I see the turning to Prestwick airport up ahead, and look over at Callum as the Land Rover slows down and eases into the left-hand lane. It’s too noisy in the jeep to have any sort of conversation that doesn’t involve yelling. This is a really old model that Callum told me proudly has been “in the family” for thirty years or so. It looks like it’s held together with duct tape and rubber bands. Callum handles it very confidently, but then, I suspect he’s been driving it round the estate since he was fourteen or so, like most country boys.

It’s a huge relief not to be able to talk for the moment. There’s been so much talking in the last twenty-four hours: doctors, police, the McAndrews, telling the same story over and over again, how I went out for a walk and met Callum, how we decided to go up in the tower and do some target shooting, and how we found Catriona there, victim of a fatal accident, having obviously tripped and fallen over her own gun. Only Moira, having seen me in such a hurry to find Callum an hour before, knows there’s more to the story than that, and Moira’s not telling. I don’t know how much Moira suspects, if anything, but certainly she didn’t say a word to the police about me seeming distressed or desperate to find Callum. And the police, clearly brimming with sympathy for the poor McAndrew family, with two such terrible tragedies happening in the short space of six months, were all too happy to take Callum’s and my word for what we found in the tower, and take Catriona’s body away on a stretcher.

They said it’s very unlikely there will be an inquest, and even if there is, I won’t need to come back to Castle Airlie. I’ve got nothing to tell the coroner that Callum can’t: anything I’d say would be a line-for-line corroboration of his story.

I won’t be coming back here ever again. I’ve been involved in too many of this family’s tragedies. The sight of Mrs. McAndrew hearing that a second child of hers had died in a horrible accident was almost too much to bear. I don’t think she’ll ever truly recover. Mr. McAndrew looks like a ghost of himself, gray and faded; his hair actually went several shades whiter overnight. Callum, I think, is still in shock. I don’t know if it’s really sunk in yet that his sister killed his brother and tried to kill him, all so that she could inherit Castle Airlie. He’s been so busy telling lies and trying to take care of his mother that he hasn’t had much time for himself.

And we’ve been no use to each other. What we went through was so horrible that our eyes are still wide and frightened. The memory of looking at each other, sure we were both about to die, is unbelievably vivid. I could hardly get to sleep last night; I barricaded my door from the inside with the chest of drawers, even though I knew that this night was the first in Castle Airlie that I couldn’t be in any danger, because Dan’s killer was dead. I sat up shaking and whispering to Taylor on the phone. We talked half through the night about nothing at all, just to hear someone else’s voice, a friend’s, not to feel alone after what we’d gone through that afternoon. Poor Taylor had to go back and spend the night at the B and B by herself. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t think of a plausible story that would cover her presence at the scene. I wanted to go and spend the night there with her, but we all decided that would look weird too. And considering how desperately we were trying to pass off Catriona’s death as a freak shooting accident, the last thing anyone wanted was any kind of suspicious circumstances that might lead them to think there was more to the story than we were telling.

Taylor asked me last night, or maybe in the early hours of the morning, whether I wished I’d never started out on the path to investigate Dan’s death. And I had to say no—because if I hadn’t, Callum would be dead too. In an awful way, that makes everything really simple. I can’t have any regrets. As Taylor pointed out, who knows if Catriona would even have stopped at just killing her brothers? Who’s to say that, having got away with two murders, she wouldn’t have grown impatient at not inheriting the castle as soon as she’d like, and turned her focus on her father, too?

Trust Taylor to be able to look the worst possibility clearly in the face.

No, I was right to want to find out who killed Dan, even though my quest started out being only an attempt to clear my own name. I look back at the naive girl who, six months ago, kissed a boy for the first time, only to see him drop dead at her feet, the girl who was a passive participant in her own life, and I’m amazed to realize that I hardly recognize her. I’ve come so far since then; I’ve learned so much about myself and what I can do.

I really like who I am now. I like this Scarlett. I’m strong and I can think on my feet; I can be sneaky when I need to. I’m brave enough to kiss a boy and funny enough to banter with him. But why did my growing-up have to be at such a high cost? Why did Dan have to die? Why did Taylor have to cause Catriona’s death, even by accident, and why did Callum have to find out that his sister was trying to kill him?

I shiver. I have to stop asking myself this kind of thing. Because something else I’ve learned is that some questions don’t have satisfactory answers, and asking them is like bashing your head against a brick wall till you’re bleeding.

