To Tell An Altswood Lie (The Altswood Saga #3)

Chapter 6 - Costume

Beatrice Willis' face stared up at me, smiling serenely. Had Maire been trying to work out who killed Beatrice? It made sense if that was the text's context—but why would they ask, in first person, Who am I? It couldn't possibly mean that my texter was the one who killed Beatrice, right? If it was, why would they want Maire, and then me, to figure out their identity?

Why did Maire have to die for failing?

I was stomping as I exited the school gates, shoving everything back into my bag. The sky above was as blue and crisp as neon pop rocks; it looked more like an azure blanket had settled over the island instead of a true atmosphere that bled into space.

It didn't matter how nice of a day it was. I had storm clouds gathered around my head.

"Luca! Hey, Luca!"

I turned around, wondering why an unfamiliar voice was calling my name. Once I matched the voice to the small person running towards me, I realised it wasn't so unfamiliar after all. The owner of the voice was one of the freshmen girls who had been watching me at the game.

If she wanted to talk about Gabriel's "sharp and beautiful Anglo-Saxon face" like one of her friends last week, I was going to shove my pencil in my left eyeball. They all meant well and were sweet as pies, but I could only handle so much.

"Hi," I said as the freshman caught up, "listen, I really have to run—"

"Can I walk with you?" she asked immediately. "I have something really important to tell you."

I didn't know if it was her expression—which I could see was pulled tight and anxious now that she was close—or if it was her voice, but I immediately felt the weight of the request. Whatever she needed to share, it was serious.

I also realised that she had an Australian accent, and I warmed slightly, since it reminded me of Dad.

"Yeah, I'm just heading to the town centre," I said. The police wanted me to keep an alibi at all times anyway, so maybe having a walking buddy was good. "I didn't catch your name."

"I'm Delilah," she said. "Delilah Scheinberg. My family only moved here a few months ago."

That explained the accent, but it was still surprising to hear. I hadn't heard a whisper about Delilah, and since the student numbers in each grade were microscopic, newcomers at Altswood High were always big news.

Well—maybe it wasn't that surprising. The murders around here probably stole the spotlight a little.

"I saw the video footage last night," Delilah began.

"And you're not scared of walking with me?" I asked. Our footsteps went pitter-patter as I slowed my speed. "That's a first. I took my meds this morning, don't worry. I'm safely at the shallow end of crazy."

Delilah shook her head. "I know you're not dangerous. I follow a lot of blogs talking about the situation here. The general consensus outside of the island seems to be that you're being set up."

I raised an eyebrow, shooting her a strange look without breaking stride. Delilah must have realised how creepy she sounded admitting she followed blogs that obsessed over my daily activity, because she back-tracked.

"I usually only browse them to offer insider information," Delilah insisted. Then, knowing that she had engaged in a massive information tangent, she shook her head, getting back on track. "My point is, I might be able to vouch that it's not you on the footage."

I almost dropped my bag on the pavement. "Really? Did you see me in Greenfield that night?"

Delilah winced. "Not quite. It's more of an indirect vouching. My mum's a costume designer, yeah? She works at home."