relieved I didn’t have to accept.

“Hey, I wanted to ask, is anything new happening with the case?”

She frowns, standing a little straighter. “There isn’t a whole lot to report right now, but Mr. Meyer’s been putting the heat on all of us. It’s the top of our agenda.”

“What about the other postcard?” I chew my bottom lip. “Did the sheriff make anything of that?”

“Other postcard?”

My stomach tightens at the blank look on her face.

“There’s only been the one, to my knowledge.” Her eyes go serious. “Unless you got another.”

I don’t know what to say. I was anxious that Sheriff Wood hadn’t followed up with me about it yesterday, but when I saw Kirsten at school, she told me all about their conversation. She said he’d called a meeting immediately and arranged for a deputy to keep an eye on her. She seemed relieved he was taking it so seriously and I’d told her not to worry. There’s no way Shelly wouldn’t know about this.

Unless Kirsten was lying.

“That’s just . . . weird,” I say, trying to keep my cool. “Kirsten told me she got one too. I don’t know why she wouldn’t report it.”

“Kirsten Meyer?” Shelly pulls her radio off her belt and eyes me suspiciously. “Sonia, if you hear stuff like this, please don’t hesitate to tell me.” She walks off to radio the sheriff’s office.

I watch her leave, my head spinning with every reason Kirsten might have lied to me, and none of them are good. I think of her waiting in my bedroom with a postcard identical to mine. Of Gretchen slashing Marcus’s painting and pointing the finger at me for their breakup. But I wasn’t the one she found him with the night of the party.

I thought you knew he was seeing Kirsten Meyer.

The Evil Bean is almost empty when I walk in, though the music blares angry as ever. Marcus is behind the coffee bar cleaning one of the espresso machines with his back to the door. He doesn’t look up until I bang the little steel bell on the counter.

“Hey.” He turns his head, startled. “Is everything okay?”

“Is this a bad time?” My voice shakes. “You’re not waiting to see someone else?”

He sets his cleaning rag down and comes around the edge of the counter. “No, did something happen?”

My face is hot. I don’t even know how to start. I push up the sleeves of my hoodie, and that’s when I realize it’s like a sauna in here. Marcus is in a light T-shirt, the hair on his forehead damp with sweat. I look across the room and the stupid fireplace they never turn on is now blazing away with all the doors and windows wide open.

“Fireplace won’t turn off, they’re trying to get it fixed.” He looks over his shoulder at the guy with the neck tattoo, carrying in a tabletop fan. “Do you want to talk outside?”

The air is thick and suffocating, but I don’t think I can force my feet to move. “Here is fine.”

He leans on the back of a chair, looking perplexed, and for a second we’re back in the studio, lips crushed together, his hands in my hair, and I don’t—can’t—believe that wasn’t real.

“What do you know about that postcard I got?”

“What do you mean? I was there when you found it.”

“Yeah, you were.” I clutch my stomach. “So, whose idea was it? Were you helping Kirsten, or was she helping you?”