The Bakersville Dozen Read online

Page 8


  “It’s gone.” I turned, pressing my back against the glass doors, my heart racing with the thought that the killer had been so close to me, and all the rest of the girls, earlier today.

  Wes pushed himself off the pillar. I watched as he paced in wide circles. “Yeah, I want to collect. I want to collect right now.”

  “What’s he talking about?” I asked Hannah.

  She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

  “I’m at the high school,” Wes said, his eyes meeting mine. “Can you meet me?”

  “No.” I rushed to his side. “You can’t just tell anyone you want about what’s—”

  Wes waved his hand in the air, giving me a wide-eyed look of irritation before spinning away. “Let’s just say it has a little something to do with surveillance footage.”

  “What the hell is going on, Wes?” I asked, poking a finger into his back.

  He turned then, facing me again, a huge smile spread across his face. “Really? Well, that is fascinating. You’re still in the purple house on the corner?” Wes paused. Pressed his lips together. And then laughed. “Fine. It’s gray. We’ll be right over, dude.”

  CHAPTER 12

  5:44 PM

  “I don’t like this,” I said. The four of us were standing on the front porch of an old house in the center of town. Deep purplegray paint peeled off the wood siding in long strips.

  “You don’t have to like it,” Wes said. “You just have to keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking.”

  “Doesn’t Owen O’Brien live here?” Tripp asked.

  “Yup.” Wes pressed the doorbell and stepped back.

  “And he owes you something,” Hannah said, “because of an incident that took place during your junior year?”

  “Something like that.” Wes leaned toward the door, peering through a pane of beveled glass that looked centuries old.

  “What incident?” Tripp asked. “The night you got your truck stuck in the corn field? Was he the one who pulled your ass out?”

  “No.” Wes laughed. “That was Brennan Jones.”

  “Jonesy’s older brother?” Hannah asked. “So freaking hot.”

  “Is this about the time you almost got busted for posting that fake Instagram page for Principal Johnson?” I asked.

  “Closer,” Wes said.

  “The gambling ring!” Hannah started jumping up and down. “This has to be about the gambling ring you were nailed for—the underground poker tournament. You controlled that thing for months before you were caught. That was spring of your junior year.”

  Wes tapped his finger to his nose twice, then pointed at Hannah.

  “I knew it!” she said.

  “Little secret,” Wes whispered. “I wasn’t the mastermind behind that one.”

  Just then, the door swung open and Owen O’Brien was standing in front of us, his deep brown hair sticking up in little tufts. He wore a wrinkled T-shirt that was half-tucked into a pair of gym shorts.

  “Wesley!” Owen held out his fist to bump with Wes’s. “Been a long time, man.”

  “Too long,” Wes said. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Save your thanks until we know I actually can help.” Owen narrowed his eyes, looking us over. “I thought you were alone.”

  Wes shrugged. “You can trust them.”

  “This is my job we’re talking about,” Owen said. “If anyone finds out I’m sharing private footage, I’ll be fired in a hot second.”

  Wes snorted. “You’re a computer genius, Owen. I have no doubt you can cover your tracks.”

  Owen tipped his head to the side. I could tell he was thinking. Then he stepped aside with a jerk of his chin. “Enter.”

  The house was a disaster. Shoes littered the entry, at least ten different pairs, all large and worn in. Jackets meant for the coatrack had settled like limp shells at its base. The air was cool, but musty, and had a slightly smoky flavor. The steps to the second floor were strewn with books and papers. A large keg stood at the center of the hall leading to a swinging door that I assumed hid the kitchen.

  “Sorry about the mess,” Owen said, kicking a gray gym shoe as he stepped from the entry to an oversized living room.

  We followed him, first Wes, then Hannah, me, and Tripp brought up the rear. The living room was just like the entry, a dark, dank space filled with all kinds of guy stuff. The furniture was old, ratty-looking, and the couch, pushed up against a large bay window, was dwarfed by the hulking figure of one of Owen’s sleeping roommates.

