The Ivies - Alexa Donne Page 0,56
looking for signs of life. Kaila’s social media is pretty dead. She hasn’t tweeted in eighteen months, and her last Instagram pic is of a dandelion sprouting above a grassy patch with the caption Plant me and I will grow. It’s from a year ago. We used to be Snapchat friends, but now her account is gone. I send her an Instagram DM, just in case.
Hey, don’t know if you’re back in town, but would love to talk.
Vague but truthful. It’ll do.
I find Ethan in the dining hall, nursing a mug of black coffee. I help myself to a healthy serving of bacon and my own cup and join him. As I stir two packets of sugar into my coffee, I consider telling Ethan about Quit Meddling’s email but ultimately decide against it. He might encourage me to stop what I’m doing, and I can’t have that. But my discovery about the path behind Whitley is safe. Ethan groans through a sip, the liquid gurgling like he’s a fish.
“So anyone could have snuck around, regardless of cameras.”
I nod, nosh on a salty slice. “We’re truly at square one. I did DM Kaila, though.”
“And?”
I check my phone. “No reply yet. But her parents live in Northampton, so it’s entirely possible she was around last week. We’ll see.”
“How was Tyler when you ran into him? Do we still think he didn’t know?”
Ethan doesn’t watch his volume, and I pop my head up like a meerkat, scanning the immediate area to ensure that no one heard and is watching. Then I lower my voice for my reply. “I can’t tell. He’s planning a candlelight vigil—I mean memorial—for tomorrow.”
“I saw.” Ethan’s jaw flexes. “We need to figure out who Emma was cheating with, then confront him and see how he reacts. From what you told me, it seems like Margot knows who it is.”
“I can’t ask Margot. She made it clear yesterday she had nothing more to say.”
He seems to think on that. I gnaw a piece of bacon. I watch the green pops in his hazel eyes dance.
“If you had a secret boyfriend, how would you contact him?” he asks.
“You’re assuming I know how to contact an actual boyfriend.” It’s out before I can stop it. I talk faster. “Idon’tknowthough. Probably text or social media?” Good cover.
“Right, her phone.” Ethan either didn’t notice my first answer or is too nice to say anything. “If you have a secret hookup, you text them. Or message them. There has to be a trail.”
“The cops took her phone. Laptop, too. They still have them.” I hate to see Ethan’s spirit dull. I take a swig of coffee, letting the acid slice through my guilt.
“Are you sure she didn’t have another phone? A burner?”
“She wasn’t a spy, Ethan. It’s not a movie.”
My response is automatic, Ethan’s suggestion too easy to dismiss out of hand. But then I remember: Emma upgraded her iPhone last fall. She asked me if I wanted her old one, since otherwise it would sit in a drawer. Uncomfortable with being a charity case, I declined. My mother had bought my refurbished smartphone for a bargain price, so proud when I unwrapped my Christmas present and squealed with delight to finally have a touchscreen phone that wasn’t an embarrassing pay-as-you-go. The Ivies noticed that kind of thing, off-brand discount-retailer phone, outside of contract.
And I noticed how all of them always had the latest fancy phone model the day it came out. I close my eyes, think about all the times I saw Emma on her phone in the past few months. Her old case and her new were nearly identical. The new one was pink. The old one was lavender.
I picture Emma texting furiously during dinner. On a lavender phone. It feels familiar, fresh—was it last week? The week before? Or am I forcing the mental image, fusing much older memories with newer ones?
“You look like you’re thinking about something,” Ethan says.
“I—” My throat catches as I conjure up a picture of our room. Where would Emma have stashed that old phone? Underwear drawer, maybe? “Emma might have had another phone,” I concede. Ethan preens. “It’s worth checking. But if it was in our room, the cops might have it, too.”
“Or they might not.”
He’s right, it’s something.
“I’ll search my room between exams, and maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Which ones do you have today?”
“Only AP German and Brit Lit, which is a paper.”
“Lucky.” Ethan rips into his toast and speaks midbite. “I’m dreading AP