People Like Us(8)

If you succeed, no one will ever find out what you did.

Most cordially yours,

Jessica Lane

P.S. At the risk of sounding cliché, talking to the police would not go well for you, Kay. It never has, has it?

The email was sent from Jessica’s Bates account. For a moment the thought that she’s still alive runs through my mind and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe it’s all been one massive, surreal mistake. Of course, that would also mean we left a bleeding victim alone in a lake. It would be a miracle, but we’d probably be guilty of attempted homicide or something. Oh God, I am dead meat. Then I talk myself down. I know, without a doubt, that she is dead.

It’s possible that someone else sent the email from her account. But the idea is so twisted, I can’t even entertain it. She must have written the message before she died and timed it to be sent now. The wording makes it look like she knew she was going to die. Her final project. Not attending college. Or maybe I’m reading into it. Finals are looming and there are tons of reasons people don’t go to college.

This email might convince the cops that she wasn’t murdered after all. I could take it to the police and possibly end the investigation right now.

But the postscript sends a chill down my spine.

There is a link at the bottom of the page that says jessicalanefinalproject.com. I click on it.

The screen goes blank for a long moment and then an image of a rustic country kitchen with a cast-iron stove appears. Letters slowly fog up on the glass window of the stove until the name of the site is crystal clear: Revenge Is a Dish: A Delicious Guide to Taking Down Your Enemies.





3


I click on the link frantically, but the site is password protected. Revenge Is a Dish. Jessica’s final project was revenge. And she sent it straight to me. I make one more pointless attempt to open the site and then push my laptop as far away from me as I can. I can’t take my eyes off it, though.

I wish Spencer hadn’t screwed things up so royally. A devoted gamer as well as an athlete, he would be able to hack into the site effortlessly. I scroll down through my recent-calls list. He’s never been more than one swipe down and it depresses me. I keep expecting him to call to apologize again, to check on me, to tell me something random reminded him of me. But apparently, nothing ever does.

I drop my phone onto the bed and turn back to my laptop. I log on to the school community network and scroll through the student body, looking for someone who might be able to help. Bates is a strong STEM school, and a decent number of students know at least some coding. Maddy, Brie, and Cori have all taken STEM-heavy course loads. I could try Maddy—she’s taken the most coding classes—but I’m hesitant. Based on the threat in the letter, I don’t want my friends anywhere near Jessica’s project, and least of all Maddy. I would rather not have anyone I interact with at all involved. The less social credibility, the better. Just in case they learn something and it’s my word against theirs.

Nola Kent. There’s a little green dot next to her name, indicating that she’s online. I hesitate before sending her a personal message. Two years ago, when Nola was a new transfer, Tai and Tricia and I had been a little hard on her. Mostly behind her back. We may have come up with a well-chosen nickname or rumor or two. But that was ages ago. She’d probably feel more awkward than I did if I brought it up. Not our fault if she dresses like a cross between a funeral director and a killer doll. And she’s come to a few soccer games since then, so I figure no hard feelings.

Hey, you there? I hit enter and wait.

Her class picture pops up along with ellipses to show she’s responding. She is very short and waiflike, with long, thick dark hair that seems to overwhelm the rest of her body. Her skin is porcelain white and she has bright-blue eyes that are so round, she always looks stunned. The word that comes to mind when I think of Nola Kent is slight. She’s just not very much of anything, or so we thought when we started messing with her. But it turned out that she has an extremely valuable little quirk. She can wreak havoc with codes and systems. Hi.

I’m having trouble getting into a website.

Is it password protected?

Yes.

Do you have the password?

No.

Are you supposed to?

It’s a long story.

Tell me.

I sigh. I need to know what Jessica thinks she had on me, and what she meant by enemies and revenge. And Nola is my best shot at finding out and keeping the information contained. Let’s meet.

Where? Swarmed.

Library.

In five.

I slip out the back entrance of the dormitory to avoid the crowds and head down the hill to the library. Outside, the air smells like wood smoke and cider, the way it should on an early November Saturday. The sounds of the reporters and mourners still carry over from the front of the building. Some of them have begun singing hymns, while others continue to talk. It’s like a cross between an outdoor wake and a giant tailgate. It’s gauche and bizarre and creepy. Beyond the crowd of mourners, there actually aren’t too many students out on the green between the dorms and the academic quad, and I slow my pace and kick at the dead leaves contemplatively. This was supposed to be a huge day. Practice until five, dinner with Brie and Justine, and then we were all going to make a definitive decision on whether Spencer could ever be trusted again. I mean, the answer is probably pretty obvious. According to Justine, an extremely reliable source of gossip at Easterly, he cheated on me with a Bates student at the café where we had our first official date. But people change. Everyone’s done regrettable stuff in the past. Raise your hand if you haven’t. Yeah.