Deadly First Day, page 27
part #1 of Embassy Academy Series
The academy building is eerily quiet as I scamper along the hall, my heels held in my hand. I took them off as soon as I got inside, to avoid making noise, but there’s no one here. Yet I continue, almost holding my breath, in case I stumble into someone else while I’m lurking where I’m not supposed to be.
The train of my dress rustles over the smooth wooden floors as if whispering, “Hush.”
Hush, indeed.
My heart is pounding as I tiptoe up to the health center door, glancing both ways. The knob turns with the slightest effort, so I slink into the dark interior, closing the door behind me.
Something yanks me back, and a little yelp escapes me.
Twisting, I illuminate my phone and look behind. My beautiful, sparkly train is caught in the door. Because of course it is.
Holding my breath, I turn the knob with minute twists of my wrist until it unlatches, then pull my skirt inside, pushing the door closed.
I swish my skirt to make sure it’s completely free. That’s better.
The desk lamp blazes bright in the dark, forcing me to close my eyes, just as I spot the window. It looks out directly over the street, and anyone near the ballroom would be able to see it. Poop. I flick it off quickly. I should not have turned it on. Using the flashlight app on my phone, I inch past the reception desk and into the hallway.
The door to the filing room is closed, and my heart skips. Please don’t be locked.
It isn’t.
Honestly, it’s surprising that the medical files for all of the students and staff here at the academy are kept in an accessible room like this, but I’m not one to question my good luck.
Actually, maybe I should. I’m almost never this lucky.
My luck holds.
The filing cabinets aren’t locked either, and it’s an interior room, so I can turn on the light without worrying about anyone outside seeing me through a window.
Pulling open the first cabinet, I skim the tabs, looking for a file on one Professor Rook. I come to the back of that drawer and frown. No teacher files here. Only former students.
The next drawer holds more of the same.
As does the next.
My pulse speeds as it occurs to me that maybe only older files are stored here. It’s totally possible that the academy keeps more current records in an electronic system instead of a filing cabinet. If that’s the case, there’s no way I’ll be able to get access to it. I’m not a computer genius by any stretch.
I’m about to give up and admit defeat when I open the topmost drawer of the final cabinet. These names I recognize.
There. Found it.
I ease Professor Rook’s file out and set it on top so I can read it. The first sheet is a letter he wrote to Headmistress Morgan requesting to be removed as the boys’ lacrosse coach, following a rotator cuff injury. The postscript says there’s an explanation from a medical doctor enclosed.
By this point, my heart is hammering.
Whatever that medical explanation says could confirm my theory that Professor Rook killed Na. Or destroy it.
Here we go.
I flip to the next page, my eyes landing on a sketch of a shoulder joint and various arrows pointing to it with captions. Rook tore his rotator cuff during lacrosse practice, and his doctor said it would take at least a year to recover. It all makes sense now: his shaky left hand, his insistence on students writing the math problems on the board. Even the way he passes out papers.
But the kicker? Professor Rook is right handed.
There is no way he could have killed Na.
A ragged sigh escapes me.
Now what?
I tap my fingers on the paper, trying to decide what to do.
If nothing changes soon, it looks like the police will have to drop me as a suspect since they don’t have any evidence, which is a huge relief. But if they don’t have any suspects, there’s a chance the killer is waltzing around the academy halls, getting off scot-free. And even worse—someone had to have sent that pen to the police because they’d known it would implicate me. So, taking stock. One loose killer, one teacher selling drugs to students, and one person trying to frame me. Those are not great odds.
My stomach clenches. There has to be another way to figure out who the killer is. Another way to clear my name, once and for all.
I slide Professor Rook’s file back into its place among all of the other boring manila folders. Then my eyes fall on another name. Since I’m already here, will it hurt to take a look?