With much clashing and grinding of gears, Callum slows down the Land Rover on the ramp and pulls it to a halt outside the Departures entrance. I expect him to jump out and drag my suitcase out from the back, but he stays where he is, turning to look at me.

“Scarlett  .  .  . ,” he begins, clearing his throat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s okay,” I mumble, embarrassed. “I don’t know what to say either.”

“But there’s stuff I have to say to you,” he insists. “I was a bastard to you from the moment you arrived. I didn’t want you there and I made it really clear.” He sets his jaw, obviously not enjoying this apology. “And it turned out you were the only person who was really on my side.”

“Well, I was—”

“Trying to find out the truth about Dan,” he says, finishing my sentence. “And you were right not to tell any of us what you were doing. We wouldn’t have believed you until it was too late. You saved my life.” He looks down at me, his eyes full of emotion. “I can’t ever repay you for that.”

“It’s okay. Really,” I say awkwardly.

“And that’s not all.” He rubs his hand over his head. “That afternoon when you were in the woods by the drive, and you thought someone was shooting at you?”

Oh my God, I think, if Callum’s about to tell me that was him, I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it.

“It was Lucy,” he confesses. “She just told me last night. You know, when she came round and we had that fight?”

I nod. We didn’t sit down to dinner last night; Moira just made sandwiches and put them in the breakfast room in case anyone was hungry. Which mostly, of course, we weren’t. But Lucy came to see how Callum was, and they had a screaming fight which culminated in Lucy storming out and yelling at Callum all down the main staircase. I stare at Callum now, unable to believe that it was Lucy shooting at me in the wood. From the moment I realized that Catriona had killed Dan, I assumed it was Catriona who had done that, too, though I couldn’t work out why she would have wanted to shoot at me.

“She said she was jealous of you,” Callum’s admitting.

I don’t understand.

“Jealous of me?” I blurt out.

Callum colors up.

“She said she didn’t like the way I looked at you,” he mumbles.

Oh. I feel myself blushing too.

“So I broke up with her as soon as she told me,” he continues. “I mean, that’s just insane—she could have killed you! And she got really angry when I broke up with her.” He sighs. “I had no idea she was capable of anything like that. She said all this stuff like she was sure you’d been snooping in Dan’s room, and in Dad’s office—she was really paranoid about you.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not going to tell Callum that Lucy was right: that I was snooping, that she’s not as paranoid as Callum thinks. Because if Lucy is lunatic enough to take a shotgun and start firing it in my general direction, she’s not the kind of person Callum, or anyone, should be going out with, and I shouldn’t do anything to encourage him to see her in a better light.

“Oh Callum, I’m really sorry this happened now,” I say hopelessly. “It’s awful that you’ve had a breakup on top of everything else.”

I can feel how alone Callum is, having lost his brother and sister, and now with no girlfriend to comfort him.

He shrugs. “I didn’t have a choice,” he says sadly.

We sit quietly for a minute or so, and then someone behind us honks their horn. Callum jumps down from the Land Rover and hauls my suitcase out of the back. I climb down—going a bit slower than normal, because I’m sore all over—and join him on the pavement.

“Thank you again, Scarlett,” he says, looking down at me, his gray eyes very serious.

“It’s okay,” I mumble, thoroughly embarrassed.

He holds up a hand to stop me.

“I owe you from now on. I mean that. I promise that if you ever need help, wherever you are, you can just ask me and I’ll come. That’s a promise. You can always count on me.”

I look up at him, speechless. And then he bends down, puts his hands on my shoulders, and kisses me, very gently, on the lips. I’m so shocked and surprised that I just stand there as he holds me close for his kiss. I’m much too confused to kiss him back: there’s his similarity to Dan (though that’s faded considerably, the more I’ve got to know Callum, and the more I’ve found out about Dan). And there’s Jase, too, the unresolved business with him. If this were Jase, I’d be kissing him back with everything I had, and it’s partly because of Jase that I can’t really respond to Callum, because I’m so confused right now about what I feel.

I never knew before that you could be attracted to two boys at the same time. Now I know you can. I feel like I’m strapped to the steepest learning curve in the world, and I don’t know when it will ever stop.

