Ace of Spades Sneak Peek(56)
The next downloaded page comes up on the screen—the dates and times of the logged texts.
Like Peter said, they all happened around ten o’clock.
22:06
22:13
21:57
All on a Sunday or Monday night. Who would have access to the school at that time? The janitor? The teachers? Anyone could steal a key …
My phone buzzes and I jump.
Is it weird that I’ve never watched The Notebook before?—B
I smile down at her message, feeling guilty for being happy that she texted when Jamie is still obviously upset. A good friend would try to fix his relationship with her … But I don’t have to be a good friend to someone who isn’t one to me.
Yes, really weird, you should change that soon.
I look down at my phone, waiting for her reply.
Maybe I was too forward.
I don’t want her to think I was suggesting she come over and watch it, even though that’s what I was suggesting.
I’m regretting sending it.
Are you free now? I have it on DVD.—B
I look at my laptop’s screen as another download pops up.
Logged at 22:04 on Sunday … That can’t be right.
I scroll, zooming in on the page and details. My heart picks up.
How is it possible that Aces knew I would be accused of stealing candy on Tuesday, when they logged it on Sunday night at 10:04 p.m.?
My mom’s making pancakes too …—B
I look down at her message. The sense of impending doom in my chest makes me feel like someone has wrapped their hands around my neck, blocking my air supply.
Blond hair. Blood. Tarmac.
At any moment, Aces could release more lies or more truths. The police could come knocking on my front door, lock my wrists together in handcuffs, and drag me away while the disappointment on my parents’ faces burns into my mind forever.
I need to go through all of what Peter has sent over, make sure I have an airtight plan to take back to Devon tomorrow.
Sorry, something came up.
I was just starting to have a real friend, and, like everything else, Aces is ruining that too.
21
DEVON
Wednesday
“And?” I ask as Chiamaka holds up sheets of paper with words and numbers I don’t understand. Her bright-pink Prada bag is a little distracting.
“This was logged before I was accused!” she whisper-shouts.
I look back at the pages, trying to understand her with absolutely no context. I can see rows of numbers—times, some before ten o’clock and some after.
“What was logged?”
She sighs loudly. “Oh my god, for someone up against me for valedictorian, you really are slow.”
“Maybe if you explained yourself, I’d understand,” I spit back.
She gives me a tight, sarcastic smile.
“Peter sent me the documents yesterday afternoon. I found the times linked with the messages sent, and the times they were scheduled and logged on this mysterious computer 17. The time my supposed theft was logged was two whole days before it happened—do you get it now?”
Shit.
“So, it was a setup?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously.”
I turn to face her properly now, moving away from my keyboard.
“Who would set you up?”
She shrugs, shaking her head like even the thought of it is making her distressed.
“My … friend Jamie was with me in the shop at the time.”
“Would he do it?”
“No! Of course not,” she says, not sounding convinced.
“Who else was in the shop?”
“I didn’t see clearly—but we’ve got four days until Sunday, when we can catch them. Or at least catch whoever Aces got to do it. In the meantime, I’m going to ask the janitor about that power outage.”
I nod. I’ve been able to breathe a little more, as Aces has been quiet for a few days. But I’m still on edge; I hate not knowing what might happen next—and I want to know who is behind this.
“I’ll give you updates when I can.” She pauses and gives my keyboard a look, like it’s beneath her, which reminds me of why I don’t like her. “Bye.”
Chiamaka’s clicking heels echo as she walks down the hallway. I turn back to my keyboard and grab the sheet of music I was writing on before she came in and disrupted my flow. I hope she doesn’t make a habit of visiting me in my happy place. Too many people are ruining it lately.
I don’t know what our regular chats make us, but I know for sure that we are not friendly enough to ruin each other’s happy places. I don’t go into her labs without warning, but I guess she doesn’t have the same courtesy. I almost mentioned Terrell’s race theory, but stopped myself because 1) I don’t know if she’d buy it, and 2) the thought of some racist student doing this because I’m Black—we’re Black—is too sickening to even make it a prime possibility.
I stare down at the sheet, and I touch the keys with my left hand, trying to make sense of the rhythm, trying to make it perfect. Right now it sounds so clunky and disjointed. Juilliard would reject it in a second.
I rub my eyes and move away from the keyboard once again. I can’t work or play when I’m this frustrated, so I text Terrell, hoping he doesn’t find it weird that I’m texting him during school.