I pluck Dali’s folder out of the drawer and spread it out on top. It’s a lot more robust than Professor Rook’s. The top sheet is a list of dates she’s visited the health center for treatment. It’s extensive. Next there’s one naming migraine medications she’s tried and abandoned. Trips to the health center last year with stomach ailments that disappeared once classes were done for the day. And, buried in the back, a screenshot of a text written to Dali, telling her she’s ugly and she should drop out of school before people realize what a waste of oxygen she is.
Ouch.
It’s from an anonymous number, but I’m pretty sure I know who wrote it.
Ricardo told me that Na picked on Dali last year, but I hadn’t realized it was this bad. I probably wouldn’t have come back to school, but Dali did. She was brave.
Shuffling the papers, I put them neatly back in the folder. I’m about to close it when a particular date catches my eye.
It’s the day Na was killed, which makes sense. Dali said she missed class because she had a migraine that morning. I skim over the handwritten note next to it. My heart rate spikes and blood rushes in my ears. I read it again. This has to be wrong. Because if it’s not…
Came into health center ten minutes after second period bell. Given appropriate medication and instructed to lie down in cot. Stayed until third period bell.
Dali wasn’t in the health center when Li Na was killed. She lied to me.
But if she wasn’t in the health center with a migraine, then where was she?
“I really wish you hadn’t come looking in here.” Her words are apologetic, strained.
I whip around, eyes wide, heart thrashing in my chest.
Dali is standing in the doorway, and behind her a man with an imposing frown and thick arms. Her dad. And he’s blocking my only way out.
36
Charlotte
Rahul and Indira have outdone themselves. The Winter Summit is dazzling this year, with bright colored Indian fabrics draped over the tables, and shimmering golden ribbons dangling from the chandeliers. Waiters carry tray after tray of spiced, earthy finger foods past me, making my mouth water. Swiping a kabob off one, I taste it. “Mmm. You have to try this. It’s to die for.” I hold out the remaining bites of my kabob, but Mikhail shakes his head.
“I ate before I came.”
“That was clearly a mistake.”
“I suppose I could try a bite.”
Grinning, I push it toward him, and he takes it gingerly from me.
“You were right. It is good.”
“Told you.” I drop my hands, brushing them on the smooth black taffeta of my dress. It rustles when I move, which is one of the reasons I picked it.
Twisting my neck, I scan the room for my next target. Who would be most impressive as a contact? Hmm. What about the ambassadors from the African oil block countries? I purse my lips to the side. On the one hand, if I could charm them, they might look more favorably on Daddy, which would be great for his negotiations. But, if I inadvertently offend them…
I march toward the ambassador from Mozambique, head held high. I'm on my game tonight, schmoozing politicians and ambassadors like a seasoned pro. If making contacts was an Olympic sport, I'd be in line for the gold medal. I can make friends with the woman in front of me. No problem.
Look at me now, Daddy.
Or not.
When I glance over to where he and Mom are standing, talking to the ambassador from Australia and her husband, they're not paying any attention to me. No matter that I’ve just made friends with the ambassador from Turkey, an insufferably grumpy man with wandering eyes. But did they see that? No.
Reaching toward a waiter's passing tray, I snag another samosa. Crunch. Oh, sweet carbs, these are delicious.
Crap. Mom saw that. She sends me one of her patented, "How many of those have you had?" looks, and the taste of the buttery, flaky pastry turns to ash in my mouth. I drop the remainder in the trash can. It won't be satisfying now.
Daddy, finishing up his conversation, catches sight of me and prowls this way.
The ambassador from Mozambique moves away, and I frown. She’s getting away.
Daddy’s nostrils flaring is the only sign that he's not as thrilled as the rest of his charming expression implies. He stops in front of me abruptly. No niceties. No, "Good evening, Charlotte." Instead, it's, "Where is your brother?"
Like I'm his keeper. I roll my eyes. "Try the lacrosse pitch. You know he hates these things."
"It's snowing, Charlotte. Callahan is too sensible to go out in this weather."
