White Rabbit(42)

I’m so angry it feels like my eyes are bleeding. Paralyzed by wrath, I can’t seem to move or even think clearly enough to speak—which is fine, as there exists no insult equal to the challenge of capturing Isabel Covington’s coldblooded deviousness.

“Contrary to what you might think, Rufus, I don’t hate you,” she continues serenely, absurdly. “I’m sure you think I’m a bitch, but everything I’ve done, all the recommendations I’ve made to the board in the past, have been in your best interest. I believe you could do with a more disciplined setting than Ethan Allen offers, and I think—I hope—that someday you’ll see I’m right.”

“What. Do. You. Want?” I repeat, shaking all over and once more on the verge of tears. I cannot deal with this. I shouldn’t have to deal with this; it isn’t fair.

Isabel sighs, her nasty, self-satisfied smirk vanishing into the shadows. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Huh?” I actually cock my head to the side, my mind-altering fury stumbling over its own feet as I try to process this statement.

“April did not do this.” She declares it flatly, but an anxious line appears between her brows. “Obviously, she didn’t do this, and what she’s going through right now is … It’s a nightmare. It’s my worst nightmare.” She squeezes her eyes shut, and for the first time in possibly ever, a glimmer of fragile humanity shows through Isabel’s rock-hard exterior. Just as quickly, though, she banishes her fragile humanity back to the hell from whence it came, snarling, “It was that good-for-nothing Rossi boy, of course; his father is an alcoholic, his mother was a whore, and he’s been a time bomb waiting to go off for years. I am certain the police will find the proof against him. In time.”

This sentence has ended with a silent but, so I supply it. “But?”

“I know how bad it looks for April. The Whitneys are incredibly high-profile in this community, and the authorities will be under enormous pressure to close this case as quickly as possible.” Her mouth tightens. “The Atwoods and the Forsyths … they won’t care what the outcome is, so long as their precious little brats are kept in the clear, and I know how teenagers operate. Race and Peyton and … that Mexican girl, Lisa—”

“Lia.” Sebastian mutters his surly correction automatically.

“They won’t want to say anything. Arlo Rossi is a thug. A violent thug, and he’s had half the school cowering with fear since the day he started there.” She might just as easily be speaking of her own son, and I wonder if she even sees the irony. “He was supposed to have been held back a year, but no one wanted him at Ethan Allen a day longer than necessary—and I mean no one.” She takes a deep breath. “The kids will be terrified of retribution from him and his knuckle-dragging friends if they speak out, and so they’ll just hold their tongues and hope that April isn’t convicted for something she didn’t do. I cannot afford to be that careless.”

I can’t contain my sarcasm. “But April has a very, very good lawyer.”

“And she would be acquitted at trial,” Isabel returns promptly. “Only—”

“You don’t want it to go to trial,” Sebastian concludes.

“It would be devastating for April. This is too small a town for her to survive the kind of spotlight it would bring her under, and her entire life would be—” She swallows the words, unable to finish. “The police will have to make an arrest soon; the Whitneys will see to that. And if they can’t convince one of the other kids to turn on Arlo, April will be a sitting duck. Her life will be ruined.”

“So what’s your proposition?” I ask with toneless reluctance, sweating in fear of her answer.

“You know these kids.” Her self-consciously cultured voice is almost imploring. “I am aware that they’re not your friends, but you are their age, and they’ll admit things to you that they won’t say in front of an adult—certainly not a police officer, and certainly not in the presence of an attorney hired by their parents.” Her hands flex open and shut, that massive diamond winking and spitting moonlight. “April paid you two thousand dollars to talk to these kids, to see what you could find out, and she said you believed they were lying to you.”

“They were,” I affirm carefully, taking an instinctive step back. The stench of blackmail is still thick in the air, and I still don’t like the direction the wind is blowing. “But I can’t even be sure they were all lying about the same thing.”

“I will pay you,” Isabel finally states, “to keep trying. The money April gave you is yours; I don’t care about it, and insofar as it looks bad for her, I am happy for no one else to learn about it, either. But I will give you double again—an additional four thousand—if you can turn up evidence that exonerates April before the police are forced to make an arrest.” She steps forward, her eyes flashing. “That is critical, Rufus. The deal depends on that condition. I will pay you, but only if you can provide something that preempts April’s arrest.”

I stare at her, open-mouthed. Isabel Covington is actually begging me for help. It’s a deal with the devil—literally, from my viewpoint—but once again, the arithmetic is incredibly simple: April’s two, plus Isabel’s four, plus the two thousand my uncle Connor borrowed last Christmas together equals the eight grand my mom needs to pay back the bank. But is it worth it?