Jesus Christ, I think hazily. Stefan was right. There really is a Weasel.
I don’t have time to ask who it is; Lara’s talking too fast, like whatever nervous energy she’s been running on all day is finally bubbling over. “Killing Brian, and framing me for both the murder and the drug operation, takes care of all his problems at once,” she says.
Pieces are falling into place too fast for me to keep track of. “So Ivy was just…”
“Wrong place, wrong time, right color hair,” Lara says. “Maybe whoever killed Brian was waiting for me to show up, making sure I was really there before they called the police, and they mistook her for me. The windows in that place have gotten filthy ever since maintenance stopped.” She grabs hold of the suitcase handle again. “So there you have it. I hope I’ve satisfied your curiosity, because I’m getting out of here before I wind up in jail for something I didn’t do.”
“But Lara! Wait!” I throw my body across the door again. “You can’t just leave. You have to go to the police—they’ll believe you. Lots of people must have seen you this morning, right? They’ll know you couldn’t have killed Boney, and—”
“I’m not counting on the police,” Lara says. “It doesn’t matter that I have an alibi. You don’t know Tom. He might’ve failed at what he was trying to do, but he’s relentless. He always has a Plan B, and I’m not sticking around to find out what it is.” She releases the suitcase and tries to physically shove me away from the door.
I hold my ground. “But the police will find you! Coach Kendall will find you.”
Lara’s lips curve into a grim smile. “One of the nice things about Tom is, he’s gotten to know some interesting people in his line of work. The kind of people who can help you disappear if you pay them enough. Which I have.” She pats the bag on her shoulder, then quirks her lips at me. “Don’t look so horrified, Cal. Even if things hadn’t imploded, I was never going to last as a small-town art teacher. This is better for everyone.”
I’m finally too shell-shocked to resist when she brushes past me, opens the door, and steps outside. I wait for the sound of her suitcase rolling down the stairs, but it doesn’t come. For a second there’s nothing but silence, and then I hear something else: a scared, muffled, whimpering sound that makes my heart thump hard against my rib cage. That doesn’t sound like Lara, but it almost sounds like…
I lean into the doorframe and look through it. Lara is standing perfectly still, the suitcase at her side, staring at the scene in front of her. It’s Coach Kendall, still wearing his Carlton Lacrosse jacket, with his arm around Ivy’s neck and his hand over her mouth. Her eyes, wide and terrified, get even bigger when she spots me.
“Oh shit,” Lara says under her breath, so low that I’m probably the only one who can hear her. “This must be Plan B.”
CAL
Minutes later we’re all in the garage across from Lara’s house, because Coach Kendall has a gun and he’s not afraid to wave it at us. Lara sits first, settling herself delicately in one corner like she’s a guest at an underfurnished house party. I drop like a stone on the hard cement floor, and Coach Kendall finally takes his hand from Ivy’s mouth to shove her next to me.
“Where is Daniel?” she asks hoarsely as soon as she can speak. “What did you do with my brother?”
“Nothing,” Coach Kendall says. He lowers the garage door and flicks a light switch beside it, illuminating the interior with the dim yellow glow of a single bulb. Then he puts down the duffel bag he’d had on his shoulder and crouches beside it. “All I did was take his phone.”
Ivy shudders with relief as my brain tries to absorb all of this new information. “Daniel?” I parrot. “So I was right? Daniel is the Weasel?”
Coach Kendall’s face twists. Holy hell, how did I ever think this guy was friendly? He looks like a serial killer. “The what? What are you talking about?” His eyes narrow. “And why are you here?”
“Um. No reason.” I snap my mouth shut and try to keep the plastic bag of pills I shoved back under my shirt from sliding out, but it’s too late. Coach Kendall gestures at me with his gun, and I reluctantly let the bag drop into my lap.
“Throw it,” he orders, and I do. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, turning the bag over in one hand. “What are you up to, Lara?”