Undercurrent (13 page)

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, we got to school early. Paige wanted to ask Ms. Mulligan about a new restaurant-management program she’d found online the night before, and I wanted to spend some time on the
Winter Harbor Herald
Web site in the privacy of a near-empty library.

As soon as we stepped into the main lobby, it was clear we weren’t the only ones getting a jump start on the day.

“They’re up to something,” Paige said as two teachers brushed past us like we weren’t there. They walked quickly, closely, talking in hushed voices. “Has Hawthorne ever given a school-wide, all-day pop quiz?”

“Never.” But she was right. If the faculty wasn’t up to something, something was definitely up. In a matter of seconds, a dozen more teachers flew past, and not one stopped to ask what we were doing there so early. They all hurried in the same direction.

“I’m going to try to catch Ms. Mulligan before the guidance department evacuates,” Paige said. “Meet me outside the gate in the event of a real emergency?”

As she turned left, I headed right, narrowly avoiding a four-person pileup as a trio of history teachers darted out of a classroom and into hallway traffic. I tried to decipher the whispers, but there were too many, and they moved too fast. As soon as I made out a cluster of words—“sudden,” “sad,” “damage”—the speakers were five feet ahead of me and out of eavesdropping range.

When the library doors appeared, I slipped inside, noting as I did that the traffic slowed to a crawl at the end of the hall before trickling inside the auditorium.

I found a computer station behind a tall shelf filled with dusty reference books and signed into my e-mail.

ALERT!!!

The message at the top of my inbox greeted me like a road-block. The subject was in all capital letters. The type was red, the font bold. Hawthorne prided itself on proper e-mail etiquette, and this one word broke every rule. I would’ve thought it spam and deleted it, but it had been sent from the president’s office less than ten minutes before. In all my time at Hawthorne, there was only one other instance when an important mass e-mail had come from the president’s office instead of the vice president’s. That e-mail, which I’d deleted without reading as soon as I realized what it was, had announced Justine’s death.

Holding my breath, I clicked on the e-mail.

To Members of the Hawthorne Community:

It is with great regret that I report the passing of our dear friend and Hawthorne Preparatory sophomore Colin Milton Cooper.

For those of you who were fortunate enough to spend time with Colin, you know that he was one of the brightest, kindest individuals ever to grace our halls. For those of you who weren’t, I’m sorry to say that you missed the chance of a lifetime.

I expect that as representatives of a centuries-old, world-class educational institution, you will conduct yourselves accordingly during this transitional period. If you have any questions or concerns, my door is always open.

One final note: In today’s digital age, news travels fast—and, oftentimes, erroneously. That is why I ask you to refrain from discussing this development with anyone outside of the Hawthorne community. All media inquiries should be directed to Mr. Harold Lawder, public relations manager.

With condolences and warm regards,

Dr. Martin O’Hare, President

Colin Milton Cooper had been a current student. That must’ve been why the school was panicking. His death alone would’ve been reason for mass e-mails and staff assemblies, but Justine had been an alumnus for all of a week when she died, which meant Hawthorne had basically lost two students in a matter of months.

I reread the note, trying to picture Colin. I didn’t know many underclassmen and couldn’t put a name to the face.

Keeping the e-mail up, I opened another window and searched “Colin Cooper.” When that turned up thousands of responses, I added “Milton” and “Hawthorne Preparatory.” I was just about to hit Enter when my eyes fell to the last entry on the first page.

Intelligent matchmaking? As in an online dating service? This Colin Milton Cooper couldn’t be the same one; if he was a sophomore he’d have to be sixteen years old, max, which just seemed too young to be matchmaking online. It also seemed too risky. If anyone else at school ever found out, they wouldn’t let him forget it. Hawthorne kids might’ve had more money than a lot of other kids their age, but that didn’t make them more mature.

Determined to rule it out, I clicked on the link.

“Oh, no,” I breathed.

