Get Dirty (Don't Get Mad Book 2)

  DEDICATION

  For Laurel Hoctor Jones,

  the best critique partner a writer could have

  EPIGRAPH

  Let come what comes; only I’ll be revenged

  —SHAKESPEARE, HAMLET, ACT 4

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Back Ads

  About the Author

  Books by Gretchen McNeil

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  ED STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THE FIFTH-FLOOR HOSPITAL room and stared at Margot.

  She looked like she was sleeping. Other than the IV tube taped in place on her left arm, she wasn’t hooked up to any machines that artificially enhanced her vital functions. Just a heart rate monitor, its slow and steady blips a constant reminder of Margot’s comatose state.

  He closed his eyes and pictured her smile. He’d only seen it a few times: once in the assembly when the members of Don’t Get Mad humiliated Coach Creed in front of the entire school, once in the computer lab when she and Bree brought him into the DGM fold, and once in the hallway at Bishop DuMaine when she was talking to Logan Blaine.

  Ed’s chest tightened. It wasn’t Logan’s fault Margot had fallen for him. Hell, if Ed were into dudes, Logan would probably be the kind he’d swoon over too—tall, athletic, blond, charming.

  Ed’s hand drifted to the pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing the rumpled piece of paper he kept with him at all times. Tall and blond? No, that wasn’t his type at all.

  He placed a metal chair next to Margot’s bed, careful not to make any noise. Why? He had no idea. It wasn’t like she was actually sleeping. He could have led the entire Bishop DuMaine marching band in a figure eight through her room and wouldn’t have gotten so much as a twitch in response.

  Way to be positive, Edward.

  He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly through parted lips. The room smelled of freshly cut flowers mixed with cleaning astringent, the same scent that seemed to permeate every hospital he’d ever visited. Massive bouquets covered the floor near the window, a zoo of stuffed animals piled up around them. The collection had definitely grown since yesterday’s visit, and as Ed took a mental inventory, his brain automatically calculated the net cost of all the crap: a sad-eyed puppy holding a Get Well sign ($14.99), a T. rex with its arm in a sling (kitschy, so it probably cost more), no fewer than three pink teddy bears grasping plastic hearts that said “We miss you” (clearly on sale). And a solitary two-dollar Mylar balloon tethered to the floor with a plastic figurine. It rotated in the breeze of the hospital’s ventilation system, flashing Ed his own reflection every few seconds.

  He wondered which, if any, of the gifts had come from Logan. Maybe the T. rex? Quirky, kinda sentimental, pricey without being ridiculous: that seemed Logan’s speed. Or maybe it was from the other members of DGM? Ed clenched his jaw. They’d better have sent something. Kitty, Olivia, and Bree were as much to blame for Margot’s coma as the person who’d clocked her over the head.

  Ed gingerly placed his hand on top of Margot’s. He was going to figure out why this had happened, even if it killed him.

  A woman’s voice drifted down the hallway, accompanied by the soft squeak of rubber soles on tile floor. “Her room is at the end of the hall.”

  Ed jumped to his feet. Vicky, the night nurse whose shift, Ed knew damn well, ended ten minutes ago. What the hell was she still doing there?

  “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for letting me visit her?” someone asked.

  Ed’s stomach dropped. He recognized that voice.

  Logan.

  Vicky clicked her tongue. “The way you look at her? Honey, every girl in a coma should have someone with that much love watching out for them.”

  Ed tensed as the footsteps approached the door. There was no time to slip out of the room and down the back stairs the way he’d come. This was going to be awkward.

  “You have about ten minutes,” Vicky continued, “before—”

  She stopped short at the sight of Ed standing beside Margot’s bed. The bright smile on her face morphed into a suspicious glare. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “Er . . .”

  “Hey!” Logan said. “I know you.” He tilted his head to one side as if it worked better at an angle. “Don’t I?”

  Really? Margot picked that?

  “How did you get in?” Vicky demanded. “The ICU is a secure wing.”

  The laundry room ain’t exactly secure, lady. But he didn’t want to give away his secret. Instead, he glanced rapidly back and forth between Vicky and Margot’s unconscious figure. “Wait a minute!” Ed gasped. He dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “This isn’t Aunt Helen’s room. I must be on the wrong floor.”

  Vicky dropped her chin, eyebrows raised. “The wrong floor?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” Time for an exit strategy. “You know what? I think I accidentally took two Ritalin this morning instead of one Ritalin and one Wellbutrin so I’m a little”—he whistled and pointed at his temple while he edged closer to the door—“cuckoo.” He twitched violently, jerking his shoulder while his head shot back and forth with sharp, erratic movements.

  “Yeah!” Logan bobbed his head. “We go to school together.”

  Not exactly the brain trust, Logan.

  “Are you okay, kid?” Vicky asked.

  “Yeah, yeah. Sure!” Ed laughed loudly. “I’m totally fine. Just need to, you know, get home and pump my stomach and”—he glanced at his watch—“oh my, will you look at the time!” He pushed past Vicky and the still-confused Logan and walked backward down the hall, flashing two finger guns at them as he retreated. “I am considerably out of here.”

