The conversation turns to other topics, but I can’t quite let go of the thought I had earlier. Dax is right that the person in the car was large and masculine. It definitely wasn’t Savannah. But what if she got someone to do it for her? Murder is awful and extreme, but I know she was jealous of Iris and that the two of them fought over cheerleading positions all the time. And there’s something about extreme wealth, about never hearing the word “no”, that seems to divorce people from reality a little bit.
Maybe in some twisted, convoluted way, she convinced herself she had to get rid of Iris to have everything she wanted.
I let it drop though, because as much as I don’t like Savannah, it’s hard to picture her as a murderer—and I don’t really have any evidence to back that up, just half-formed suspicions. So I relax and drink with the guys for the rest of the night, trying to keep my gaze from wandering over to Savannah and Trent too often.
Sunday is the first day of November, and I don’t know what the weather is normally like in Connecticut, but it seems to switch overnight from chilly to cold, as if someone finally got the memo that winter is almost here.
I spend most of the day inside, cleaning and doing homework. When I walk in on my mom and Mr. Black having a friendly chat in his study, my hackles rise immediately. I need to tell her at least a watered down version of what Lincoln told me without making it obvious I blabbed.
But I wasn’t kidding. My mom is too sweet and trusting for her own good. Not that she’s the type who’d play mistress or break up a marriage, but I worry that she could get herself in trouble just by believing the best of people when it’s always better to expect the worst.
Samuel smiles charmingly at me when he notices me in the doorway, but I see his eyelids flicker at the expression on my face, and I wonder if he knows I’m aware of his little maid fetish.
I give him a tight-lipped smile and shoot a glance at Mom.
Lincoln Black may be gaining my trust, but I still don’t trust his dad any farther than I can throw him.
20
Monday starts off boring. I drive with Lincoln to school and slog through my first several classes. Fourth period gym has become a lot quieter since Iris’s death. The locker room screaming matches between her and Savannah used to be at least a weekly occurrence, but now, it’s usually just girls gossiping and talking about what parties happened the previous weekend and what’s planned for the coming weekend.
Savannah begged out of class early today, claiming a bad headache, so she’s not even in the locker room as I change back into my street clothes in one corner of the long, narrow space. I’m slipping my foot through the pant leg of my jeans when a hushed voice reaches my ears from the bank of lockers to my right.
“Yeah. She was pregnant.”
I pause.
There’s no reason to assume I know who they’re talking about, but the speaker’s use of past tense makes my body immediately stiffen. Her voice has that harsh, shrill quality that suggests highly juicy gossip, and it makes my heart constrict in my chest.
“Holy fuck. No way. Iris Lepiane was knocked up?”
The other girl sounds both scandalized and highly entertained, and my stomach twists. That’s a real person—a real life—they’re talking about, not some character on a trashy soap. Two lives, if the first speaker is right.
“Yeah. I heard it from Celia, whose mom heard it from her mom. She was fucking pregnant.”
“No way!”
Their voices get lower as they get more excited, as if even they realize how terrible they’re being, gossiping about the dead.
I slide my foot slowly down my pant leg, keeping up the facade of getting dressed, but every molecule of my body is reaching out toward the voices on the other side of the lockers, trying to hear each word they speak.
“Yep. I just wonder who the father is.”
The second girl snickers softly. “That could be a long list.”
“Right? It’d be quicker to make a list of who she hasn’t slept with.”
“Who do you think it was?”
The first speaker sounds like she’s thrilled to have been asked, like she’s been waiting to pontificate on her theories all day. “It’s hard to say. I mean, there’s Trent Calloway, obviously. Conor. Chris. And she and Lincoln Black only dated last year, but hell, maybe he went back for seconds.”
They titter like little birds, but I lose the sound of their voices behind the rushing in my ears.
What?
Lincoln… dated Iris?
He never, ever mentioned that. Not once. And none of the others did either.
My body works on autopilot, pulling on my clothes and sweeping my hair up into a ponytail. But my mind can’t stop circling around that single fact.
Lincoln and Iris.
Iris and Lincoln.
They dated. And he didn’t think that was important to mention after we all witnessed her death? Is that why he was so adamant about not going to the cops? Because he knew he could be a suspect?
Or what if he was, as the first girl put it, going back for seconds? What if he knew she was pregnant? Could he have done this?
My brain balks at that idea, refusing to believe it. That’s not possible. I’m a better judge of people than that.
But I don’t know what to think, can’t organize my thoughts or the powerful emotions swinging like out of control pendulums inside me right now. Anger. Confusion. Worry.
Jealousy.
That’s the one that burns the most, and the one I try to squash down the hardest. It shouldn’t matter to me what Lincoln did or does with any girl, especially one who’s no longer even here.
I tug my backpack out of the locker and swing it over my shoulder, blinking