According to the education history listed on his profile, the Colin Milton Cooper on Ivy Trails was a current Hawthorne student. But that wasn’t what got me.

It was his picture. Because as it turned out, I was among those who’d spent time with one of the brightest, kindest students ever to grace our school’s halls. Not much—but enough to recognize his curly brown hair and green eyes.

Colin Milton Cooper was the guy from the Beanery rest-room. The one who’d been crying, whose e-mail I’d found.

“He jumped off a bridge.”

I leaped out of the chair.

“Sorry.” Parker leaned against a bookcase, holding a coffee cup. “You looked curious.”

Heart pounding, I dropped back into the chair and reached for the mouse. “Then you’re seeing things.”

“I take it you got
el presidente’
s cease and desist?”

I signed out of my e-mail, closed the search results window.

“It’s ridiculous the things they’re scared of.”

I was about to click out of the Ivy Trails window, but something in his tone made me stop. “Like what?”

He stepped closer and perched on the edge of the desk. “You know what they say about bad publicity?”

“That there’s no such thing? Because any publicity’s good publicity?”

He nodded. “Know what Hawthorne says?”

I was suddenly very aware of his eyes on mine. I couldn’t think of anything else—including an answer to his question.

“Kill it or be killed. That’s why the mass e-mail and early-morning staff meeting. They want to keep the story as quiet as possible before the press has a field day.”

“And what would that story be?” I asked, wanting to know as much as I didn’t want to know.

He glanced toward the computer screen, where Colin Milton Cooper still smiled. “The MIT crew team was out practicing early this morning and spotted poor Colin on the bank of the Charles.”

I looked at my lap, fiddled with my sweatshirt sleeve, pictured Simon rowing on Lake Kantaka. “How do they know he jumped?” I asked. “Did anyone actually see him? Maybe he fell, or was—”

“There was a note. On Longfellow Bridge. Attached to a single white balloon and weighted down with a glass paperweight.”

For the thousandth time that week, my eyes watered.

“Apparently, he let some girl get the best of him.” He dropped into the desk chair next to mine and crossed his arms behind his head. “They’re known to do that.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My dad. Connections. The usual ways.” He took his cell phone from the pocket of his blazer. “Want to know the creepiest thing?”

I didn’t, but he was already leaning toward me, pressing buttons.

“When they found him, his mouth was all twisted. Contorted.” He held out the phone. “Kind of like he was smiling.”

I stared at the photo, struggled for words. It wasn’t a full smile, not like the ones the victims had last summer, but it was close enough. “Where did you… how did you… ?”

“Police sent it to O’Hare, who sent it to Dad, who left his cell unattended while taking his morning bubble bath.”

Tearing my eyes away, I turned back to the computer.

“Hey.”

He was next to me now. Our elbows brushed together as I grabbed the mouse. Our skin was separated by four layers of clothes, but the touch still sent a fast, fleeting charge up my arm and down my spine. My hand shook so much I couldn’t hold the cursor steady long enough to close the picture.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was gentler, softer. “And stupid. I don’t know why I showed you that.”

“It’s fine. I just want to—I can’t seem to—”

His hand covered mine. The mouse stopped. Barely breathing, I watched the cursor glide steadily toward the corner of the screen. His pointer finger slid over mine and rested there briefly before pressing down.

Colin Milton Cooper disappeared.

I looked from the screen to our hands. He didn’t move his. Even worse, I didn’t move mine.

“I have to go,” I whispered.

“What?” He squeezed my hand, snapping it out of its hypnosis. “Where?”

I yanked my arm away and jumped up.

He reached for me, but I lunged back. I felt him watching me as I snatched my bag from the floor.

I didn’t know where I was going. Not at first. I just ran—out of the library, down the hall, through the front doors. Reaching the sidewalk, I turned left and kept running, my legs pumping harder, faster. I darted between people, flew across streets without glancing at traffic lights. Orange and red leaves swirled around me, but I hardly saw them, barely felt their dried edges flit across my skin. Over my thudding heart I barely heard horns honking, wind rushing past my ears… and eventually, the Charles River lapping against dirt.

