Dig Two Graves, page 20
To stalk other people’s posts.
Was this how Diane knew that Pamela was attending Brown Ledge? And if so, what else had she learned from Instagram?
Neve quickly typed Mitchell’s name into the Instagram search box, and his page popped up immediately. But like his Facebook, the account was private, so Neve couldn’t find out if Diane had stalked him at all. Who else might Diane have followed online?
With trembling fingers, she typed in Yasmin’s handle.
It was telling that Yasmin hadn’t actually blocked Neve from viewing her account. If Neve had really been the toxic girl-hater Yasmin had made her out to be, you’d think the first thing she would have done would be to block her ex-bestie on all social media. Only she didn’t. And Neve knew why. It wasn’t because Yasmin was thoughtless or careless or practically a Luddite when it came to technology. It was because she wanted Neve to see all her new photos with all her new friends.
Yasmin was cruel that way.
But Neve hadn’t given her the satisfaction. She wasn’t interested in watching Yasmin frolic with Marisol and Luna and possibly Hazel Eyes, aka Javier. She didn’t care.
Now here she was, confronted with Yasmin’s page mere days after her death, and scrolling through those photos was like ripping the scab off an unhealed wound.
Yasmin’s feed was definitely “showing my best life,” a category of social media that Neve abhorred. It wasn’t real. Yasmin’s photos were meant to make others think that her life was amazing. Perfect. Worthy of envy. It had been like that before she betrayed Neve, but the volume of posts had gone up since she’d established herself as third wheel on the Marisol-Luna bicycle. And it was all as fake and irritating as Neve had imagined it would be.
Yasmin posted almost nothing but selfies with Marisol and Luna—at the beach, at a party, at school—all peppered with hashtags like #BestLife and #SquadSisters.
Neve wanted to launch her phone across the room. Yasmin had ruined Neve’s life in order to achieve this social media fallacy. What exactly was the fucking point? Marisol and Luna were two of the vainest, most boring people Neve had ever encountered, and it wasn’t so long ago that Yasmin had agreed with her on both of those points. Now she was pretending that they were all soul mates.
Neve’s eyes glazed over as the selfies began to bleed together in their monotony, and she scrolled faster until she abruptly stopped on a photo that contained a familiar face. Javier, posed between Yasmin and Luna. It was the first photo of him Neve had seen in her feed, untagged, taken during the time Neve was at GLAM.
Neve laughed out loud. She couldn’t help it. All those Machiavellian machinations to throw herself in his path and the best Yasmin could manage was one photo with Javier? Pathetic. What the hell would Yasmin say if she knew Neve had lunch with him?
Nothing, because she’s fucking dead.
Neve froze mid-scroll at the sobering reminder. She could hate Yasmin forever, but that hatred was as pointless as Yasmin’s betrayal had been. Yasmin was dead, Neve was not. And unless she wanted someone else to suffer her ex-friend’s fate, Neve needed to stop Diane.
She refocused and continued to scroll, slowly this time, and with purpose, going back in time to the first day of GLAM camp. Confessional was the first time she’d mentioned Yasmin by name, so if Diane’s pattern was to stalk intended victims on their social media, BostonRyanne would start showing up in Yasmin’s around this time. She clicked on a few photos, scanning the likes for the familiar handle. Third photo, halfway down the like list, she found it. BostonRyanne.
First Pamela, then Yasmin. If she could have gotten a look at Mitchell’s account, she was pretty sure she’d find the same thing: Diane was stalking her victims.
But why?
Neve forced herself to think rationally. There might have been a dozen reasons why Diane followed Yasmin on Instagram. Yasmin was friends with her stepbrother, for starters. It’s even possible they’d met through him, though considering Javier’s relationship with his stepsister, it seemed unlikely that he’d want to spend any social time with her outside of school and home. Still, it was a possibility.
If only there was someone else connected to this mess . . .
The answer hit Neve like a runaway freight train.
Charlotte.
How could she have been so stupid? What if she hadn’t even been Diane’s original target? What if it had been Charlotte?
