Sam nodded. “She was captain of the lacrosse team. We all followed her.”
“What did she say?” I asked as Sam pulled out her phone. I leaned in to read the screen over her shoulder.
“Well, the first one was about how it sucks that her homecoming dress is going to waste. The second was about how it sucks that no one is around to call until lunch. One was about how it sucks that we can’t sunbathe anymore ‘’cause of sucky skin cancer,’” she said, scrolling through the tweets. “And the last one was about how much it sucks being alone by the pool on a sunny beautiful day.”
“That last one,” I said, stabbing a finger at her phone. “When did she write that?”
“Um…” Sam squinted at the readout. “Three-oh-five.”
I felt a sudden chill run up my spine. “I was outside her place just a couple minutes later. She must have sent that tweet right before…”
Sam’s eyes got all big and round. “She went in the pool,” she finished for me. “Ohmigod. She was killed while tweeting. It was Twittercide!”
Again that too-close-for-comfort ball of nausea flared up in my stomach. I grabbed a rice cake, chewing quickly to wash down the sensation.
“Honestly, I think that’s one more point against Sydney having killed herself,” I decided. “If she was tweeting when she died, wouldn’t she have left some sort of message? Tweeted why she was doing it? A ‘good-bye cruel world’ kind of thing?”
Sam nodded. “Totally. That would have been classic Sydney.” She paused. “But why would anyone want to kill her?”
“I can think of one reason,” I answered. “She was about to talk to me. Maybe whatever she was going to tell me was something that someone didn’t want to get out.”
Sam’s eyes went big again. “Whoa. You killed Sydney!”
I shifted uncomfortably on my patchwork comforter. “No I didn’t! I mean, not exactly. But the point is that the cops all think it was suicide, and we’re the only ones who know it was actually homicide.”
“Meaning?”
I bit my lip. “Meaning,” I said, the realization sinking in, “it’s up to us to figure out who really killed Sydney.”
Which, I realized the next morning, was easier said than done. As I’d mentioned to Raley, you didn’t get to be the homecoming queen front-runner by being a wallflower. Sydney had been visible, active in everything at school, and not afraid to do whatever she needed to in order to get ahead. Needless to say, Sydney had as many enemies as she did friends. However, there was one person who would qualify at the moment as both Sydney’s best friend and worst enemy: Quinn Leslie, the former BFF who Sydney had ratted out to the principal when she’d been caught cheating.
Unfortunately, Quinn had been suspended along with Sydney, so cornering her during school was not an option. Instead, I made plans to visit her during lunch, and impatiently sat through first period, where I got no less than six texts asking if it was true that I’d found a dead body. Again. During second, I got two gleeful tweets announcing that Sydney’s suicide meant Mrs. Perry was delaying the chem midterm. During third, two texts said black armbands would be available in the quad at lunch. And during fourth, I got a tweet with a link to the official Sydney Sanders memorial page on Facebook, already outfitted with PayPal links to donate to teen-suicide prevention programs.
By lunch period, everyone on campus was buzzing about the suicide that I was sure was not a suicide, and I was more anxious than ever to prove just that. I was shoving books into my locker and planning my strategy for confronting Quinn when Chase cornered me.
“Hey, Hart,” he said. “Where are we on Sydney’s story?”
“I’m fine, thanks for asking. Finding her dead body didn’t rattle me at all,” I said, heavy on the sarcasm.
Chase grinned. “Okay, my bad. How are you Hartley? Holding up?”
“Yes.”
“Good. So, where are we on the story?”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re good. Fine. Great.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’m working a unique angle,” I said, emphasizing the word.
Again he grinned at me. “Lay it on me, Featherstone.”
And, considering he was my editor, I did, outlining how I thought someone had committed, as Sam had put it, “Twittercide.” When I was finished, Chase’s eyebrows were drawn together in a frown.
“But I thought the police were looking at her death as a suicide?”
I nodded. “They are. But they’re wrong.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Because of the meeting Sydney had set up with me for yesterday afternoon. She knew I was working on the story, and she was going to tell me something.”
“What?”
“I dunno.”
Chase shot me a look. But before he could comment, I quickly backtracked, “I mean, she died before she could tell me.”
“Who knew you were going to talk to her?”
I shrugged. “You, Sam, Kyle. Anyone that Sydney might have told.”
“Which doesn’t narrow things down much.”
“No, but if she was suicidal, wouldn’t she wait until after she’d told me whatever it was she wanted to get off her chest?”
Chase looked at me for a long moment. “How do you know she wasn’t going to tell you to back off and leave her alone? Maybe she felt so persecuted and hounded by the entire school-you included-that she killed herself.”
I bit my lip. “Please don’t say she killed herself because of me.”
“I didn’t. I just think that if we’re going to run with a story saying she definitely didn’t kill herself, we need to offer more than circumstantial evidence. We need proof.”
I nodded. “Right. That’s what I intend to get.”
“How?”
“Quinn Leslie.”
“The girl Sydney got caught cheating with?”
I nodded. “And her former best friend. If anyone had a reason to hate Sydney, it would be her.”
Chase stared at me as he chewed on this angle. “When are you going to talk to her?”
“I’d planned on now.”
“Cool. I’ll go with you.”
I paused. “I can do this on my own. I’m not gonna screw up,” I said, unable to help the defensive edge that crept into my voice.
Chase grinned, showing off one dimple in his left cheek. “I know. But I’m in the mood for a little entertainment.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he didn’t wait. Instead, he slammed my locker shut for me and turned toward the back parking lot.
“You coming, Featherstone?” he said over his shoulder.
While I wasn’t thrilled with being considered “entertainment,” I had little choice but to follow.
I only hoped Quinn didn’t mind a crowd.
Chapter Four
UNFORTUNATELY, QUINN LIVED A GOOD FIVE MILES AWAY from the school, which left me with two choices to get to her before sixth period started: the city bus or Chase’s car.
As soon as I’d turned sixteen, Mom had started the lectures about riding in cars with my friends who had their licenses: (1) never ride with more than three people at a time, (2) do not turn on the radio, as it distracts the driver, and (3) do not get in any vehicle that doesn’t look like it’s passed a ten-point safety inspection in the last six months. Chase’s car was a 1985 Camaro with a dented back bumper, a muffler that was holding on for dear life, and a crack down the right side of the windshield. It wouldn’t pass a two-point safety inspection. But more disturbing than that car was Chase’s driving itself. On the scant few occasions where I’d ridden with him, I’d felt like I was in the running for a NASCAR cup.
He unlocked the passenger-side door of the Camaro and held it open for me.
I stared at it.
“You getting in or what?” he asked.
I bit my lip.
“Earth to Hartley?”
“I’m thinking.”
Chase rolled his eyes. “Just get in the car, Hart.”
He walked around to the driver’s side, got in, and gunned the engine, creating a cloud of black smoke in the region of his muffler (which I was 99 percent sure was just for show).