I didn’t stop until cold water splashed around my ankles. Then I looked up, surprised to see where my body had led me without my brain consciously directing it.

Longfellow Bridge. It spanned the river, connecting Boston to Cambridge a half mile away. Five hundred feet overhead, morning commuters rushed by, oblivious as to what had transpired only hours before.

A crew team passed by. The rowers’ chants jerked me back to the present.

What was I doing? And why? Yes, Colin Milton Cooper drowned after jumping in the river. Yes, he’d had his heart broken only days before. But that didn’t necessarily mean that Raina and Zara… that they had anything to do with…

Simon. I rummaged frantically through my backpack for my cell phone. I still hadn’t returned any of his texts or calls, but I needed his voice of reason now more than ever. I needed to hear him swear that it was impossible, that there was no way they were involved because they were completely, totally, one hundred percent—

Dead. His battery must’ve died, because his phone went right to voice mail.

I closed my cell and scanned the river’s surface, looking—hoping—for some sort of sign. A flash of light, a sudden splash, a pair of silver-blue eyes. Anything to indicate that what I was thinking was possible, that I wasn’t crazy.

Without thinking, barely feeling the chilled water soak through my tights, I took another step, and another. The water rose toward my knees, crept up my thighs.

I could do this. I’d stopped them before, and I could do it again.

I hadn’t gotten far when a hard, fast force slammed into my stomach, shoving the air from my lungs. I lunged against it, reaching my arms forward and digging my heels into the mud, but it was too strong.

“Stop!” I gasped. “Please, let me—”

My calves collided with something and I toppled backward, landing on my left shoulder. The pain made me see white—and I temporarily forgot what I’d been about to do.

“It’s okay,” a male voice soothed.

The light dulled as the pain eased, and the river slowly came into focus. My head was spinning, and it took a second to register the arms around my waist, the khaki-clad legs enclosing mine like a fortress.

“You’re okay…”

My heart lifted.

Simon. Despite everything I’d said, despite not returning his texts and phone calls… he was here. He’d been so worried when he didn’t hear back that he’d come all the way down from Bates to check on me.

Closing my eyes against the fresh welling of tears, I climbed to my knees, wriggled around, and threw my arms around him.

“Thank you,” I whispered into his neck.

His hands pressed protectively against my back. Ignoring the small warning voice sounding deep inside my head, I pulled away slightly and kissed him.

His lips tensed.

“It’s okay,” I breathed against them. “I’m okay.”

His lips were still hesitant, but they responded, relaxing more with each brush of mine. Soon the kisses came harder, faster, deeper, until I forgot where we were and why. When he lay back on the ground, gently pulling me with him, I didn’t even open my eyes to see if anyone watched. I didn’t care.

“I’m sorry.” My mouth trailed across his cheek, toward his ear. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He pulled me closer, his hands moving from my waist to my hips.

“I missed you… so much.”

His hands stopped. “You what?”

My breath caught. I opened my eyes. Slowly lifted myself up. I saw the white shirt collar. Navy blue blazer. Gold embroidered shield.

“I just saw you at school ten minutes ago.”

My eyes spilled over when they reached his. They weren’t brown, or warm, or comforting.

Because they weren’t Simon’s.

They were Parker’s.

“A
ND
I
THOUGHT
Z was an exhibitionist.”

The reference to Zara made me jerk the steering wheel, which I’d been clutching tightly since leaving Boston for Maine an hour before.

“Sorry,” Paige said. “But that must be a good sign, right? That I can refer to my dead sister’s PDA in casual conversation?”

I focused on breathing—and driving in a straight line. Not wanting to worry her unnecessarily, I hadn’t told Paige about what had happened. It was the right thing to do, but keeping it to myself was becoming more of a struggle every day.

“PDA?” I asked.

