Dial Em for Murder (27 page)

Literally, as it turned out.

My heart lurched, the gleam of sweat on my palms threatening my grip on the casserole dish. I still couldn't bring myself to move. To hide. To flee. To do something—
anything
—more than staring wide-eyed with horror at the door. My pulse pounded away like a jackhammer on a construction site, loud enough to be heard a mile away.

He was getting closer.

The message was replaced only by the achingly familiar password screen. Sebastian's voice rang out in my head, complete with the annoyed gruffness that always seemed to simmer beneath his words.

There has to be something that you know, Emmy. Something that I don't.

My grip on the casserole dish tightened. I knew that I didn't want to die. Not here. Not now. Not ever, truthfully, but
definitely
not like this. The fear and panic began to slow as a sense of unreality settled over me. This couldn't be happening, but since it
was
, well, then I might as well go down fighting. It was kind of amazing how quickly true desperation eliminated the fear of looking stupid. So what if my last-minute password attempts sounded ridiculous? If it didn't work, I'd be dead. There was no downside to going straight for the jugular. Just like Frederick St. James had advised back in the coffee shop.

I typed in J-U-G-L-A-R to make it fit and hit Enter.

I tried to recall those first moments in Starbucks, the shock of having my drink snatched away from me. The way I'd met the icy blue eyes that Sebastian had inherited, right before I insisted that the Frappuccino was
mine
.

There had to be something I was missing. Some clue. Some signal.

Something.

The Slate buzzed again.

Ignoring the words on the screen, I focused on my one memory of Frederick St. James. The kindness that had washed over his features when he had called me “Gracie.”

G-R-A-C-I-E

My stomach twisted and roiled as I fought back the tears pricking my eyes. There was so much more I wanted to
do
with my life. I wanted to see my name in print, to stand right next to Audrey when we tossed our graduation caps into the air, to have the kiss I'd always fantasized about with Ben. I wanted to tell him how I felt, even if it cost us our friendship. I wanted to hug my mom and trade “I love yous” with her one last time. To apologize for being defeated by a six-character riddle.

I wanted one last chance to be completely honest.

Maybe if Frederick St. James had been a little more upfront, nobody would be on the verge of gunning me down. The guy had obviously suspected somebody or else he wouldn't have created his Potential Hostile alert. A sane person would have shared that fear with friends. Family members. Colleagues. Maybe if he'd trusted
somebody
they could have come up with a loophole out of this mess.

Wasn't that supposed to be the first rule of Emptor Academy? There's always a caveat.

My fingers shaking, I typed C-A-V-E-A-T onto the screen.

Nothing happened.

My legs nearly buckled in defeat, but I couldn't give up. Couldn't let this be the end. Couldn't—

A searing light burst from the Slate, blinding me as completely as a military-grade weapon designed to stun insurgents.

There was no way the killer hadn't noticed a flash, bright enough to have pink splotches dancing in front of my eyes, shining through the cracks of the door.

My last-ditch, long shot of a backup plan had given me away for good.

Time didn't slow down for me the way it does in the movies.

If anything, it sped up.

The Slate in my hand vibrated out of control, probably trying to warn me that the Potential Hostile was closing in and that I should
get the hell out
. Unfortunately, I still couldn't see two feet in front of my face. The pink splotches began dancing with some royal blue blotches and together they produced beautiful butterfly offspring that flitted across my vision. I shoved the Slate deep into my sweatshirt pocket, vaguely grateful that it was no longer trying to burn out my eyes. The electronic blast had died as quickly as it blazed to life. Except the damage was done. The multi-colored winged creatures continued flapping in front of my eyes, making it impossible for me to see the door.

There was nothing wrong with my hearing. I couldn't mistake the splintering crack of wood as a very strong, very motivated individual delivered a series of hard kicks to the door. I twisted instinctively to face the entrance, even though I wouldn't be able to discern more than the general shape of my killer. It was almost funny, in a seriously twisted way; the killer had been a grayish blob on the security film and even meeting face to face wouldn't give me any more clarity.