I should probably be pushing Callum away, but I’m not. I can’t. This kiss is incredibly comforting somehow: very sweet, very soft. It’s so good to be close to someone, held against his body, that I drink it in, aware that I have no idea when I’ll get this kind of comfort again. All I can hear is Callum’s breathing; all I can feel is his hands on my shoulders, his warm lips against mine. I lift one of my hands to stroke his head, his soft short hair, and tell myself it’s to soothe him, though I think I’ve been wanting to run my hand over that short hair ever since I saw him.

And as I do so, I think, like a cold stab to my heart, the voice of reason and sanity: I will never do this again. I will never be kissed again by Callum McAndrew. I will never touch him anymore, ever, in my life.

Finally, he lifts his head. We pull away from each other and stand staring into each other’s faces. The noises of the outside world flood in: honking cars, people shouting to one another and pushing past us, the whine of airplanes above our heads. We had such a brief moment of pushing everything but us away. I think that’s what the kiss was really about for both of us, a moment to forget all the horror we’ve just lived through. Catriona’s dead, bloody body. Callum’s parents, white-faced and old-looking. The truth of how Dan died. For the moment of the kiss, we weren’t thinking about it: we were just two warm bodies, touching, giving each other a basic, primitive relief, like animals, and I’m more grateful for it than I can say.

But it never lasts. The world shoves its way back in whether you like it or not, and its presence changes everything.

“You know we can’t—” Callum starts, but I’m already nodding.

I know we can’t. How could we? Even if it weren’t for Jase and my feelings for him. Callum’s brother died after kissing me. I saw Callum’s sister try to murder him, not to mention me. Too many terrible things have happened between me and the McAndrew family.

I bend over to grab the handle of my suitcase. I can’t look at Callum anymore. When I first saw him, all I could see was Dan. But now Dan’s face has dissolved from my memory, replaced by Callum. Those life-and-death minutes I spent holding Callum over the edge of that drop, looking down into his face, will never leave me.

I turn away from him and walk through the automatic doors into the terminal. I’m determined not to look back, but a few steps in, I can’t help it. I swing back and look over my shoulder, hoping he’s not still there.

He is. He’s watching me walk away. I raise a hand to him. And as he lifts his hand to wave goodbye in return, he smiles at me, such a sweet smile that the tears prick at my eyes and I have to swallow really hard.

It’s the first time Callum McAndrew has ever really smiled at me. And it’ll be the last.

Taylor’s waiting for me in the coffee shop. She looks as exhausted as I feel, like she slept in her clothes. There are dark circles under her eyes and her skin, usually a thick milky white, is grayish, as if she’s been in a basement for days, without natural light. She’s wearing low-slung combat trousers and a chunky Arran sweater she bought in the village, and there’s a small rucksack propped by her chair, probably containing nothing but changes of underwear and socks, plus her toothbrush. Typical of Taylor to travel really light.

Her expression, as she catches sight of me, is appalled.

“What happened?” she asks, jumping up. “You look like someone else died.”

“Callum just kissed me goodbye,” I manage.

“Oh no,” Taylor says, getting it immediately. “You can’t—”

“I know, I know,” I say, wearily.

Taylor sits down again, pushing a coffee toward me.

“I got you a gingerbread latte,” she says. “I thought you might need cheering up.”

This is such a deliberate understatement that, despite my misery, I can’t help cracking a little laugh. I sit down and take a swig of my latte.

Taylor grimaces. “What was it like at the castle this morning?”

“Moira was going round clearing the drink bottles from the bar in the Great Hall,” I say sadly, “because Mrs. McAndrew was really drunk last night. Moira didn’t say anything, but I’m sure it was so that Mrs. McAndrew couldn’t get hold of any more alcohol.”

Taylor frowns.

“I heard Mr. McAndrew this morning, making the funeral arrangements,” I continue, “so I think that means there won’t be an inquest. He sounded awful.” I gulp. “Catriona is going to be buried next to Dan.”

“That’s cozy,” Taylor comments, which I think is really flippant of her, but I let it pass.

“And you know I told you Callum and Lucy had a huge fight yesterday?” I finish. “He told me just now he broke up with her.”

Taylor’s eyes widen.

“He didn’t waste much time,” she says. “Breaking up with Lucy last night and kissing you this morning.”

“Taylor, please. It wasn’t like that. Apparently it was Lucy firing at me in the wood, can you believe it? I was sure it was Catriona, but no, it was Lucy. She wanted to scare me away.”