“Public displays of affection.” She studied her cell phone screen. “I could count on a football team’s fingers and toes the number of times I caught her making out with random guys. But even she had limits.” She shot me a quick glance. “When it came to PDA. Not when it came to life and death. Obviously.”

“Who doesn’t have limits?” I reached for the water bottle in the cup holder between the seats.

“Parker King.”

I jerked the steering wheel again—this time because the open water bottle was in my lap.

Paige handed me a stack of napkins left over from our last pit stop and took the wheel. “Want me to drive?”

“Nope.” I sopped up the water, tossed the wet napkins in a plastic convenience store bag, and took back the steering wheel. “Why do you say that? About Parker, I mean?”

She held out the phone. I glanced at it, then swallowed and kept my eyes glued to the road.

“I know.” She turned it back to her for another look. “Gross, right?”

I tried to agree, but the best I could do was nod. Considering that the photographic evidence in question was of Parker sprawled out on the ground with me on top of him, I thought that was pretty good.

“And who’s the girl?” She squinted and brought the phone closer. “His face is totally clear, but hers is hidden behind her hair.”

Thank goodness for small favors. I’d left Simon’s sweatshirt home that day to be washed by the housekeeper. Had I been wearing it, Paige—and everyone else at Hawthorne—would’ve identified me right away.

“Don’t know,” I said. “Who took the picture?”

She snapped the phone shut and tossed it in her purse. “No idea. But it’s on Prep Setters, that private-school gossip site. I signed up for text alerts—I thought it’d be a good way to get to know my new classmates.”

I’d heard of Prep Setters but had never visited their site. “Does the Web site give names?”

“Usually. This picture didn’t have any—the caption referred to them only as ‘Hawthorne’s happiest couple,’ so whoever submitted it probably doesn’t go to Hawthorne since everyone there knows Parker. But I bet it’s only a matter of time before someone recognizes them and writes in with the ID.” She paused. “Um, Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“If I wanted to fly, I would’ve taken a plane.”

I glanced at the speedometer; the needle hovered at eighty. “Sorry,” I said, taking my foot off the gas. “I guess I’m a little distracted.”

“Are you sure you want to drive on to Winter Harbor by yourself? Why don’t I call Riley and ride the rest of the way with you?”

“I’m fine. Promise.”

She reached over and squeezed my knee. As we drove in silence, I focused on road signs and tried to ignore my heart thumping faster with every turn. I knew Paige would’ve alerted me if Riley had said anything about him coming to Portland, too… but what if he’d changed his mind? What if he’d decided at the last minute to confront me in person? What would I say? Especially when all I really wanted to do was take back what had already been said?

I barely had enough time to think of the questions, let alone their answers. The restaurant we’d agreed to meet Riley at was closer to the highway than I’d thought, and before long we were pulling into the near-empty parking lot. When he saw us, Riley hopped off the hood of his Jeep and waved.

“Do you think this is okay?” Paige asked softly.

“What do you mean?”

She looked at me, her eyes suddenly sad, worried. “Hanging out with another guy? Even just as friends?” She paused. “Am I a terrible person for looking forward to seeing Riley today?”

I stopped the car, leaned over, and pulled her into a hug. “You could never be a terrible person.”

We were still hugging when Riley tapped on her window.

“Hey, cutie,” he said when she opened the door. He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then offered me an even quicker smile. “Vanessa.”

“Hi,” I said.

He looked down. Paige frowned at me. I looked past them both, feeling relieved and disappointed when no one else got out of the Jeep.

“Have a great time,” I said, forcing brightness into my voice. “Paige, I’ll see you in Winter Harbor tonight.”

Concern clouded her face, but she gathered her stuff from the floor and took the door handle. “At least try to stay under triple digits?”

“Done.”

I watched them start across the parking lot. He took her hand casually, easily, and she tensed and glanced back at me. I waved once, motioned for her to turn around, and drove away before I could make either of them more uncomfortable.

After all, it wasn’t their fault Simon hated me.

It was mine.

