They Wish They Were Us(70)

But then I remember what he said to me in his office.

I know what goes on.

Within hours, I’m at some boxy, ugly corporate office building. It’s a nondescript gray compound just off Route 16 in Port Franklin, eleven miles from Gold Coast. Rachel meets me in the parking lot with huge, unblinking eyes. Her face is thin, too thin, like she’s lost a few pounds she couldn’t spare since I saw her last week.

I only have to talk to the lawyers for a few minutes. Pleasantries, really. They’re tall scrawny guys in expensive-looking suits and slick haircuts. They’ll test the handwriting. They’ll dig into Beaumont. Apparently, he’s had a few DUIs in the area so it won’t be hard to bring him in for questioning, they say.

I won’t even be named. No one will see me here. No one will know I was involved.

It’s only when I get home, curled up on the couch with my study guide, that I start to feel uneasy, like I planted a bomb and am now just waiting for it to go off. To witness the carnage.

My phone explodes and I drop my notes on the couch.

!!!, Rachel writes. Then she sends a link to a tweet from the Gold Coast Gazette.

GOLD COAST PREP TEACHER BROUGHT IN FOR QUESTIONING RELATED TO LOCAL KILLING. WATCH NOW!

I tap the link and hold my breath as a video loads. When it does, the picture takes up my whole screen. The clip is dark and grainy. A house or an apartment building, maybe. No, that’s not it. It’s the Gold Coast Police Department illuminated only by the moon. No street lamps in sight. Just a short stretch of concrete. Some sand in the background. I can hear waves crashing faintly in the distance. Then a chyron appears on the lower third of the screen.

A female newscaster in a pressed pantsuit walks into the frame and I pump the volume.

“What are you—” Mom yells, padding into the living room.

“Shh!”

Mom leans down and looks at my phone. “Oh my . . .” she mutters as she watches over my shoulder.

The reporter’s words are crisp and clipped through my phone’s speaker.

“The Gold Coast Police Department brought twenty-eight-year-old Logan Beaumont in for questioning tonight after receiving new information that Beaumont may have been involved in the murder of Shaila Arnold, a fifteen-year-old girl who was killed here in Gold Coast three years ago. Her classmate and boyfriend Graham Calloway was convicted of the crime soon after she was found dead. Calloway now proclaims innocence.”

Mr. Beaumont’s school photo flashes on the screen. His jaunty smile and tousled hair make him look young and hot, like a teacher who was on our side, a teacher whose students would have crushes on him. A teacher who might be capable of manipulation, of abusing his power.

Graham’s and Shaila’s class pictures appear, too. They match in their Gold Coast blazers. Side by side they look like siblings.

“The police have no comment at this time,” the reporter continues. “But we’re joined now by Neil Sorenson, an attorney who represents Graham Calloway. Mr. Sorenson, how does this affect your client?”

One of the lanky city slickers I met earlier now stands next to her. He’s dressed in the same suit, his tie still perfectly in place around his thin neck.

“For some time now, we’ve believed that Graham Calloway’s confession was coerced, that he didn’t commit this heinous crime. We’ve been building Graham’s case for appeal and while doing our jobs, we stumbled upon new leads that might bring about the truth of what really happened to Shaila Arnold.” Mr. Sorenson looks directly into the camera. The dude’s clearly had media training. “We just hope the Gold Coast Police will do their jobs, whether that means investigating Logan Beaumont or someone else. We all just want justice for Shaila Arnold.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sorenson. We have also just received a statement from Gold Coast Prep, the elite K through twelve private school where Logan Beaumont currently teaches and where both Shaila Arnold and Graham Calloway were students. The statement reads as follows: ‘Mr. Beaumont is a respected and beloved member of the Gold Coast community. We have never received any credible reports of wrongdoings since his employment began. We will be conducting our own investigation at this time.’ There you have it, Gold Coast. Reporting live from the GCPD, I’m Linda Cochran.”

The clip cuts off and my screen goes dark.

When I turn to face Mom, her hand is over her mouth and she’s scrolling through her phone at a rapid pace. “My gosh,” she murmurs. “Did you know about this?”

I shake my head. She slams her phone on the coffee table and eases onto the couch next to me, resting her hand on my shoulder. I resist the urge to flinch or pull away.

“Sweetie,” she starts. “Did Mr. Beaumont ever touch you? Did he ever hurt you?” I picture his hand burning mine in his classroom, the way his breath smelled like toothpaste and cigarettes. I feel dinner climbing up my throat.

I shake my head no. Never.

Mom squeezes my bare skin. “I have to call Cindy Miller.” She retreats from the room. The silence hurts my ears and my brain fizzes.

I pick up my phone with a trembling hand.

Did you watch? Rachel writes. This could be IT!!!!!!

I can’t bring myself to text her back but there’s another message. This one from Quentin, also sharing a link to the tweet.

Is THAT why you asked me about Beaumont???? he texts.