  Ed hurried to his car. The sun had risen above the distant mountains and was beginning to burn off the layer of fog that had descended over Menlo Park, but he had no time to enjoy the warmth. Instead, he slipped into the driver’s seat, pulled the door closed behind him, and hit the automatic lock.

  He probably should have waited for Logan, should have talked to him about Margot. They both cared about her, and Logan hadn’t given Ed any reason not to trust him, but still, Ed hesitated. He wasn’t ready. He was still trying to piece together what happened Thursday night, and until he did so, he was going to play everything close to the vest.

  There’s still a kill
er on the loose, after all.

  TWO

  OLIVIA’S BREATH SPIRALED FROM HER MOUTH IN WISPY LITTLE poofs as she rounded the corner to DuMaine Drive Tuesday morning. The bells of the nearby church broke the early morning silence. Was it seven o’clock already? Oops, late again. Kitty would be pulling her hair out.

  But instead of doubling her pace, Olivia continued unhurried toward campus. She didn’t panic, didn’t scurry down the street like prey running from a predator. For the first time in weeks, she felt safe.

  It had been four days since Bree turned herself in, just as Christopher Beeman had demanded. And true to his word, he’d backed off. No envelopes, no mysterious messages, and most importantly, no murders. He seemed content with Bree behind bars and Margot in the hospital, and that complacency would be his undoing.

  Because now it was their turn. DGM was going to catch a killer.

  She felt as if they were finally taking control of the situation as she trotted up the front steps and yanked open the door.

  “Olivia!” someone cried the instant she entered the building. Standing in the middle of the corridor was Tyler Brodsky.

  He tossed his dark brown hair out of his eyes and beamed at her. He had three rolls of packing tape shoved up his arm like bulky bracelets, and a sheet draped over his shoulder. Behind him, an eight-foot ladder spanned the width of the hall with Kyle Tanner on top, attaching one end of a banner to the ceiling.

  Kyle and Tyler wore the same long-sleeved Henley shirts—Tyler in slate gray, Kyle in navy—over the same faded, slim-cut jeans, and Olivia couldn’t help but wonder if they called each other every morning to pick out matching outfits. If it wasn’t for Kyle’s dark skin and closely shaved head, they’d be indistinguishable.

  “What are you doing here so early?” Tyler asked.

  Kyle glanced over his shoulder. “Come to help?”

  “Um . . . ,” she sputtered. She and Kitty had specifically decided to meet at that ungodly hour because no one would be at school, and now she’d run into two members of the ’Maine Men, which was the last thing she wanted.

  Tyler and Kyle stared at her, expecting an answer. Better play along. “Sure?”

  “Awesome.” Tyler shifted the banner off his shoulder. “Hold this. I’m gonna grab another ladder.”

  Olivia took the vinyl fabric from his hand as Tyler trotted off down the hall. What were they doing at school this early? Only one way to find out.

  “So,” she began, smiling up at Kyle. “What’s going on?”

  “Didn’t you hear?” Kyle said. “Father Uberti’s big announcement after the school board meeting yesterday. He’s declared today V-D Day.”

  Olivia blinked. “V-what day?”

  Kyle cocked his head to one side. “V-D Day. You know, like in World War Two. It’s Victory over DGM Day!”

  Olivia held out her arm, stretching the banner to its full length. “Celebrate V-D!” she read aloud. “Victory is ours!”

  Kyle started down the ladder. “Isn’t it awesome? Rex’s idea.”

  Of course it was.

  “We’re hanging them all over campus,” Kyle continued. He dragged the ladder to the other side of the hallway, then took the banner from Olivia’s hand. “Rex is in the leadership room, prepping the flyers. I think he’s . . .” Kyle cleared his throat. “Alone.”

  Ew. “I’ll go see if he needs help,” Olivia said quickly, jumping at any excuse for an escape. Not that she would be caught dead alone in a room with Rex Cavanaugh, especially not since he and Amber broke up. That was practically an invitation to get molested. But at least it gave her a reason to bail.

  Olivia strolled casually down the hallway toward the leadership room, but as soon as she was out of Kyle’s sight, she broke into a run. If Rex and his ’Maine Men were decorating the entire school, it would only be a matter of time before they reached the hall outside the computer lab where Kitty was waiting. They needed to get in and out of there as quickly as possible. She dashed past her locker and double-timed her way up the stairs like a marine in basic training.

  As she reached the top, she froze midstep, her senses on alert. She’d heard something, she was positive. Footsteps close behind her.

  Olivia swung around and gazed down the staircase. No one was there.

  Motionless, she slowly counted to ten. Still, no one appeared in the hallway below. She was being ridiculous, the old paranoia affecting her judgment. No one was following her, and no one knew what they were up to. With a dismissive wave, Olivia turned and hurried to the computer lab.

  Kitty paced back and forth across the slick tile floor. It wasn’t a real shocker that Olivia was late, but they were about to take a giant step in the hunt for Christopher Beeman, and the wait was killing her.

