“What?” I ask as Lindzi tries and fails to suppress a grin.
“Who is he to interrupt my staff in the middle of a presentation?” Carly asks, starting to pace the room in her mile-high heels. “To interrupt me? And question my judgment, like I’m some kind of novice who needs guidance and not the person who single-handedly built this show from the ground up?”
“Preach it,” Lindzi says under her breath.
Relief floods my veins as Carly’s words sink in and I realize her anger isn’t directed toward me. “You don’t agree with what Ramon said about Mr. Larkin?” I ask.
“I didn’t get where I am by letting some corporate hack tell me what to do,” Carly says. She flings herself into a chair and exhales loudly, visibly composing herself before adding, “Let’s take some preliminary steps on this story. Lindzi, I want you to get in touch with the Sturgis Police and see what evidence they’re willing to share.”
I manage not to bounce out of my chair, but just barely, as Lindzi picks up her laptop and starts typing. “Aye, captain,” she says.
“And put a call for information on the website,” Carly continues. “William Larkin’s name, picture, age at his death, the date he died, and the hotline email.”
Lindzi pauses in her notetaking, brows raised. “If William Larkin goes up on the website, Ramon is going to know…” She trails off as Carly’s expression gets steely again.
“That we’re pursuing a story?” Carly asks coolly. “Which is the lifeblood of this organization and the reason everyone involved with it, including him, has a job? Good.”
“Good indeed,” Lindzi says, returning her eyes to her screen.
I gaze between her and Carly, hardly able to believe what I’m seeing. Two brilliant, sought-after professional journalists are giving their full attention to Mr. Larkin’s story—all because of a suggestion I made. Well, and the fact that a guy Carly doesn’t like just shot me down in flames, but I’m going to focus on the positive for now.
“What can I do?” I ask.
Carly wrinkles her brow. “Maybe poke around a little on those kids from the woods,” she says. “What are they up to now? What are their families up to? That kind of thing.”
I nod, thinking back to the Saint Ambrose memorial garden committee meeting from earlier today. I didn’t show up there expecting to see Tripp Talbot, and spent the first ten minutes of the meeting annoyed that he was ignoring me before I had the chance to ignore him. Then Ms. Kelso put us together, which was worthwhile for the expression on his face alone. It looks like that’s not the only benefit of being stuck with my old nemesis, though.
“Already on it,” I say.
—
Later that night, I’m still filled with nervous adrenaline and unable to sleep. I tried briefly around eleven o’clock, then gave up and picked up my phone, which is a treasure trove of Google results on the Delgado and Holbrook
families. What Shane’s and Charlotte’s parents are up to, apparently, is making even more money.
Mr. Holbrook’s company is a venture capital firm best known for funding a popular dating app. The Delgados co-own a real estate development company, and churn out press releases on what seems like a weekly basis. I’ve already scrolled through the past two years’ worth of news, and now I’m checking out what they had going on the year Mr. Larkin died. DELGADO PROPERTIES COMPLETES SALE OF EIGHT–ASSET NEW HAMPSHIRE PORTFOLIO, DELGADO PROPERTIES LAUNCHES GROUNDBREAKING MIXED– USE PROJECT, DELGADO PROPERTIES ANNOUNCES RECORD YEAR FOR CHARITABLE CONTRIBUTIONS….
I copy some of the links to a spreadsheet that I’ve labeled Larkin Research, which is my process for every story I’ve ever worked on: dump all the details I can find into one document and look for patterns. What’s repeated? What stands out? But already my Larkin spreadsheet looks different, almost chaotic, and I’m reminded of what Carly said when we first met: You do realize we’re not the New York Times, though, right? True-crime reporting is a very specific niche, and if you aren’t passionate about it—
I didn’t let her finish, but I think I understand what she meant. You need passion, because crime—especially murder—comes from the deepest, darkest part of the human heart. It’s almost impossible to think about for too long, unless you’re desperate for answers.
My head is starting to ache. Time to sleep, I think, but instead I switch to social media to see what my Chicago friends are up to. Izzy’s posted a new TikTok of her dog, and I reply with the heart-eyes emoji. Olivia’s latest Instagram post is a pretty solo shot that’s getting a ton of comments. When I go to add mine, I see a string of fire emojis from none other than the mouth- breather himself, basketball captain Jason Pruitt. I click on the single reply to his comment, which is from Olivia: Go away.
“Solidarity, sister,” I say, feeling a burst of gratitude for my friend. I click on Jason’s page, and my temper rises at a photo of him spinning a basketball on one finger. When Motive breaks Mr. Larkin’s case wide open,
Izzy and Olivia will make sure everyone at my old school knows I was behind it, and then they’ll realize exactly how wrong they were about me.