  “Is that Bryce Winters?” Tripp asked.

  Owen nodded. “I wouldn’t wake him. He’s a beast if you mess with his sleep.”

  We kept walking, past a wooden table covered with beer cans, a few ashtrays, and a deck of cards that looked as if it had just been thrown down.

  “You still playing poker, man?” Wes asked, his smirk resurfacing.

  Owen shook his head. “Had my fill. You saved my life when you took the rap for that shit, man. If the administration had caught me, I never would have had a shot at head tech for the district. They’re even paying my college tuition as incentive to stick around.”

  “No worries,” Wes said. “I was glad to help. Taking the wrap for that made me a freaking legend just in time for senior year.”

  “And today, you collect,” Owen said, leading us down a hall and into a wood-paneled room. It was dark and smelled musty like the rest of the house, but I didn’t have to dodge anything as I stepped across the carpeted floor. The desk, which sat centered in the oval space, was free of clutter. There was a dresser and a bed, too, tucked in the back corner. The bed was covered with a wrinkled mess of blankets.

  “You said you can access the school’s security footage from here?” Wes asked.

  “I spliced the server so it links to the house. That way I can work from home if I don’t feel like going in.”

  “Brilliant,” Wes said. “As always.”

  “You don’t have to kiss my ass.” Owen walked around the desk and sat in a sleek leather chair, facing us. “I owe you. What do you need?”

  “There are cameras all over the school, right?” Wes asked.

  “Yes.” Owen steepled his fingers under his chin. “But they’re not all recording footage.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means the administration would like for the student body to believe they are always being monitored, but the truth is that only two or three cameras are actually functioning at any one time.”

  “What about the atrium?” Wes asked.

  Owen nodded. “That’s one of the main cameras. The view there can sweep from the main entrance to the office, catching a good portion of two of the hallways that feed the rest of the school.”

  “Which means it has a view of the display case,” Hannah said.

  “What display case?” Owen asked.

  “The one with the shrine,” I said, “memorializing all the missing girls.”

  Owen’s face went white as a sheet. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed a few times. Hard. “So this is about The Bakersville Dozen?”

  “Sorry,” Hannah said. “That part is strictly need-to-know.”

  Owen finally met my eyes, and gave me a stiff nod. “The atrium camera would have a view of the display case.”

  “Good.” I walked around to his side of the desk. “Let’s see it.” Tripp dropped to the chair beside me, swinging one leg over its wooden arm.

  Owen’s fingers clicked across they keyboard. “I need you to be a little more specific.”

  “I want to see the footage from today,” I said. “After school.”

  “Last Day Ceremony?” Owen asked, raising his eyebrows.

  “You could start there.” I leaned up against the desk, noticing the half-full coffee mug that said World’s Hottest Computer Whiz. He wasn’t bad, but if he was the hottest, that didn’t say much for the tech world.

  Owen swiveled in his chair and started typing, his fingers mov
ing effortlessly across the keyboard. Wes paced back and forth in front of a long dresser where two laptop computers, both hooked up to chargers, displayed identical screensavers featuring half-naked swimsuit models on loop.

  “Got it,” Owen said, leaning back, his hands slipping from the desk and into his lap.

  The flicker of a smile passed over Hannah’s lips. “Nice work.”

  The footage was black-and-white and grainy, but it was there. As Hannah, Tripp, and Wes crowded around me, I watched my classmates streaming in from the four main hallways, the atrium going from nearly empty to full capacity in just a few moments.

  “Why’s it going so fast?” Tripp asked.

  “Time lapse,” Owen said. “It’s set at double time. Makes more sense than recording in real time.”

  “There we are,” Hannah said, one finger pointing to the screen.

  I saw us, slipping away from Sylvie Warner, whose face screwed up into a mask of anger as she turned and moved toward the girls. I counted heads as she re-entered their circle—seven. I’d been the only one to ditch out on Sylvie’s Last Day Ceremony plans.