The pattern fit. They went to school together, and Charlotte looked utterly surprised to see Diane at GLAM. During the early days of camp, Diane had been attached to Charlotte, who always looked miserable when she was in Diane’s presence. Charlotte’s reaction to her “friend” had confused Neve at the time, but now made perfect sense. Diane had followed Charlotte to GLAM, thinking she’d be an easy target like Pamela, but while Charlotte might have been shy, might have taken a while to warm up to new people, she was perfectly capable of making friends and had done so easily at GLAM.
Charlotte had been suspicious of Diane from the get-go. She’d known Diane was lying about her relationship with Javier and had probably been grateful when Diane shifted her laser focus to Neve. An easier target.
Thankfully, Charlotte had an open Instagram account. Sparse, like Pamela’s, but there were posts as recently as yesterday afternoon. All Neve had to do was scroll back a few months and boom, BostonRyanne showed up.
If there was one person on this entire planet who could help Neve point the finger at Diane Russell, it was Charlotte Trainor.
Now she just needed to find Kellie’s goddamn business card. What the hell had she done with it?
Neve’s mom’s type-A personality might have been a pain in her daughter’s ass most of the time, but on this one occasion, it proved to be a saving grace. While Neve was prone to shoving things in pockets and drawers and places she might or might not remember, and might or might not be able to locate later, her mom was meticulous in her organization. Laundry was sorted into separate hampers for whites and colors, household bills were clipped together by due date and filed in a folder on her desk, and every single household item—including all of the family’s luggage—had a designated drawer, cubby, or cabinet to which it was whisked away after its purpose had been served.
In the case of Neve’s wonky-wheeled carry-on, that designated space was a storage cubby in the garage. Hopefully, Kellie’s card was still there, tossed into a pocket as Neve carelessly packed that last morning of camp.
Neve crept down the hallway, desperately hoping that her mom wasn’t at her desk, which blocked the way from the kitchen to the garage, and poked her head around the edge of the dining room. Her mom was nowhere to be seen. A miracle. She dashed across the dining room and through the long galley kitchen, past her mom’s desk and into the laundry room, pausing only briefly to make sure no one had seen her before she twisted the door handle and slipped into the garage.
Her bag was exactly where it was supposed to be: third cubby across on the “luggage row,” marked as such in all-bold letters from her mom’s prized label maker. It only took thirty seconds of rummaging before she found Kellie’s business card in a mesh pocket.
Neve hadn’t looked at the card when Kellie had given it to her—she’d been high from her success at the showcase plus dealing with Inara and Diane—but now she was able to give it her full attention.
KELLIE CARPENTER
ACTING COACH, THEATER DIRECTOR, CHOREOGRAPHER
LET ME OPEN YOUR POTENTIAL
And the dot over the i in her name was a freaking heart, which made every dark noiry bone in Neve’s body ache from the tweeness.
Still, she’d never been so grateful for such an abundance of twee in her entire life, and as Neve retraced her steps to her bedroom, she plotted out what she was going to say. Should she flat-out ask for Charlotte’s contact info without giving any context and hope Kellie handed it over? Or should she concoct an elaborate scenario about why she needed to get in touch with Charlotte? Or tell Kellie the truth?
Neve laughed out loud as she closed her bedroom door. The truth. Like anyone would believe it.
Without a clear plan in mind, Neve punched the digits into her phone and hit the call button.
The perkiest voice in the world picked up on the second ring. “This is Kellie. How can I make your day better?”
Give me Charlotte’s phone number? “Um, hi, Kellie. This is Neve Lanier. From GLAM.” She didn’t know why she felt the need to add that since it had been less than two weeks since they’d seen each other, but Neve was never convinced that people remembered her.
“Neve!” Kellie cried, her excitement rippling through the phone speaker. “I’m so happy to hear from you! I was just telling my mentor about you this week, about how thrilling it was to see your talent blossom before my eyes.” She sucked in a breath. “Have you tried out for the theater group at school? Or are auditions coming up? We could FaceTime a coaching session for audition monologues if you’d like.”