"Then your guess is as good as mine."
His mouth tightens. "Find him, and remind him that this is an important opportunity for us. The connections he makes here tonight will help him in the future, once he runs for his first senatorial spot."
I don't dignify that with a response. He wouldn't listen anyway.
"I made friends with the Turkish ambassador."
Daddy blinks, as if I've asked him how he likes my hair. "That's nice. If you see your brother, tell him I'd like a word."
At my elbow, Mikhail huffs.
Paying no mind, Daddy strides away to retake his place by Mom's side. She's talking to the ambassador from Peru now. Probably in Portuguese. Aside from policing carbohydrates, Mom's other talent is languages. She's where I get it from.
Cal can only speak English and Spanish.
I can speak French, German, and some Mandarin.
Not that it matters.
Ugh. Where is Adrienne? At least her starstruck mooning was interesting. Standing on tiptoes, I scan the ballroom, but there's no sign of her auburn hair anywhere. I stalk over to where Mikhail is standing, scanning the room. "Mikhail, can you see Adrienne anywhere? I can't find her."
“No, I cannot find her.”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks worried.
“I will check the perimeter.”
Ricardo slides up next to me. “Nice night, huh?”
“Go away, Ricardo. We’re looking for Adrienne.”
“She left a few minutes ago. She seemed like she was in a hurry.”
Mikhail grips his arm, and Ricardo winces. “Where did she go? Was she alone?”
Ricardo’s eyes widen. “Hey, let go, man. You’re hurting me.”
Mikhail drops his hand, but his glare is just as potent.
“She was alone. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t listen. Sorry.” Ricardo ducks away from Mikhail’s heated gaze. “I think I’ll go over there.” Tossing his thumb, he backs away through the crowd.
“Stay here,” Mikhail commands. “I am going to find her.”
“I’m coming too. It sounds way more interesting than this snoozefest of a party.”
“You are not coming.”
“Yes. I am.”
Mikhail exhales in frustration. “You are impossible.”
"It’s part of my charm." I slice through the crowd, but after two hours in my brand new and incredibly gorgeous Emily Allison heels, my knee is bothering me. It’s going to need ice after this.
As if he's anticipated my pain, Mikhail stops and turns toward me. "Are you all right?"
I grit my teeth, loathe to admit that I might need help. But if I’m going with him to see what Adrienne’s up to, I will need it. "My knee is... But that's not important. Let's go." I can't stop the wince that crosses my face when I take another step.
Mikhail is alert in an instant. "You are in pain."
Pursing my lips in frustration, I say, "I can’t run. You’ll have to carry me."
He moves to scoop me up, but I hold out a hand.
"Don't be ridiculous. Turn around."
With his eyebrows furrowed, Mikhail pivots, presenting me with his back. I surge forward and leap, locking my legs around his waist as best I can, then wrap my arms around his neck.
"Mush," I whisper in his ear, but go quiet when I see the stares I'm getting from the dignitaries around us. “Hurry.”
His hands tighten on my legs as he holds me up. “I am not a dog, Charlotte.”
“Of course not. Dogs are much hairier.”
Mikhail doesn’t even chuckle, which worries me. What if something happened to Adrienne? Mikhail bursts outside, where snowflakes are falling. A gauze of white dusts the cars in the parking lot, despite the efforts of the valet staff to keep them clear. Everyone is going to have to leave soon to avoid being snowed in at the academy.
I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry. Adrienne probably got her feelings hurt by Ricardo, and went off to bake something. Hopefully macarons. But I guess it would be good to check on her and make sure she’s okay. Ugh, why did she have to decide to become friends with a knob like Ricardo?
37
Adrienne
I open my mouth to speak, to come up with an excuse, but my throat goes dry. Stupid mouth. Now is not the time to mutiny. Pinching my eyes closed, I will myself to speak. “I was… I was just looking at my file. I wanted to see what was in there, you know?” I meet Dali’s gaze and notice that she’s pale, with flecks of snow in her hair.