  “She was pissed,” Hannah said.

  “Not like it’s the first time.” I shrugged, feeling bad for leaving the rest of the girls hanging, knowing they all felt the same frustration that had taken over my life—the longing to feel normal, the overwhelming desire to move on. But none of that mattered. Not now. “Can you fast forward?”

  Owen clicked on the bar at the bottom of the screen, moving the little ticker forward until the atrium was nearly empty again. The screen showed an older couple standing at the reception desk in the main office with two police officers hovering in the background, and a few straggling students racing through the atrium to catch rides home. “That better?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I leaned forward. “I think that’s Roger Turley. Right there in the office.”

  “Forget him,” Hannah said, pointing to the display case. “Check this out.”

  I saw it then. Leena’s tiara sitting on top of those two pompoms.

  “Fast forward.” My heart raced as I thought to myself that this could be it. I might be a few moments from seeing the kidnapper and Leena’s murderer, mere seconds from learning the identity of the person who had plotted to include me in the sadistic scavenger hunt.

  Owen inched the cursor along the bar. We watched a few more people walk by—their movements unnaturally fast—and then it happened. A shadow walked right up to the glass doors of the memorial, slid them open, reached inside, and slipped out of the view of the camera.

  “There!” I said. “Go back. Play that at the normal speed.”

  We watched the shadow in reverse, returning the tiara, and walking back out of the frame. Then Owen let go of the cursor, leaning forward, his eyes squinting at the screen.

  “What are you guys looking for, anyway?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was frozen in place, my eyes locked on the screen as I watched the figure slip up to the display case. I knew who it was in an instant. I didn’t need to see the face, the thin lips pulled into a tight line, eyes darting from one side of the atrium to the other, the hand reaching out, sliding the display case open, plucking Leena’s tiara from its perch.

  The hair gave her away—a white-blonde mass of curlicues, a style that only one person in my world could pull off.

  “Holy shit,” Hannah said, her hand gripping mine. “That’s Sylvie Fucking Warner.”

  CHAPTER 13

  6:04 PM

  I was sitting on the couch in my basement, staring at the television screen while a reporter with big teeth directed a panel of experts discussing the most likely profile of the person behind the serial kidnappings in Bakersville. The panel members were joining via satellite; all had different backgrounds. One was a psychiatrist, another used to work for the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, and another was a criminal prosecutor with hundreds of cases under his belt. The TV was muted, but I followed the discussion through the closed captions scrolling along the bottom of the screen.

  I felt numb, inside and out. Just over twenty-four hours had passed since the scavenger hunt began, but it still didn’t feel real. Leena Grabman was dead, some psycho had chosen me to play his sick game, and now it was up to me to save my friends. Then there was the little fact that for several reasons, I was officially afraid to trust the police.

  My emotions flipped between fear and dread as I considered what I might face when I followed the clue to the hayloft at Jonesy’s farm in just a few hours. The hardest part was not being able to tell Jude. I’d been avoiding his texts and calls since the previous night, worried that if he heard my voice he’d know something was up.

  “I still don’t get it,” Hannah said. “What the hell would Sylvie Warner want with that tiara anyway?”

  My back was turned to Hannah, but I knew she was swiveling around in the wheely chair at the desk behind me, the annoying squeal of the seat punctuating her movements—left, right, left—in tune to the beat of Adele’s “Rumor Has It.”

  “Do you remember much from those few minutes you were in the locker room with Sylvie?” I asked, watching the prosecutor’s face turn a deep red as he pointed at the guy from the FBI. The text started scrolling faster then, and I had to speed-read to keep up with what the prosecutor was saying: “Profiling the suspect as white male between the ages of twenty and forty offered the public a false sense of security. It was, maybe, even dangerous. It could have caused someone, specifically one of the remaining girls from The Bakersville Dozen video, to trust the wrong person.” I almost laughed at that, wondering what they’d say if they could see the footage of Sylvie Warner stealing the tiara that ended up on Leena’s head less than an hour later.