Neve wasn’t about to explain that she couldn’t audition for theater at school because she hadn’t actually been to school except for about thirty minutes on the first day. “Yeah, that would be great.”
“YAY!” Kellie cried. “I’m so excited! When can we start? I’m generally free in the afternoons or weekend mornings if you—”
“Actually . . .” Neve felt guilty lying to Kellie. “Actually, I was wondering if you had Charlotte Trainor’s phone number?” She paused, wondering if Kellie would jump in with an answer, but when she didn’t, Neve vamped. “I think I ended up with her copy of the script. The one with all her stage manager’s notes. I found it in my suitcase when I finally unpacked and thought maybe she’d want it.”
“Oh yeah. I bet she’d love to have that back! I have her number.” Kellie’s voice sounded more cavernous, as if she’d switched to speakerphone. “Let me find it.”
“Thank you so much.” She was pretty sure a camp counselor shouldn’t be sharing contact information for minors, but at that moment, she was thankful that Kellie’s sense of security was lax.
“Texting it to you,” Kellie said. Neve felt her breath catch as a soft beep indicated that the text had come through. “Now how about next Monday afternoon for a coaching? Say, four o’clock?”
Ugh. “Sure.” If I’m not in jail by then.
“Awesome! I’m so excited.”
“Me too.” Neve couldn’t even fake excitement. All she wanted to do was call Charlotte.
“Seriously, Neve. You possess one of the most innate talents I’ve ever seen.”
Neve smiled, despite her desperation to get off the call. It wasn’t often she got compliments on anything, and since Diane had clearly been lying about what she thought of Neve’s acting, it was nice to think that maybe Kellie hadn’t been. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. See you next week!”
The second the call ended, Neve tapped in Charlotte’s number. She prayed Charlotte, like Kellie, would pick up, but after eight rings, she ended the call. Maybe if she texted, Charlotte would get back to her?
Charlotte, it’s Neve.
Sorry to text like this, but I need to talk to you.
Very important.
In regard to our last conversation.
Call me?
Neve leaned back against her pillows, allowing her aching back to unclench and her shoulders to sag as she watched her screen, hoping for a response. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Nothing.
Fuck.
Was Charlotte avoiding Neve? Had Diane gotten to her? Threatened her? Neve needed to find Charlotte ASAP, and thankfully, Neve knew where she was going to be. Unfortunately, it was the one place in the entire world Neve wanted to avoid, but if she was going to protect her father, she needed to find Charlotte right away. And that meant . . .
She grabbed her phone and sent Charlotte one last text.
I’ll find you at Yasmin’s memorial. Talk then.
THIRTY-TWO
AS NEVE DROVE TOWARD THE COMMUNITY PARK WHERE Yasmin’s memorial gathering was taking place, she was thankful that the Attars had picked a large, outdoor space for the service. If they’d used their church, it might have been impossible for Neve to arrive unnoticed, and the shitshow that ensued would have ruined any chance she had at speaking to Charlotte in private. But this park—complete with a skate ramp, aquatic center, two playgrounds, dog run, and a bandstand—was huge, the kind of place where you’d host an eight-year-old’s birthday party or a Fourth of July barbecue.
Neve considered turning around as she pulled into a wraparound parking lot that snuggled the thirty-acre park like an asphalt blanket. The last time she’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Attar was when her dad had dragged her to their house to confront Yasmin. She could still hear him screaming at Yasmin’s dad in the doorway, his angry threats so menacing that Yasmin’s mom had called the police. It had been the ugly exclamation point at the end of Neve and Yasmin’s friendship, and though the Attars hadn’t filed a restraining order against either Neve or her dad, bad blood had lingered. How would Mr. and Mrs. Attar react if they recognized Neve in the crowd?
Thankfully, Neve had taken some precautions in that regard. Even though her wardrobe was almost entirely black, her vintage clothes and reddish-brown pin-curled hair were easily identifiable, even at a distance. Neve had dug around in her closet until she found an old pair of jeans that still fit and had swiped one of her dad’s hooded sweatshirts. She even pulled on the rubber-soled booties she’d bought for GLAM and smiled as she thought of how Grandma K would approve of such utility. Standing in front of the mirror before she left the house, Neve barely recognized herself. Hopefully, no one at the service would either.
