“Hello, everyone, my name is Maureen Cataldo, and I am the head investigator working the Russo case.”
She chews on her vowels and skims the Rs. Massachusetts born and raised, I would guess. Got here quickly yesterday, so local-ish. Maybe from down in Northampton, or Amherst. We don’t get a lot of murders up here in the sleepy, leafy parts of the state, where they like to build schools like Claflin. It’s idyllic. Murder-free.
“Unfortunately, this is a homicide investigation.” Cataldo’s words spark a cascade of whispers that ripple through the student body from front to back.
“We ask that anyone with information about Emma Russo’s death come forward immediately. No information is insignificant, so please don’t dismiss anything you might know.”
She rattles off a tip line and an email address. I see a few students surreptitiously take notes on their phones. I wonder what any of them could possibly have to say, but then I feel the eyes. Glances stolen in our direction.
“It’s important that we piece together Miss Russo’s last day. Every detail counts. I’ll be conducting additional interviews this afternoon. Thank you.”
And then Detective Cataldo looks right at me. No, at us. The Ivies.
* * *
—
The seniors are invited to an exclusive reception after the assembly. A rehearsal room off the auditorium has been tastefully decorated, and caterers swim about the room, appetizers hoisted high on silver trays. There is a table laden with fancy cheeses and crudités in the corner. I want to say it’s for the board’s benefit, but I know the headmistress could have been murdered and Claflin would still pull out an impeccable spread on short notice.
It is a bizarro version of the ED day party. All the same people are here, except everyone is wearing black and no one is happy. It hasn’t even been forty-eight hours.
We’ve commandeered a cluster of chairs arranged in a semicircle before a large bay window. Avery and Margot sit on the cushioned window seat, while Sierra, Tyler, and I slump in armchairs facing them. Tyler is an unexpected addition, but he keeps bursting into noisy tears, so we feel bad telling him to leave.
“I wish they’d let me speak. I had something prepared.” Tyler pulls a small leather flask from his suit jacket pocket and takes a swig. “Maybe I’ll plan a memorial service, a proper one, for next week. I miss her so much.” He swallows hard and looks at the floor. Then he passes me the flask, even though I didn’t ask for it. Why not?
Bourbon burns down my throat, nearly choking me, but I recover smoothly. Tell myself to enjoy the sour-sweet scorching a trail to my stomach. “Do you think they’ll reschedule exams for after break?” I cough out. Today is Thursday. We were supposed to go home Saturday the nineteenth, after exams finished. But exams have been canceled, so we’re stuck in “when can we leave campus?” limbo. And now there’s a murder investigation, to boot. I think about my nonrefundable flight home to Maryland and how much it’ll cost my mom to reschedule. I take another swig and then pass the flask to my left to Margot. Since she’s facing out, she needs to be extra careful the adults don’t see.
“They can’t cancel everyone’s exams indefinitely. Certainly not for us seniors. There are strict deadlines for first-semester grades at all our schools. No way we’re being released Saturday.” Avery puffs up her chest, sliding easily into know-it-all mode. I think I’m the only one who notices her deflate slightly at our schools. Avery doesn’t have a school. I remember to look moderately upset. I pretended to get deferred at Penn yesterday.
Katherine Montfort appears like a witch, prim and perfect in a little black dress and a chic updo. “Don’t worry, Avery darling, I’ve already spoken to the headmistress about your exams. It’ll be uncustomary, but I’m told a special senior exam schedule will begin tomorrow and go through Monday.”
My stomach clenches and I grab for my phone, ready to text my mom. She’ll be pissed. Ms. Montfort goes on.
“Tragedy or no, it’s critical you all get in those grades on time. Especially now.” Her mouth freezes in an imitation of a smile, eyes flashing tightly at her daughter. Especially now that Avery has failed to get into Harvard.
“Thanks, Mom,” Avery says. We all grumble our own thanks, even though we are anything but grateful that now we’ll have to take our finals over the weekend. And again, so soon after our friend’s murder. Have they forgotten about the murder?
“Tyler, dear, don’t cry.” Katherine lays a comforting hand on Tyler’s shoulder. He sobs around a mouthful from his flask. His stepmother doesn’t even comment on the alcohol.
“I’m sorry, Mom. This is all simply so much.”
Avery’s jaw clenches tight. I caught it, too. Mom. They’ve only been a family for, what? A year? I wonder if Tyler’s doing it to piss off Avery. They always had an academic rivalry, then fought for Emma’s time, and now they wrestle for Katherine’s scant attentions.
“Now, Avery, I’ve called Megan back in, so you’ll need to start on your essays right away. Don’t forget to write about Hillary for the Wellesley 100.”
I stifle a snort. Like Avery could forget to mention her family connections to the Clintons. And, god, Megan. She’s Avery’s twenty-grand-a-year private college admissions counselor. She told Avery shit I could have imparted gratis, like how writing about her trip to build a school in Haiti was a terrible essay topic. I nearly choked on a laugh when she pitched it to me. Poverty tourism, with a side of white savior narrative. Rich white people are the worst. Most of the students here have their own Megan. I use Reddit, which is free.
“Olivia,” Ms. Montfort says, like a belated greeting, but it’s really an admonishment. I didn’t hide my giggle very well. “And Margot, Sierra. So lovely to see you, as always.” And then she swans off to speak with a member of the board.
“God, give me strength,” Avery says through gritted teeth.
Tyler shoots Avery a cutting look and pushes back his chair with undue aggression. His voice warbles as he says, “I need some air.”
My stomach gurgles. “And I need food, apparently. Anyone want anything?” The girls give terse headshakes. I bob and weave through the crowd, passing Rebecca, whose not-quite-whisper to Autumn Hollander I catch:
“Thank god I applied to Stanford ED instead, or that ruthless bitch would have killed me.”
Autumn barks a laugh. “Instead, they just fucked you over, literally.”
Their laughter fades behind me as I find the snacks table, but the implication sticks to me like slime. Guess I’m not the only one who suspects Avery Montfort. But by “they,” did Autumn mean the Ivies?