  “I remember the part where I was freaking out because I thought Roger Turley had followed me through the doors,” Hannah said.

  “What about the tiara?” I asked. “Did Sylvie have it?”

  Hannah stopped swiveling, the final shriek of the chair echoing through the air. “By the time I found Sylvie, I was in panic mode. I grabbed her and bolted. The only thing I can say for sure is that she wasn’t wearing it.”

  On the TV, the FBI guy leaned back in his seat, not looking the least bit intimidated by the prosecutor, as he started in on how profiles are not meant to offer the public a sense of security, but to guide law enforcement to focus on the most likely characteristics of a suspect.

  “Did she have anything with her?” I asked. “Her backpack, maybe?”

  “Nope,” Hannah said. “Wait. Scratch that. She had that big ass purse she’s always carrying around. It bumped my thigh a few times as we raced through the rows of lockers and out the back door.”

  “That purse is big enough to hide Leena’s tiara,” I said.

  “Seriously. That purse is practically big enough to hide Leena.”

  I laughed, the sound mingling with Adele’s smoky voice as she sang the three words I wished I would never, in my entire life, hear again.

  My hair whipped my shoulders as I turned to face Hannah. “Why, exactly, are you watching that stupid video again?”

  “Just seeing if I catch anything new,” she said with a shrug. “Not like there’s anything better to do. Unless you wanna go upstairs and hang with your parents.”

  “Please,” I said, standing up and walking to Hannah’s side. “The last thing I need is another lecture on how I’m not allowed to go anywhere near Jonesy’s party tonight.”

  “I can’t believe you actually talked Tripp into letting you to go.”

  “After our run-in with Tiny, he understands. We need to figure out what we’re dealing with and who we can trust before we try the police again.”

  “Have you planned our escape?” Hannah asked.

  “It’s a little tricky.” I sighed. “I have to be at Jonesy’s before ten if I’m going to follow that clue. I can’t sneak out until after my parents go to bed, which won’t be until at least eleven. So I came up with a
lie that should ease their minds.”

  “Ease their minds?” Hannah asked. She paused. Then broke out into a wide grin. “Oh my God, you didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  Hannah laughed. Then pressed her fingers to her lips. “You told them you’re going to Sylvie’s?”

  “I know. It’s awful. But it’s my only way out of the house.”

  “They’d freaking lose it if they knew you were spending the night with a chick who stole a tiara that ended up on a corpse.”

  “A, I am not actually spending the night. And B, could you please not refer to Leena as a corpse?”

  “Sorry, but she is.”

  The sick feeling had returned to my stomach. Twisting. Turning. Every time I heard Leena’s name, I pictured her there, lying in the grass. Rotting. She was literally rotting. And I’d just left her there.

  “Do you think she was alive?” I asked. “When that security footage was taken—while we were at the Last Day Ceremony and Sylvie was stealing the tiara? Do you think Leena was still alive?”

  Hannah looked back at me. “I don’t think we’ll ever know the answer to that.”

  “She’s still out there.”

  “Stop,” Hannah said, reaching for the bag of chips next to the computer monitor and popping one into her mouth with a crunch. “Stop thinking. It’s the only way to keep yourself from going crazy.”

  “But, Hannah”—I pointed toward the window overlooking the backyard and the maze of trails beyond—“she’s all alone.”

  “I don’t think she cares right now. What she’d want is for you to stay safe.” Hannah looked me right in the eyes. I could see the little flecks of black in the chocolate brown. “Focus, Bailey. We’re going to the party in a few hours to watch everyone, and take notes on everything we see to try to come up with a new lead. We can’t do anything for Leena anymore, but when it’s time, we might have the chance to save the next girl. The chance to end all of this.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “That is exactly what I needed to hear.”

  Hannah gave me an easy smile. “I always know what you need. Which is why I’m watching the video. We might spot something new now that we know Sylvie is involved.”