Despite her fear of being recognized, Neve felt a sense of calmness as she approached the park. Yasmin and Neve had shared a close friendship for most of their junior year. They ate dinner with each other’s families, slept over at each other’s houses, shared secrets and plans for the future. She wanted to be at the memorial service, wanted to grieve the loss of her friend, even if that had technically come long before Yasmin’s death.
The sun had already sunk behind the foothills that gently sloped between the park and the Pacific Ocean when Neve parked the Bolt and stepped out into the parking lot. The hills blocked the early-evening rays, and much to her surprise, there was a damp chill in the air. Unusual in the late summer heat of Southern California. Still, it gave Neve an excuse to pull the hoodie over her head without looking suspicious.
Neve took a side path from the lot, passing around the back side of the tennis courts to approach the bandstand from the far end. Even from that distance, she could hear the milling crowd noise drifting toward her. Muted but restless, like people shuffling their feet and speaking in whispered tones. Like a lot of people. A lot a lot. Neve rounded the fence and stopped dead.
The crowd gathered around the bandstand was huge. Several hundred, Neve guesstimated. How was she going to find Charlotte in a crowd this size? She skirted the edges, eyes desperately searching for Charlotte’s long black hair in the pulsating mass of people while praying that no one recognized her. People were chatting in small groups, waiting for something to happen, and Neve was able to move around relatively unnoticed until suddenly, the whole park went quiet.
“Thank you all for coming.”
The familiar voice was small and sharp, amplified through speakers Neve couldn’t see. She didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t help herself, and without thinking, she glanced up at Yasmin’s dad at the front edge of the stage behind a microphone stand.
Mr. Attar’s face was pale and it looked as if he’d dropped some weight. His cheeks were gaunt, with hollow recesses behind his jawbone that made the skeletal frame of his face more angular and pronounced than she remembered. His wife stood by his side, her head bowed. Her black dress and blazer were crisp and sharp, but her body language exuded less of the “corporate attorney confidence” Neve had been accustomed to. Shoulders rolled forward, chest concave, Mrs. Attar looked like a woman who had given up.
“Thank you all so much for coming,” Mr. Attar repeated, immediately silencing the low ripple from the crowd. “My Yasmin would have been so happy to see such a large gathering in her honor.”
Neve fought back the uncivil thoughts in her head in relation to Yasmin’s ego.
“While we don’t want to harp on the circumstances of my princess’s death,” he continued, his voice cracking with emotion, “we would like to encourage the local authorities to immediately question the person responsible for this heinous act of revenge by an angry, bitter soul.”
Does he know who killed his daughter? Neve involuntarily took a step forward.
At the microphone, Mr. Attar swallowed heavily, then turned his head away to clear his throat. “Several of Yasmin’s true friends have asked to say a few words about the wonder that was her life, and so I’d like to invite them to—”
Before he could finish, his wife nudged him aside, raising her head for the first time as she took possession of the microphone. Her eyes were puffy, and even from the back of the crowd, Neve could see that they were bloodshot and raw. As if Yasmin’s mom hadn’t stopped crying for the entire week since her daughter’s murder.
“I want to say something.” Her voice, unlike her face, was strong, booming through the microphone with a force so explosive Neve jumped at its fierceness. Her upper lip curled as she spoke, an ugly, feral sneer like a lioness about to pounce on her prey.
“I don’t know why we’re pretending,” she said, spitting out the last word as if it left a bitter taste on her tongue. “Pretending that we don’t know who did this to my beautiful Yasmin. If the police refuse to act on credible information . . .” She let her voice trail off as she turned to the side of the stage and Neve noticed that Officers Lee and Hernández stood casually by the steps.
Why are they here?
“Our family came to this country to escape injustice,” Mrs. Attar continued, “to live in a place where you can trust the government and the authorities to take care of you. To protect the innocent and punish those who are not. So far, my family, my daughter, has seen no justice.”