“Crazy sister, drunk mother, crazy ex-girlfriend,” Taylor says mockingly. “Callum likes the crazies, eh?”

“Taylor—” I say, really cross with her now.

“I’m sorry!” Her face crumples. I’ve never seen her like this before; she actually looks like she might be about to cry. “I had nightmares for hours about Catriona lying there all covered in blood—I don’t think I actually got much sleep at all. I kept waking up, but then I’d go back to sleep and start dreaming about her all over again.  .  .  . I know I’m making stupid cracks, but I’m freaking out!”

I reach out and take her hand, holding it tightly. I can see that she’s trying to hold back tears. We sit for a while in silence, Taylor’s jaw working as she swallows hard, choking down the lump in her throat.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I say again.

Funny how that phrase keeps popping up. I hope Taylor finds comfort in it, as I once did.

Taylor is still unable to speak, but she’s squeezing my hand so hard it’s almost painful.

“And  .  .  .” I hesitate to say the next thing, true though it is. “It was the best thing that could have happened. For everyone. What if Catriona hadn’t died? She’d have denied everything. We’d have had to take it all to the police. Even if she got convicted, think of the trial—everything coming out—it would be so much worse for her family than her dying in what they think was a tragic accident.”

Taylor nods slowly, her pressure on my hand releasing slightly.

“I just wish it hadn’t been me,” she says in the weakest voice I’ve ever heard her use.

“You saved our lives,” I say. “Callum and I would have been killed without you.”

“I still can’t quite believe it,” Taylor says, her voice still small. “You investigate stuff, and you know someone got killed, but it’s still unbelievable when you come face to face with a murderer.”

“I know. I still can’t quite believe it either.”

“Passengers on the eleven-forty-five flight to London Gatwick, the flight is now ready for boarding at gate ten,” comes a voice over the loudspeaker. “Passengers on the eleven-forty-five flight to London Gatwick, the flight is now ready for boarding at gate ten.”

“I guess that means it’s time to go home,” Taylor says.

We stand up and Taylor slings her rucksack over her shoulders. Then we look at each other, and, ignoring the boarding call that’s still going out over the loudspeaker we take a step toward each other and collide in the biggest hug ever. We wrap our arms around each other’s bodies and practically squeeze the other one to death, like two boa constrictors in a death match. Our marathon hug says everything we’re not saying out loud, and it’s exactly what we both needed. When we eventually separate, both of our eyes are a little damp.

I pick up my latte. It’s probably cold by now, but I could still do with the sugar rush.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Taylor says as we head toward the security line, “but I’m actually looking forward to getting back to school, you know?”

“Oh, I know, me too,” I say, my tone heartfelt. “Nothing to do but work—”

“No life-threatening dramas,” Taylor adds.

“Just eating cauliflower cheese—”

“Farting like drains—”

“Being really bored—”

“Oh, come on—you’ve got a gorgeous guy waiting back at school for you,” Taylor contradicts me as we show our passports and boarding passes and file into the line waiting for the scanning machine.

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, right. How long’s the flight?”

“An hour and a quarter.”

“Well, I’d better get started with the Jase update now, then. There’s a lot to tell you.”

Taylor manages a half grin at me. It’s by no means her best or biggest grin, but it’s a start, and it’s a lot better than the way she looked a few minutes ago.

“There’s always something happening to you, Scarlett,” she says.

“No more, I swear.” My mouth curls up into a bit of a smile as I grab my little suitcase and put it on the belt for the scanner. “Honestly, I want to lead a really boring life from now on.”

“Right,” Taylor says, her grin enlarging by the moment. She twists her shoulders, sliding off the straps of her rucksack. “We’d go crazy in a month, and you know it.”

We’re smiling at each other properly now.

“No, really,” I insist. “I mean it.”

I empty my pockets into the little plastic tray and walk through the scanning arch—no beeps, no alarms, no drama. There you go. It’s a start. And as I put my phone and keys and loose change back into my jeans, and lift my bag off the rollers on the other side of the belt, I watch Taylor walk through the arch in her turn. She’s still grinning at the thought of us leading boring lives. A security official says something to her and she nods, following them over to one side.

“Random check,” she calls over to me. “Or maybe they just don’t like Americans.”