The Volvo’s ancient thermometer read sixty, which meant it was more like forty degrees outside, but I rolled my window all the way down and turned on the air conditioner. The farther I drove the hotter I became, until sweat ran down my neck and my clothes clung to my skin. But I didn’t stop to buy more water. I was afraid if I did I’d stop heading north, toward Winter Harbor, and go west, toward Bates.

What should’ve been a three-hour drive took two hours. I breezed past the sailboat-shaped sign announcing Winter Harbor’s entrance and sped into town and down Main Street. It wasn’t until I reached Betty’s restaurant that I finally slowed to a stop in the parking lot.

I retrieved my phone from my purse, and my heart sank when there were no messages.

You probably hate me. I don’t blame you.

I’d barely finished typing when I started deleting.

I’m sorry for not contacting you sooner.

I deleted again and stared at the blank screen. After our last conversation, which had ended with my running out of the Beanery and Simon sitting at the table, stunned, words were falling short.

Hi. How are you?

I pressed Send before I could change my mind, then watched the screen and waited for a new message to pop up. After a few seconds, I checked the sent folder and called my voice mail. Everything seemed to be working fine.

I climbed out of the car, and zipped up my jacket. It was ten degrees colder in Winter Harbor than it had been in Portland, and the breeze felt like swirling snow against my perspiring skin. By the restaurant’s staff entrance, I redid my ponytail and patted my face, hoping people would assume my skin was red from the cold.

“City slicker!” Louis the chef declared as I entered the kitchen. “Studying hard and partying harder?”

“Something like that.” I smiled, reminded of the first time I visited Betty’s last summer, after a near-sleepless night in the lake house. It had been two days after Justine’s funeral and my first full day all alone in Winter Harbor. I’d gone to Betty’s for breakfast—and anonymity among strangers. When I’d told Garrett the valet that I’d had a rough night, he’d taken that to mean I was nursing a hangover and had asked Louis to prepare me his special culinary cure. The supposed reason for my initial visit had been a constant source of teasing ever since.

“You’re in luck. I’ve just perfected this year’s pumpkin-spice pancake recipe. Instant remedy for all that ails you.” He grabbed a fork, speared a piece of pancake on the griddle, and cupped one hand beneath it as he came toward me.

“Amazing,” I said, savoring the warm, sweet bread. “I feel better already.”

“Of course you do.” Louis dropped the fork into his apron pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. “Now what’s wrong? Really?”

I brought one hand to my face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s October. You should be curled up in your fancy brownstone, reading fancy books in preparation for your fancy college.” He glanced around the kitchen, then stepped closer to me and lowered his voice. “It’s Betty, isn’t it?”

My heart skipped.

“You’re worried about her,” he continued. “We all are. She hasn’t been here in weeks, and anytime that guy of hers comes in—what’s his name? Mortimer? Lucifer?”

“Oliver.”

“Right. Anytime he comes in, he’s white as a ghost and shaking like he’s just seen one. And as soon as we ask how Betty is and if she’s coming by soon, he clams up and leaves.”

“Why?”

“If I knew that, honey, I’d trade in the spatula for a crystal ball. Lord knows the money I could make telling rich tourists about the few things they can’t control.”

“Well,” I said, making a mental note to talk to Paige about Oliver later, “when I see Betty, I’ll let her know the restaurant misses her.”

After Louis filled me in on the staff (including Garrett, who was back at college but apparently still talked about me whenever he e-mailed) and loaded me up with bagels and fresh orange juice, I took a deep breath and asked the one question I’d come there to ask.

“Hey, Louis? Speaking of fancy books… do you remember a small bookstore that used to be on the outskirts of town?”

He didn’t look up from the pot he stirred. “You mean Cather Country?”

“Maybe?” Betty hadn’t mentioned a name.

“That’s the only bookstore I’ve heard of. I didn’t live in Winter Harbor when it was open, and I only know about it because locals still talk about it. People were so upset when it burned down they didn’t read for weeks.”

