High School Hit List (CLIQUE BAIT)

5. serial killers and empty seats

We were half way through our tiny serves of French food when Mom's phone chimed. I raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear whatever excuse Richard Whittaker had come up with this time.

"He can't get away from work. He's... he's actually leaving for an urgent trip to Seattle."

Of course.

I wanted to ask why he couldn't have just left tomorrow, or why he couldn't have just pretended we were a family for once. But I knew Mom knew the answer as well as I did: he just didn't care. Once again, he'd probably hidden his wedding ring and rushed off to some woman who was purely interested in his money.

To him, affairs came before family. As long as he showered us with materialistic affection, all was right in the Whittaker household.

I stayed silent, mainly because I knew nothing I said would be helpful to the woman in front of me. The woman who'd spent hours doing her makeup and getting excited for what had appeared to be a special evening with her family, only to be let down again by her piece-of-shit husband.

"Come on, Mom," I said after a few moments of silence. Her face had fallen and she had resorted to moving her champagne flute around in circles with her fingers. "Let's get some ice cream, go home, and watch Sex and the City."

She nodded, and I took her hand in mine as we left the restaurant, the bill paid on her credit card.

I was peeling the top off of a tub of yogurt when my phone chimed Sunday evening.

After a day filled with anxiety that William would never contact me, I had started to give up hope by seven-o'clock. Mom was out on a girl's evening, and I was trying to come up with a dinner that had at least some nutritional value, and wouldn't make me fat.

Give me your address, I'll pick you up in an hour to talk.

It was either him, or an anonymous stalker, so I decided to test my luck and responded. I was in my favorite yoga pants, loved for their comfort rather than their flattery, with an old gym shirt thrown over the top. It hardly screamed rich and popular, but then again William already knew I was an impostor.

Nerves quickly overcame me, and my mind immediately jumped to concocting some kind of fall back plan in case he decided to back out. Or worse, expose me.

I wasn't the least bit surprised when he pulled up in a Lamborghini, but the contrast it gave to my scruffy attire was a little off putting. He may not have been the one I was trying to convince, but I still needed to have my game face on. I haphazardly dusted powder over my face and mascara across my lashes, only taking a minute before I ran down the stairs and out of the door.

Casting a look over my shoulder at my neighbor's houses, hoping none of them would slip a word to my mother, I discreetly slid into the passenger seat, briefly taking the time to admire the luxurious interior. When I'd composed my breathing, I looked to my side. I was greeted with the beautiful face of William Bishop.

"Evening, Whittaker," he said stiffly as he drove off of the curb.

"Where are we going?" I asked, dumping the pleasantries.

"Nowhere anyone will see us," he said, his eyes a haunting dark shade as they flickered to his rear-view mirror.

Something had changed. When I'd confronted him, he'd been pissed and easily triggered into angry outbursts. It'd made sense, I mean, I'd thrown my card in straight away, completely on the offensive. Tonight he was calmer. Much more smug.

We took a few turns before reaching a reserve a few blocks from my house. He pulled into the empty parking lot and killed the engine.

"Is this where you take people to kill them and dump their bodies?" I asked as he opened his door. The reserve was dead quiet, the trees swaying mutely in the midnight breeze. I followed him out of the car.

He chuckled. "Not quite. If I was going to kill someone I would take them further than here."

"Reassuring," I muttered. I wrapped my hands around my elbows to fight off the chill that was scattering goosebumps across my skin. "So have you come up with a plan?"

"I've done a lot of research these past few days," he said, leaning against a wooden post. He was wearing a black coat which looked much more weather appropriate than my thin shirt. Black was a good color for him, broadening his shoulders and enhancing his cheekbones.

"Like?" I pressed.

"Like working out why a teenage girl would blackmail me. Not for cash, or family secrets, but for high school popularity. It seems a little simple of a bargain for someone carrying that much leverage." His voice was deep and slow, as if drawing out my paranoia for as long as possible.

"Are you saying I should ask for more?" I asked in a bid to lighten the serious expression on his face. It didn't work though, his calculated frown didn't budge.

"I'm saying that there's more to it."

"There always is, isn't there?" My mouth was spewing smart ass comments, but my mind was racing almost as fast as my heart.

"That's right."

I pressed my lips together before I could panic. Something about the way his eyes scrutinized my every reaction had me desperate to lighten the growing tension. Things weren't working out. Somehow he had found out that I was hiding more than I'd let on.

His eyes twinkled in the light of the moon, and I swear the smallest smirk etched into the side of his lips. "It all made sense when I found out you were best friends with Monica Pennington."