  She glanced down at a glowing monitor. On the screen, a window was open to an anonymous email account. She’d already plugged in the thumb drive and uploaded the entire DGM dossier on Christopher Beeman: the emails between Christopher and the now-deceased Ronny DeStefano, the link between Christopher and the also-now-deceased Coach Creed. With one click of the mouse, she would send the file hurtling through cyberspace to Sergeant Callahan at the Menlo Park Police Department.

  The killer had given them a reprieve after Bree turned herself in, and they needed to use this freedom to end Christopher’s reign of terror once and for all. Sergeant Callahan would have to realize Christopher was the killer and would mobilize the entire police force to find him. Bree would be exonerated, and Christopher’s killing spree would soon be over.

  She hoped.

  In the distance, Kitty heard the rapid clickety-clack of impractical footwear hurrying down the hallway, followed by a faint knock on the door: once, a pause, then three quick raps. Kitty whisked open the door and a breathless, pink-faced Olivia rushed inside.

  “Sorry!” she panted. “I got caught downstairs by Kyle and Tyler.” Olivia braced herself against the wall. “Have you seen what’s going on?”

  “Father Uberti contacted the leadership class about it yesterday afternoon after the school board meeting. Said he wanted to celebrate victory, now that Bree’s been arrested.” Kitty sighed. “Super classy considering two people are dead.”

  “Classy is F.U.’s middle name,” Olivia said.

  Kitty took a deep breath and sat down at the computer screen. “It’s all good to go.”

  Olivia leaned over her shoulder and read the prepared email message out loud. “Attached is some information you might find enlightening in regard to the Bishop DuMaine killings. Christopher Beeman, formerly of Archway Military Academy in Arizona, has connections to the victims, and motives to kill both Ronny DeStefano and Coach Richard Creed. Sincerely, A Friend.” Olivia straightened up. “That’s perfect. This is totally going to work.”

  “Ready?” Kitty asked.

  Olivia bit her lower lip, scraping most of the iridescent gloss off in the process, then gave a quick, decisive nod. “Ready.”

  Kitty clicked the mouse and a window with the words “Your email has been sent” filled the screen. She leaned back in her chair and let out a long sigh. “There it goes. Christopher Beeman will soon be behind bars.”

  “You sure about that?” said a familiar voice.

  Olivia’s elation turned to anger as she spun around and found Ed the Head’s grinning face in the doorway. “Where have you been?”

  “The moon and back, baby,” he said, pumping his eyebrows.

  Kitty took a step closer to him. “I’ve called you approximately seven thousand times since Thursday night. Nothing but voice mail. You want to explain that?”

  Ed the Head shrugged. “I flushed it. The component pieces of the burner phone formerly belonging to Ed the Head are now floating somewhere in the San Francisco Bay.”

  “Why did you flush your phone?” Olivia asked.

  “Well, last I checked, I was texting with Margot just a few hours before she was attacked. Every cop in town is probably trying to find that phone.”

&nb
sp; Kitty narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like an admission of guilt.”

  Ed calmly pulled out a chair and sat down. “Ladies, chill. If I attacked Margot, do you think I’d be here right now talking to you?”

  Olivia exchanged a glance with Kitty. He had a point.

  “Why are you here?” Kitty asked.

  Ed the Head slipped a piece of paper from the front pocket of his bag. “I wanted to show you this.”

  Kitty snatched the paper from his hand, glancing at it briefly. “It’s a speeding ticket.”

  “Highway 101 North,” Olivia read from the carbon copy. “Exit three sixty-seven, Morgan Hill.”

  Ed the Head nodded. “Check the date and time.”

  Olivia’s eyes zipped to the top of the form. “October seventh, nine thirty p.m.”

  “Exactly,” Ed said. “And Margot was attacked at approximately nine fifty according to the police report. There’s no way I could’ve made it forty miles in fifteen minutes. I didn’t do it.”

  “Then why did you wait three days to tell us?” Kitty asked.

  Ed dropped the glib facade, his face suddenly hard. “Because you were the only ones who knew I was supposed to meet Margot that night.”

  Olivia stiffened. “What are you trying to say?”

  “It might have crossed my mind that you were setting me up to take the fall.”

  “You think we tried to kill Margot?” Olivia asked, horrified. “She’s our friend, you little weasel. If you think for a second—”

  “Was she really your friend?” Ed jutted out his chin. “I seem to recall some pretty horrific photos of Margot from back in junior high.” He pointed at her accusingly. “Photos you took.”

  Olivia’s hands began to shake as the shame of what she’d done to Margot washed over her anew. “Oh yeah?” she said, lashing out. “Well, how do we know you’re not Christopher Beeman?” She wasn’t entirely sure it made sense, but someone had to be Christopher, and they were running out of options.

  Instead of denying it, Ed the Head burst out laughing.

  “Why is that funny?” Kitty asked.

  “If I’m Christopher Beeman,” Ed gasped, “I’ve got bigger problems than a murder rap.”

  A creeping sensation spread down Olivia’s spine, as if she’d just backed into a spiderweb. Something about Ed’s tone put her on edge. “What do you mean?”