In town, there was a tiny bridge arching over the river, which was calm and lovely on most days. The kind of river people stopped to dip their toes in. The kind of river people spread picnic blankets beside and jumped into from giant rope swings.
But not tonight. Tonight, he imagined the water was nearly touching the bottom of the bridge. If the river flowed in the opposite direction, Dr. Stratford might even get caught against it, swept over the top, and found the next day, draped across the walking path with muddy clothes and leaves in his hair, by terrified lovers who were up for an early-morning stroll.
He shook his head, forcing the image away.
The rain and wind were coming in bursts now—for a moment, the rain and wind would buffet them and then it would stop before it began again.
“Okay!” Kinley shouted. “On the count of three, throw him in!”
Cade looked around the group. Their faces were drawn and wet, and their hair lay over their faces in giant flat strands.
“One!” Cade shouted. “Two . . . and three!”
And then they heaved their professor’s body into the river.
It barely splashed. He was there, on the surface, and then he was gone, into the stormy darkness, swallowed by the furious river.
They all stood there, together, for a moment, the wind and rain battering against them and the river rising steadily.
“We should have weighed him down,” Ivy said suddenly.
Cade stared at the river. “Let’s just go.”
And he turned his back to the wet grave that hid their crime and climbed into the car. They did it quickly, their wet clothes trailing after them, desperate to be gone. They shut the doors, closing out the weather and the storm and the river and what they’d just done.
It was then they heard a voice, tinny and upset.
Coming from Mattie’s pocket.
Mattie froze for a few moments while the voice echoed in the car. He grabbed his phone frantically and it dropped on the floor. Mattie picked it up and tapped the screen.
It was silent.
Ivy
Friday, June 12
Ivy’s mouth dropped open. Had he just . . . had it just . . . had someone just heard them disposing of Dr. Stratford’s body?
She would have bet any amount of money that her night could not get worse. She would have staked her life on it.
And she would have lost. Oh, how Ivy would have lost.
“How long was he on?” Kinley asked. Her voice was low and quiet. She hadn’t started the car yet. The whole group was sitting, very quietly, but the energy in the air was palpably electric, as if one tiny spark would set the whole vehicle aflame.
Mattie just sat there, his phone in his fingers and his face totally slack. “It was Derrick,” he whispered.
“Who is Derrick?” Tyler demanded.
Ivy stepped in and plucked the phone from his fingers. “His boyfriend,” she said. She unlocked the phone and pressed recent calls. She held her hand against her chest and her eyes got huge. Mattie had screwed up. Mattie had screwed up big-time.
And they were all going to pay.
“What?” Tyler asked. “What is it?”
She pushed the phone back at Mattie. “He was on the phone for five minutes. Five fucking minutes.”
“He didn’t hear anything,” Cade insisted. “It was raining too hard.”
“Not the whole time,” Tyler interjected. “Not the whole time.” He lowered his voice. “We didn’t say—did we say . . . ?”
He trailed off.
They all sat, crammed in the little car, in complete silence.
“You shouldn’t have hung up,” Ivy whispered. Part of her wanted to make Mattie feel better. She knew he must be horrified.
But she was horrified too. Her heart was doing this rabbit-fast thing, and she hoped, for a second, it would just explode. Then they could throw her in the river too, and maybe it would really all be over.
“Wh-what was I supposed to say?” Mattie stuttered.
“You weren’t supposed to hang up, Mattie.” Ivy felt tears, for the first time that evening, welling in her eyes. If Derrick had heard anything, everything was lost. “You weren’t supposed to hang up.”
“What am I supposed to do now?” Mattie asked desperately. “What am I supposed to do?”
“How much do you trust your boyfriend?” Ivy asked, her voice quiet.
Mattie paused. “I—I trust him.” But his voice was small.
Ivy knew better. Ivy could tell from day one that they had problems. And Mattie wasn’t a good liar. He was too sweet. “You need to make sure he doesn’t talk, Mattie. You need to make sure.”
“He didn’t hear anything,” Mattie said. “He couldn’t hear anything.”
But everyone knew he wasn’t sure.
“I’ll text him,” he said, and Ivy watched as he typed in Sorry, pocket dial, studying. Talk later.
And then he hit send.