When it burned down? Betty had left out that important detail, too. She’d lived in Winter Harbor for more than sixty years so she had to know. And if she’d somehow missed it when it happened, she would’ve heard about it from the locals—or from Oliver, who was the town’s resident historian.

So why hadn’t she told me? Why hadn’t Oliver, who’d been in the room when she brought it up?

“Any idea what happened to the owner?” I asked.

“She was supposedly filing papers in the basement when the fire started and couldn’t get out. The store was so far away from town, no one knew until it was too late. By the time they did, there was no longer a body to find.”

I started to ask if he knew when this happened, but then the dining room door swung open and a disgruntled waiter burst through. As Louis became engrossed in a debate over that morning’s special, I waved and ducked outside.

The air was even colder now. I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and lowered my head against the wind. Hurrying toward the car, I struggled to process everything I’d just learned and thought of who else I could talk to in order to learn more.

If Betty knew more than she’d claimed, she clearly didn’t want to share. That meant Paige probably couldn’t help. Oliver wouldn’t tell me anything Betty didn’t want me to know. Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael might be able to fill in a few holes, but I didn’t feel comfortable talking to them now. The same went for Caleb, who’d probably slam the door in my face as soon as he saw me. Simon would research until he could tell me whatever I wanted to know, but I couldn’t ask him to without explaining why—and apologizing until I could no longer speak.

Or maybe he wouldn’t. A quick check of my phone showed that he still hadn’t answered my text, so he might not want to talk about anything yet.

I’d just slid the phone back into my pocket when two car doors slammed nearby.

“Are you kidding me?” a male voice demanded. “Please tell me this is your twisted idea of a practical joke—a Halloween gag to jump-start your old man’s ticker.”

Reaching the car, I took the door handle and peered over the roof. A middle-aged man in khakis, a brown suede coat, and a Red Sox hat stood behind a gleaming black Land Rover a few spots down, waving his arms around like the SUV was an airplane preparing to land. Whoever he was upset with stood on the passenger’s side, out of sight.

“Well, congratulations. You just blew your old stupidity record out of the water.”

The man spun around. I yanked open the door and dropped into the driver’s seat. In the rearview mirror, I watched him bark into a cell phone as he headed toward the restaurant’s entrance. A teenage boy followed several feet behind, his head down, his ears plugged with small white earbuds. My eyes followed the iPod cord to a familiar leather messenger bag.

“Parker?”

His head snapped up. I shot down my seat. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited and wondered what he was doing here. Summer was over and half the harbor was still frozen; the only tourists who visited Winter Harbor now were leaf peepers checking out the foliage, and Parker didn’t seem like the type.

I waited a few more seconds before looking around. Relieved to find no one standing next to the driver’s-side door—or anywhere else around the car—I sat up, started the engine, and hit the gas.

The Winter Harbor library was on the other side of town. As I drove the familiar route, I thought of the last time I’d been there—and why. Simon, Caleb, and I had gone to talk to Oliver, who was a regular patron, the day I’d learned that he was the love of Betty’s life. We’d hoped he’d be able to provide insight into the rest of the Marchands, including Raina and Zara, whom we’d suspected were involved in Justine’s death and the other mysterious drownings. He’d answered many of our questions and prompted countless more we never would’ve thought to ask when he revealed that theirs was a family of sirens.

Given Oliver’s recent odd behavior, I was reluctant to initiate another face-to-face conversation. But what I was wary of trying to learn from him directly, I hoped to find in his multivolume
The Complete History of Winter Harbor
.

There was only one other car in the library parking lot, which I assumed belonged to Mary the librarian. I pulled into an empty space near the front door, put my phone on vibrate, pushed it into my jeans pocket, and headed inside. After waving to Mary, who didn’t seem to recognize me from my summer visits, I found the small local-interest section—and four books by Oliver Savage. Mary had once kept them up front so Oliver would stop asking why no one was borrowing them, but apparently he had bigger things to worry about now.