Sara Shepard - Killer

Spencer frowned. “They’d probably be happy I was gone.”

“You don’t know that,” Andrew argued, glancing at her cagily, then quickly cutting his eyes away. “Your parents are mad at you, but I’m sure they don’t hate you. You’re still their kid. They might not let you go to New York at all.”

Spencer opened her mouth, then quickly shut it again. Her parents wouldn’t stand in the way of this opportunity…would they?

“And you just met your mom,” Andrew mumbled, looking more and more pained. “I mean, you barely know her. Don’t you think you’re moving a little too fast?”

“Yeah, but it felt right,” Spencer urged, wishing that he could understand. “And if I’m closer to her, I can get to know her.”

Andrew shrugged, then turned away again. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“What do you mean?” Spencer pressed, frustrated. “Olivia would never hurt me.”

Andrew mashed his lips together. In the kitchen, one of the family’s labradoodles started drinking from his water bowl. The phone rang, but Spencer made no motion to get it, waiting for Andrew to explain himself. She looked at Andrew’s pile of books in his arms. On top of their AP econ text was a small, square invitation. Please join us for the opening of the Radley hotel , the invitation said in elegant script.

“What’s that?” Spencer pointed at it.

Andrew glanced at the invitation, then pushed it under his notebook. “Just this thing I got in the mail. I must have picked it up by mistake.”

Spencer stared at him. Andrew’s cheeks were blotchy, as though he was trying hard not to cry. Suddenly…she got it. She imagined Andrew receiving the Radley invitation and rushing over here, eager to ask her to be his date. This will make up for Foxy, he might have planned to say, referring to the disastrous benefit they’d attended together this fall. Maybe all this nonsense about Spencer taking things slow and not wanting her to get hurt was really because Andrew didn’t want her to leave.

She touched his arm gently. “I’ll come back and visit you. And you can visit me too.”

A look of extreme embarrassment fluttered over Andrew’s face. He shook her off. “I-I have to go.” He stumbled out the door and down the hall. “I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

“Andrew!” Spencer protested, but he had already put on his jacket and was out the door. The wind slammed it shut so hard, the little wooden labradoodle statue that sat on the console table toppled over.

Spencer walked to the window next to the front door and watched Andrew run down the path to his Mini Cooper. She touched the doorknob, about to go after him, but a part of her didn’t want to. Andrew peeled away fast, the tires squealing. And then he was gone.

A huge lump formed in her throat. What had just happened? Had they broken up? Now that Spencer might leave, did Andrew want nothing else to do with her? Why wasn’t he happier for her? Why was he only thinking about himself and what he wanted?

Moments later, the back door slammed, and Spencer jumped. There were footsteps, then Mr. Hastings’s voice. Spencer hadn’t spoken to her parents since before her trip to New York, but she knew she had to. Only, what if Andrew was right? What if they prevented her from moving there?

She snatched her funnel-neck tweed jacket off the back of the living room chair and grabbed her car keys, suddenly afraid. There was no way she could talk to them about this right now. She needed to leave the house for a while, have a cappuccino, and clear her head. As she walked down the front steps toward the driveway, she stopped short, looking right, then left. Something was wrong.

Her car was gone.

The spot where she normally parked the little Mercedes coupe was empty. But Spencer had parked it here a few hours ago after school. Had she forgotten to turn on the alarm? Had someone stolen it? A?

She sprinted back to the kitchen. Mrs. Hastings was standing by the stove, putting some veggies in a big soup pot. Mr. Hastings was pouring himself a glass of Malbec. “My car is gone,” Spencer bleated. “I think someone stole it.”

Mr. Hastings kept calmly pouring. Mrs. Hastings pulled out a plastic cutting board, not even flinching. “No one stole it,” she said.

Spencer stopped. She gripped the edge of the kitchen island. “How do you know no one stole it?”

Her mother’s mouth was pursed, as if she was sucking on something sour. Her black T-shirt pulled tightly against her trim shoulders and chest. She held a paring knife tightly in her fist, wielding it like a weapon. “Because. Your father turned it into the dealer this afternoon.”

Spencer’s knees felt weak. She turned to her dad. “ What? Why ?”

“It was a gas guzzler,” Mrs. Hastings spoke for him. “We have to start thinking about the economy and the environment.” She shot Spencer a self-righteous smile and turned back to her cutting board.

“But…” Spencer’s body felt electrified. “You guys just inherited millions of dollars! And…that car is not a gas guzzler! It’s way more efficient than Melissa’s SUV!” She turned to her dad. He was still ignoring her, savoring his wine. Didn’t he care at all?

Enraged, Spencer grabbed his wrist. “Do you have anything to say?”

“Spencer,” Mr. Hastings said in an even voice, wrenching his hand away. The spicy smell of red wine filled Spencer’s nose. “You’re being dramatic. We’ve been talking about turning in your car for a long time, remember? You don’t need a car of your own.”

“But how am I supposed to get around?” Spencer wailed.

Mrs. Hastings kept chopping the carrots into smaller and smaller bits. The knife made a gnawing sound against the cutting board. “If you want to buy a new car, do what plenty of other kids your age do.” She brushed the carrots into the pot. “Get a job.”

“A job ?” Spencer sputtered. Her parents had never made her work before. She thought about the people at Rosewood Day who had jobs. They worked at the Gap at the King James. At Auntie Anne’s pretzels. At Wawa, making sandwiches.

“Or borrow our car,” Mrs. Hastings said. “Or I hear there’s a wonderful new invention that takes you places the same as a car does.” She laid the knife on the cutting board. “It’s called the bus.”

Spencer gaped at both of them, her ears ringing. Then, to her surprise, a peaceful feeling settled over her. She had her answer. Her parents truly didn’t love her. If they did, they wouldn’t be trying to take away everything from her.

“Fine,” she said tersely, whirling around. “It’s not like I’ll be here much longer, anyway.” As she strode out of the kitchen, she heard her father’s glass clink against the granite countertop. “Spencer,” Mr. Hastings called. But it was too little, too late.

Spencer ran upstairs to her bedroom. Usually, after her parents dissed her, tears would stream down her face, and she’d fling herself on the bed, wondering what she’d done wrong. But not this time. She marched over to her desk and picked up the expandable file Olivia had been lugging around yesterday. Taking a deep breath, she peered inside. Just as Olivia said, it was filled with papers about the apartment Olivia and her husband had purchased, things like dimensions of rooms, floor and cabinet materials, and the amenities in the building—a pet groomer, an indoor Olympic-length swimming pool, and an Elizabeth Arden salon. Clipped to the front of the file was a business card. Michael Hutchins, Real Estate.

Michael, our Realtor, could find you something really special, Olivia had said at dinner.