Not unless he toyed with me long enough for the bright spots to fade.

The chair I had propped up against the knob must have either broken or skidded across the floor. Not that it really made a difference either way, considering that the end result was the same. The barrier was gone and I was screwed.

“Marco.” The cheery voice sounded eerily familiar. I stared at the doorway, desperately trying to place it. To identify the Starbucks killer who'd been terrorizing me ever since that first day in the coffee shop.

Lime green blotches left me with only a hazy outline.

“You're supposed to say, ‘Polo.'” The faceless blob chided me.

“Polo,” I said, right before I launched the casserole dish out the closed window. A loud
crack
rang through the otherwise silent room, sending glass raining down onto the floor. If that didn't capture the attention of the guards, Emptor Academy seriously needed to upgrade their security system. Surely
somebody
would notice.

Although now that the casserole dish was no longer in my hands, I wanted to hit rewind and throw it at the blob that was slowly taking form in front of me instead.

“Well, that wasn't very hospitable, Emmy. It's not polite to destroy private property.”

Ms. Pierce had a broad smile plastered across her delicately featured face.

Everything inside me lurched to a sudden stop. Fear was temporarily clouded by complete disbelief as I tried to make sense of the figure silhouetted in the doorway.

“But . . . you're a woman.”

“Obviously someone wasn't paying close attention in class. Men aren't the only ones capable of murder.” She tutted as if I'd asked for a deadline extension on an upcoming assignment. “That kind of thinking will get you killed.”

“But the guy on the Starbucks security footage—”

She winked, as if sharing a private joke, and my stomach dropped a foot. “Everyone always focuses on the hat and the sweatshirt. As soon as I ditched them and added a swipe of red lipstick, I was virtually unrecognizable. The only second glances I got were from the idiots who still think women enjoy their wolf whistling.”

“But why would you—”

“
Emmy
,” Ms. Pierce said my name like a gentle rebuke. “Life is a gamble—and you lost. Well, technically,
I
lost, but once you hand over that Slate you've been hiding, my debt will be cleared.”

“W-who holds the debt? Maybe we could work something out? I'm not opposed to vacuuming. Have I mentioned that I'm excellent at ironing clothes? Ironing. Folding. All of it.”

She shook her head with mock disappointment. “This isn't that kind of debt, and trust me, you don't want to start making deals. I'm not the only one gunning for you.” Ms. Pierce grinned at her own pun. “You'd have fared worse with the ones at the police precinct.”

It was kind of hard to trust someone who planned on, y'know,
killing me
.

“You saw me there?” I croaked, my voice so thready I barely recognized it. “Why didn't you—” I couldn't get out the rest, my lips felt too clumsy for any of the euphemisms that sprang to mind. Why didn't you attack me? Whack me? End me?

Send me to the big coffee shop in the sky?

Ms. Pierce stepped farther into the room. “Patience isn't a virtue, Emmy. It's a skill set. If Frederick St. James hadn't rushed in to protect you, I never would have made the connection. Ironic, isn't it? That the place he thought you'd be safest only brought you closer to me.” She laughed. “Fate is such a fickle bitch.”

I stumbled slightly over my own feet as I backed away from her, the unmistakable sound of glass crunching underneath my sneakers filled the brief silence between us.

The security guards will notice the casserole dish on the lawn. It's just a matter of time.

Ms. Pierce didn't seem inclined to cut her lecture short, probably because it wasn't every day that she had such a rapt audience.

“I admit, I expected tracking you down would be far more time consuming, and since my employer doesn't like to be kept waiting, your stupidity has worked out for the best.”

“
Hey!
” I protested. She was already getting paid to kill me, she didn't need to add insult to impending injury.