Dali’s dad nudges her with his arm, and she trudges toward me.
Closing the folder in my hands with a smack, I try to shove it back into the drawer, but Dali snatches it away.
“Please,” I whisper.
My friend’s eyes glisten as she looks up at me. Gives the slightest shake of her head. “It’s my file,” she says over her shoulder to her dad. “She knows.”
The man’s jaw clenches, and then he steps into the small room and closes the door behind him. A gold ring glints, triggering a memory.
The day we moved into the dorms, I saw Headmistress Morgan breaking up an argument between the Chinese ambassador and another man. This man. Realization hits me. They were arguing about Na returning to the school even though she made Dali miserable last year. And when the headmistress refused to bar her from attending, Dali did something about it. My skin breaks out in a cold sweat as my courage wavers.
“You have caused much more trouble than my daughter thought you would.”
Heart pounding, I turn to her. “Dali? You killed Na?”
She sighs, her eyes falling to the floor. “I couldn’t do it. I tried, but… He had to do it.”
My entire body starts to tremble. “Your father killed her.”
A slight nod.
“But, why? How?”
“He was trying to protect me. I called him, and he came in the back entrance. It was unlocked. People were coming in and out. It was easier than I thought it would be.”
“And you used my pen?”
“I needed it again at the end of class, and it was still on your desk, so I borrowed it. I was going to give it back, but when I got to the bathroom, I couldn’t… I couldn’t… I couldn’t face her. He took the pen out of my hand and went inside. I could hear the scuffling.” A violent tremor goes through her, leaving her trembling.
My legs go weak at the memory of Na’s crumpled body, like my very bones are trying to give out, leaving me to melt down to the floor. I put a hand out to brace myself against the filing cabinet, my breaths going shallow. “So you came into the health center to cover your tracks?”
“I did what I was told.”
Dali has withdrawn into herself, faded to the side in her dad’s presence. Dali’s always soft-spoken, but with her dad in the room, her form becomes frayed at the edges, as if his presence is so strong it’s unraveling her, taking the threads that make up Dali and pulling at them to reduce her to little more than a diminutive pile of knotted string.
“But, why me?” As soon as I voice the words, I know. My father warned me about being careful so my behavior didn’t blow back on him. My throat constricts. It turns out—even keeping a tight rein on my actions wasn’t enough. The senator’s negotiation with the African oil block has stalled. Dali’s dad used the murder to try to discredit me anyway, in a bid to pull the balance of the talks into his favor.
“I’m saddened it has come to this. I was merely trying to help my daughter, but now that you know what happened, I cannot let you leave here. If it helps at all, your death will be in service of the people of my country. Discrediting you will help me complete the oil talks with your father in a way that greatly benefits my people. It will look bad when the newspapers report that you were so overcome with guilt over that girl, you killed yourself.”
His broad body skulks closer, and my knees go weak. “I won’t say anything. I swear. Please.”
“I can’t take that risk.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he takes out a pair of fine leather gloves that snap as he pulls them onto his thick fingers.
I shake my head in disbelief. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening.
“I’m sorry.” Dali’s words are a hint of a whisper on the air as she presses herself into the corner of the room, closing her eyes and putting her hands over her ears. So she doesn’t have to see. Doesn’t have to hear the damage her father is about to inflict on me, her so-called friend.
Ambassador Sibale advances toward me, and his eyes flick around the room, taking stock. There’s not much here, just an overhead light and the four heavy, metal filing cabinets along the wall.
I force myself to focus on him, rove over his body for any sign of a weapon. Still, I know he doesn’t really need one. He killed Na with a plastic pen.
“No, no, no, no, please. Please!” I squeeze myself into the corner between the filing cabinet and the wall, trying to make myself the smallest target possible.
He steps closer, intent clear in his eyes.