A light knock sounds on my door, and I glance at the clock beside my bed. It’s almost two in the morning, and there’s only one other person in the house who’s ever up this late. “Come in,” I say, and the door cracks to reveal Uncle Nick.
“Thought I heard you,” he says. He’s not wearing his glasses, and his face looks unfinished without them. “Can’t sleep?”
“I’m doing research,” I say, closing out Instagram before Uncle Nick can notice me creeping on Jason’s page. “Hey, when you were at Saint Ambrose, did Mr. Larkin ever mention his family? Or a girlfriend, or anything like that?”
“Did he…” Uncle Nick cocks his head, puzzled. “Not that I can think of. What’s the urgency? I thought Motive had Will’s story on the back burner?”
“There’s been, um, renewed interest,” I say. And I hope that’s all he’ll ask, because I don’t want to have to explain the whole Ramon d’Arturo fiasco.
“Oh really?” Uncle Nick raises his brows. “Have you told your parents that?”
“Not yet. It could still turn out to be nothing. But, you know.” Jason Pruitt’s smug face looms in my brain, uninvited. “I’m trying to do a good job. Impress people, hopefully.”
“You should pitch your boss on what happened in Carlton. That was right next door. Well, a couple towns over.” I blink at Uncle Nick, and he adds, “Oh right. You guys were still in Chicago then. It was a big local scandal—three kids skipped school and wound up finding their classmate’s dead body. Like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off but with murder.” He sighs at my still-blank look. “You really need to watch that movie sometime. Anyway, look it up.”
“I will,” I say. “So, nothing about Mr. Larkin that you can tell me? What about Tripp? Did you ever talk to him about what it was like to find
Mr. Larkin in the woods like that?” I didn’t, since Tripp and I weren’t on speaking terms anymore.
“No, but I’m sure he was horrified. Traumatized. They all must have been.” Uncle Nick folds his arms and leans against my doorframe. “Listen, I know this is exciting for you, but…don’t lose sight of what your father said earlier, okay?”
“Meaning what?”
“Be ethical about what you share,” he says.
“Since when do you listen to Dad?” I counter.
The corners of my uncle’s mouth quirk. “Basically never, and look where it’s gotten me. Still living with him at the age of twenty-four. So— learn from my mistakes, okay?” He yawns and scratches his chin. “And get some sleep. I need to do the same.”
“Okay. Good night,” I say, and wave as he shuts the door. Then I unlock my phone and go back to the Delgado Properties website. I’m still on the charitable donation press release, and I skim until I find a quote from Shane’s dad. “Delgado Properties is proud to support local businesses and services with more than ten million dollars in charitable contributions,” says founder and co-president Marco Delgado. A full list of donations is provided in the company’s annual 10-K report.
The last few words are linked, and when I click, it launches a PDF file. I nearly shut it down, because those are incomprehensible on a phone, but then I see a name I recognize: Saint Ambrose School. Shane’s dad’s company gave $100,000 to the school the year Mr. Larkin died. I make a mental note to check whether they make that kind of donation every year. Then my eyes stray to the listing below Saint Ambrose, and I inhale a sharp, surprised breath.
Sturgis Police Foundation: $250,000.
 |
Shane is a crappy partner. Even though he forgot his binder, along with most of Ms. Singh’s instructions, he seems to think he should lead this leaf- gathering expedition. “Not that way,” he announces when I start to follow a forked path to the right. “This way.”
“Why?” I ask.
“We should head over to the fire pit,” Shane suggests, referring to the hollowed-out spot deeper in the woods, near Shelton Park, where Upper School kids sometimes have bonfires.
“Why?” I ask again. “That place is nothing but pine trees.”
Shane’s gaze shifts. “I told someone I’d meet them there.”
“Who?”
“Charlotte,” he admits, and I groan. Of course, Shane Delgado would turn a science project into a date.
“Yeah, well, enjoy that. I’m going this way.”
“No, don’t!” Shane says, a little too quickly. When I turn back, I notice he looks almost nervous. “I don’t want to go alone.”
“Why not?” I ask, baffled. Any other guy in our class would love the chance to be alone in the woods with Charlotte Holbrook.
“Because Charlotte is… a lot.” A muscle in Shane’s jaw twitches. “You know how some girls want to, like, own you? She’s like that.”
I can’t really relate. Girls don’t want to own me; they tend to look right through me. Except for Brynn, but she sees me like a brother, which is even worse. Or at least she did, before I embarrassed her in gym class yesterday. Today, she hasn’t looked at me once—which is exactly what I wanted, so I shouldn’t be whining about it.
“I didn’t come here to be your third wheel,” I tell Shane. I pop in my earbuds and crank up the music on my phone, drowning out any objections he might have, and continue down the right fork of the path, as far away from the fire pit as possible.
