“And what? You know Sawyer and Graham’s birthdays?” I asked. A few embers glowed in the big, stone fireplace on the far side of the room, and I got a chill as I remembered being interrogated by Headmaster Cromwell in front of that fireplace earlier this school year, on the night Cheyenne Martin was killed.
“No. But I know Jen’s,” Josh said.
My heart twisted. Jen Hathaway had been Josh’s girlfriend at St. James.
Josh hit enter. There was another ugly beep.
“Damn,” he said. “Didn’t work.”
“Maybe he’s got the boys’ birthdays on his paper calendar.” I nudged the rolling chair he sat in with my hip so I could flip through the blotter-style calendar atop the headmaster’s desk. There were all kinds of appointments listed—meetings with the board every Monday, a founder’s luncheon in March, a budget meeting every month—but no birthdays.
“Nothing personal anywhere,” I groused.
“Told you he’s a workaholic,” Josh said.
Downstairs, a door slammed. We both gasped and my hand flew to my mouth.
“What else could it be?” Josh whispered urgently, his fingers poised over the keyboard.
Suddenly an idea popped into my mind. An idea that was way too morbid to work, but it was all I had. “What about the day Jen died?” I whispered.
Josh looked at me in almost an accusatory way. Like he was ashamed that my brain could even go there.
“Do you know when it was?” I said, ignoring his look. “Sometime last summer. …”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“Just try it,” I hissed.
He did. His fingers hovered for a second above the enter key, but when he finally hit it, the welcome screen came to life.
“It worked. I can’t believe it worked,” he said. “Hathaway’s even more twisted than you are.”
There was another slam. Closer this time. Josh and I froze. Then came the distinct sound of whistling, and the squeak of unoiled wheels moving closer and closer and closer. For a split second there was silence. And then the door to the outer office opened.
“Shit,” Josh whispered.
He hit the floor and jammed himself in under the desk. I couldn’t move. Terror took hold as the whistling echoed eerily off the high ceilings in the outer office.
“Reed!” Josh whispered, groping for my hand. He yanked on my fingers and I dove down, my knees slamming into the hardwood floor. I whimpered in pain as I curled into a ball and crammed in next to him.
Janitor, Josh mouthed as we heard the sound of a garbage can being slammed against another while it was being emptied.
The whistling grew louder. The janitor was coming in. His feet shuffled along the floor and he let out a groan as he lifted the headmaster’s garbage can. He walked out into the secretary’s office with it, knocked it against the larger can, then came back and replaced it. Throughout this entire enterprise, I didn’t breathe once. Josh’s hand clutched mine so hard I thought he was going to dislocate my fingers. Then the outer office door closed, the wheels squeaked again, and the whistling faded away.
“Oh. My. God,” I whispered.
Josh nodded, his face millimeters from mine. “Let’s get this info already and get the hell out of here.”
We crawled out and I stood up, taking a deep breath. Quickly, I brought up the student information folder and found Noelle’s file. In it was the contact information for her parents, as well as all three of her living grandparents. Noelle’s grandmother, Lenora Lange, was listed as an alumna of Easton, and also of Billings House. I scrolled to her address and phone number and my heart completely stopped.
“Sonofa—” Josh exhaled over my shoulder.
Grandmother Lange lived in Paris, France.
I stared at the bank balance on my computer on Friday morning, wondering if what was left of my Billings Fund money would be enough to cover a round-trip ticket to Paris, which was, of course, the least of my worries. If I was going to do this, I was going to have to get off campus, which required an excuse and a pass. And even if I did manage to get that, I was going to have to find a way to get to the airport, and a way to get to Mrs. Lange after that. Not to mention I had to figure out how the hell I was going to explain to the old woman—whom I’d never met—that I’d just flown across the Atlantic to get an excuse note for Noelle, when I could have simply gone to her parents in New York, and when I had no idea where Noelle herself was.
My head dropped and my forehead pressed into the keyboard as I moaned in desperation. If only I knew someone in France, preferably someone who knew Noelle and her family. Where was Kiran Hayes these days? Didn’t models spend, like, 75 percent of their time in Paris? I lifted my head again, a twitter of hope inside my heart. But then, if I called Kiran, I’d have to explain. And she would completely freak out if she knew Noelle was missing. Besides, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. What I really needed was someone who would just do this for me, no questions asked.