The security official smiles as she starts tracing lines along Taylor’s body with her wand. And I have a rush of gratitude that Taylor’s my friend, so powerful that I feel a lump rising in my throat. I dig my nails into my palms in an effort not to cry; it’s the last thing either of us needs. No more tears. Instead, I scoop up Taylor’s phone and change, sling her rucksack over one shoulder, and walk over to a row of seats to wait for her. She looks over to check that I have her stuff, but it’s just a reflex: she doesn’t really need to.

Taylor knows I’ve got her back, and I know she’s got mine. If I ever had any doubts about that, after Castle Airlie they were washed away. We’re a team, always will be. Whatever happens from now on, we know that for sure.

And right now, that’s more than enough for me.

epilogue

It’s not that long or difficult a journey back from Scotland, but after staying up most of the night, it’s enough to exhaust Taylor and me. After chattering all the way on the plane trip, we’ve run out of steam by the time we’re standing on the train platform waiting to get the Gatwick Express to Victoria station. By the time we’re on the Bakerloo tube line, last stop Wakefield, Taylor has dozed off with her head lolling on my shoulder. I wake her at the terminus and we trudge up the drive, barely exchanging a word. At the big entrance gates, we wave each other goodbye before Taylor heads off to her room—she’s planning to sleep all afternoon.

I should do the same. But I can’t. For Taylor, Wakefield Hall is just her school, a boring old pile of stone and mortar surrounded by acres of grounds. For me, apart from being my home, it’s something even more important: it’s where Jase Barnes lives. And the closer today’s journey has brought me to him, the more my anticipation has built.

I need to see him. I need to find out what he’s thinking about us and whether he wants to go on seeing me despite his dad’s intense protests (that’s putting it lightly). My kiss with Callum this morning has made me even keener to learn whether the future holds anything for me and Jase, strange though that may sound. Because I have to put everything to do with the McAndrew family as far behind me as I possibly can, so I have any kind of chance of moving on with my life. Dan and Callum McAndrew are the past, and they have to stay that way.

I turn off the drive into the gatehouse and walk through the door. Thankfully, no one is here to greet me.

I go upstairs, put my suitcase in my room, and apply some careful, you-can’t-really-see-it’s-there-but-it-makes-a-difference mascara and lip gloss. Then I spray on a little light perfume, change my sweater for a dark green one that doesn’t look like I slept in it, and nip back outside again. Aunt Gwen is in the sitting room listening to the radio, and doesn’t even turn her head to acknowledge me, though I say “Hi!” in passing. Honestly, I could slit my wrists on the kitchen floor and she’d step right over me to get to the kettle.

I make a circuit of the grounds, but I don’t see anyone. There are very few girls here at half-term, and none of them, clearly, is keen enough on fresh air to go for a walk on a blustery, late-autumn day. The sky’s gray and heavy enough with clouds that I can’t see the sun at all, just a faint lightening on the horizon where it must be. Leaves are rustling across the lawns, and though I’m hoping to see Jase pushing a wheelbarrow, I don’t see him at all, even in the distance, down the long avenue of lime trees, or beyond the Great Lawn, over by the hockey pitches. I walk past the gate to the lake enclosure, but it’s securely padlocked from the outside, and though I climb up the gate a little and peer over it, there’s no one in there. The Wakefield Hall grounds feel dead, abandoned. It’s impossible to realize that, next week, they’ll be full again, of girls engaged in battle on the sports pitches or bouncing balls off the stone terrace walls. Right now, it’s as if no one were ever here.

The emptiness and the gray skies are having a miserable effect on my mood. They also make me feel braver, though, because, having spent a good forty minutes doing—let’s be honest—a thorough search of the grounds for Jase, I can’t just give up and walk away. I think about texting him, but what if he doesn’t get back to me for ages? I’ll be on tenterhooks till he does: every time my phone beeps, my heart will jump right up to my throat.

Castle Airlie, and any thoughts of the McAndrews, are closed off to me now. There’s nothing back there for me. There’s only here, now, and that means Jase. Still, I have a feeling this weird stuff with his father has ruined everything.  .  .  .

Despite my doubts and the threat of Mr. Barnes’s terrifying temper, I eventually find myself, having done a circle of the entire school, walking down the path that leads to the Barnes family cottage.

I tell myself I’m just going slowly, one step at a time.

I tell myself I can turn around straightaway if I see Mr. Barnes, and hopefully he won’t see me first.