“I talked with some of your other teachers. You've made quite an impression on your first day. Very erratic behavior. Mouthing off to Mr. Bangsley, fleeing the cafeteria during lunch, and then getting caught with a boy in the girls' locker room.” She shook her head in silent reproach, then threw a chair out the same window I'd shattered only minutes earlier. Fear paralyzed me. I wasn't sure if she intended to throw me out of the enormous hole or if the chair was part of some elaborate endgame she had concocted. I couldn't think clearly as larger chunks of glass skittered across the floor. “Those aren't the actions of an emotionally stable girl.”

Right, because she was obviously such an expert on emotional stability.

“I tried to talk you down, of course, but you were inconsolable. You've been suffering from the worst delusions. Crippling paranoia. You even convinced yourself that someone wanted you
dead.
It's such a tragedy.”

She was setting the scene. I remembered that much from her lecture on committing the perfect crime. Hearing her discuss my death so calmly had cold sweat trickling down my back.

“You're going to make it look like a suicide.”

“Oh no, sweetie. You
are
going to commit suicide. Just as soon as you give me that Slate you've been hiding.”

Fear zapped through me like an electric current. “What's the hurry? I'm not going anywhere. You don't want to mess it up by rushing like what's-her-name, do you?”

“Ruth Snyder.” Ms. Pierce moved so swiftly that I was unprepared for her thin fingers to wrap around my arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “There's one pivotal difference: I don't have an obvious motive for murder. My employer requires complete discretion. Nobody will ever believe I had anything to gain by the death of a scholarship girl, especially one as staggeringly unexceptional as you. This school is full of opportunities and you've squandered every single one of them.”

Something clicked inside me as Ms. Pierce began dragging me toward the shattered window.

I officially had nothing left to lose.

My scream cut the heavy silence, first like the demented croaking of a dying mongoose but gaining in strength. It was a relief to finally let out the sound that I'd been stuffing down for days—years, even—because it had never been the right place or time. Because I didn't want to make a fuss. Because nobody likes a complainer. Because good girls don't
scream
.

Well, screw that.

Ms. Pierce's smile never wavered. “Nobody is coming to save you, Emmy. Now you'll either hand me the Slate or I will take it from you. The end result will be the same.”

She sounded like a teacher explaining a homework assignment, her voice filled with an unshakable sense of authority. Even as her free hand began pawing at my sweatshirt, I couldn't believe that she was the one behind all of this.

That
she
wanted me dead.

Sebastian's words from our first encounter in the police station came filtering back to me.

Adults aren't smarter, or nicer, or stronger, or less screwed up than teenagers—they're simply excellent liars.

He didn't have to convince me now. A self-satisfied grin came across Ms. Pierce's face as her palm connected with the outline of the Slate in my front pocket. It was the same look as in weight loss commercials when the “after” girl proudly holds up an empty pair of plus-sized pants. The most terrifying part wasn't that she wanted me dead; it was how sane she looked as she dragged me closer to death.

I went limp, my unexpected weight breaking through Ms. Pierce's hold and sending me crashing to the floor. Glass bit into my right side, but the adrenaline racing through my system helped me ignore the sharp slashes of pain. My legs flailed behind me, as I tried to trip her, overturn chairs between us, or even better, to connect a blow from my foot with her kneecap.

My voice was hoarse, but I didn't stop screaming, “Help!
Help me!
” through a throat that quickly felt as shredded as my side. Some distant part of my brain registered that the coppery taste in my mouth could only mean blood, but I couldn't tell if I'd bitten my tongue or split my lips or somehow managed to breathe in fine shards of glass. I wondered if the bitter acidic taste of rusty pennies would be the last thing I ever tasted. If the sickly sweet perfume of it would linger in my nostrils even when the cobblestones raced to greet me like an old friend.

My fingers splayed out on the floor, searching for any handhold that might keep her from launching me out the gaping hole in the window. Ms. Pierce tut-tutted again, then she snagged one sneaker-clad foot and yanked me across the glass-strewn hardwood floor. Thin shards of glass sliced through the denim of my jeans like an unstoppable trail of fire ants as my fingers clawed at the floor, closing around a larger piece that gouged into my hand. I gasped in pain.