I tell myself I’m an idiot to be doing this at all.

But my feet keep going.

And as I come round the slight bend in the path, the first thing I see is a flash of color, but lower to the ground than I was expecting.

It’s Jase, in a bright red sweater, crouching down beside his motorbike, adjusting something on one of the wheels with a wrench. I didn’t think I made any noise, but he looks up, and when he sees me, a smile breaks across his face.

I let out a whoosh of breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I realize I was scared that his reaction might be a lot more negative than that.

But almost instantly, the smile fades. He stands up, wiping his hands on a greasy rag, and walks quickly toward me, gesturing for me to go back the way I came. It isn’t till we’re well out of view of anyone who might come out of the Barnes cottage that he says, “Sorry—it’s just that my dad’s at home,” looking incredibly uncomfortable.

At least he’s brought his dad up straightaway, which means we’re not going to be skirting round an elephant in the room, trying to pretend it’s not there.

“I came to look for you the day after—um, you know,” Jase is saying. “But you weren’t around. I haven’t seen you for a while. Did you go away?”

I realize that means he’s been looking for me regularly, not just the day after the lake incident with his dad. He’s noticed my absence. And that makes me feel better about his not texting me. Maybe he didn’t know what to say; maybe he was waiting to see me in person. There’s so much I don’t know about boys and how they think. But I can tell that he’s happy to see me, and that he’s nervous, which are both good signs, because that means I matter to him at least a little bit.

“I went to Scotland to see, um, some friends,” I say. “It was all really last-minute.”

He nods. Perhaps he thinks I went away to avoid him and his dad for a few days, but there’s no way I can explain the truth of the situation. No one will ever know about Catriona but me, Callum, and Taylor. We made a vow to each other over Catriona’s dead body, and we’ll never break it.

“Did you have a good time?” he asks.

I gape for a second or so, my mouth hanging open. You’d think I’d have expected this question, but Jase looks so gorgeous, slightly sweaty from working on his bike—a grease smear on his forehead, his red sweater rolled up to the elbows, showing off his muscular, golden-brown forearms—that the sight of him has temporarily frozen my brain. I gulp, and get myself back on track.

“Um, not really,” I say weakly. “There was a bit too much family drama.”

Understatement of the year, I think. And then I realize what I’ve said, unthinkingly: after all, the last time I saw Jase, family drama was exactly what we were going through.

He looks really uncomfortable.

“I’m so sorry!” I exclaim, blushing, and I reach out to touch his arm. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay,” he says. “My dad’s—” He heaves up a deep sigh. “He’s never exactly been easy to get along with. But since Mum left, he’s been a nightmare. I don’t know why he was like that with you. I’ve tried to talk to him but he just starts shouting and throwing things.”

I grimace. The image of Mr. Barnes shouting and throwing things is, frankly, frightening.

“I’m really sorry about it all,” Jase adds. “I didn’t have any idea he was going to mind me hanging out with you.”

“Me neither,” I say.

He looks at me seriously, his golden eyes hypnotic as they stare into mine.

“Your gran probably wouldn’t be that keen on it either, to tell the truth,” he adds.

I know he’s right.

“Well, they’re both stupid, then,” I hear myself saying defiantly. “It’s none of their business anyway.”

His eyes widen. “You mean that?”

I nod fervently, and then blush again, embarrassed by my vehemence.

“Scarlett—” he starts, taking a step towards me.

I look up at him, completely forgetting to breathe.

And just then, we hear a car, coming up the gravel drive, the churn of its wheels grating against the loose stones shockingly loud in the silence. Jase pauses and we both look in the direction of the drive, even though we can’t see it. We’re standing by the new school block, close to the dining room entrance; the old part of the school building, the original Wakefield Hall, is on the other side of the new building, hidden behind a high ivy-covered wall. That’s where the drive stops, in a large gracious turning circle with a fountain in the center.

With a final scraping of wheels on gravel, the car slows down and comes to a stop. A door opens and someone gets out. Jase and I exchange a quick, wary glance. A few days before, he and I would barely even notice something as standard as the arrival of a car at Wakefield Hall: it wouldn’t have registered on our radar. But now, having acknowledged that, if we want to keep seeing each other, we’ll have to do it despite our families’ disapproval, we’ve instantly become sensitive about being seen together.

It sounds romantic. It isn’t. It’s really annoying.

Another car door opens. More footsteps on gravel, and then the boot opens. Just a girl coming back to school early, bringing luggage with her. But maybe Jase and I should move away from the school block to somewhere a little less in the main line of passage. I’m just about to say something when we hear:

“Hello? Hello!”

It’s a girl’s voice: loud, privileged, impatient  .  .  . and oddly familiar.

“Hello? God, this place is a bloody desert. Hello!”

“I should go and see who that is,” I say reluctantly to Jase. Odd though it may be, I feel a sort of hostesslike obligation, since Wakefield Hall is, after all, my home as well as my school.

He nods. I make a wait-here gesture and start toward the arch in the wall. I’m only a few paces through it when I stop in amazement, unable to believe what I’m seeing.

Parked in front of the Hall’s imposing front entrance is a black Mercedes from which the driver is unloading a stack of Louis Vuitton suitcases. Beside it, fishing in a huge leather handbag, is a girl in a white fur jacket, skinny jeans, and a big beret into which her hair is bundled and which partially hides her face. As I get closer, she pulls a cigarette case out of her bag, extracts a cigarette, and bends over to light it.

It’s Plum Saybourne.

And as she turns to survey the mass of suitcases, dragging on her cigarette, she catches sight of me.

“Scarlett!” she drawls, puffing out smoke from her nostrils like a cartoon dragon. “How delightful to see you. Of course, it’s not exactly unexpected, is it, since you actually live in this bloody backwater. God, I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck here for the next two years.”

Behind me, I hear Jase come up, but I’m paralyzed by Plum’s words. Literally. I’m frozen to the spot.

“Oh, didn’t you know?” Plum asks. “I got chucked out of St. Tabby’s. Bloody hypocritical bitch of a headmistress, after all the money my family’s given that school. I wanted to hire a tutor, but Mummy threw the most enormous tantrum at the idea of me on the loose in London. She’s got the idea that your grandmother will straighten me out.” She raises her eyebrows and expels more smoke from her nose. “I’d love to see her try. So here I am, at this godforsaken place that time forgot.” She gestures, one sweep of a black-gloved hand, at the imposing mass of Wakefield Hall.

And then she looks back at me, and sees Jase standing by my side. Her eyes widen, and then she smiles at him—a long, slow, predatory smile.

“Well, hello,” she murmurs. “I’m Plum Saybourne. And who are you?”

“J-Jase Barnes,” he answers, and there’s a bit of a stammer as he says his name.

Plum’s magic works on everyone.

“I’m glad to see there’s at least one consolation in this hellhole,” she says, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

“You should go in and see my grandmother,” I say firmly, determined to get rid of her. “Inside and up the stairs. There’s a door marked HEADMISTRESS’S OFFICE. Her secretary, Penelope, works there. She’ll tell my grandmother you’re here.”

“Oh, the excitement! My heart is pounding in anticipation,” Plum drawls with sarcasm. “Well, better get it over with, I suppose.”

Dropping her cigarette to the gravel and not bothering to stub it out with her high-heeled boot, she walks toward the wide stairs that lead up to the front door, smoke curling upward in her wake. Over her shoulder, she calls to the driver:

“Can you start bringing those in? It’s bloody cold out here.”

To my great annoyance, Jase swivels his head, watching her go. Only after she’s disappeared inside does he turn back to me.

And we stand there, looking at each other, as Plum’s driver carries her bags inside.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lauren Henderson was born in London and lived in Tuscany and Manhattan before returning to London to settle down with one husband and two very fat cats. She has written seven books in the Sam Jones mystery series, which has been optioned for American TV; many short stories; and three romantic comedies. Her nonfiction dating guide, Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating, has been optioned as a feature film by the writer behind Ten Things I Hate About You and Ella Enchanted. Lauren’s books have been translated into more than twenty languages. With Stella Duffy, she has edited an anthology of women-behaving-badly crime stories, Tart Noir; their joint Web site is www.tartcity.com. Lauren has been described as both the Dorothy Parker and the Betty Boop of the crime novel. Her interests include trapeze classes, gymnastics, and eating complex carbohydrates.

ALSO BY LAUREN HENDERSON

Kiss Me Kill Me

Adult Fiction

Tart Noir (anthology, edited with Stella Duffy)

Exes Anonymous

My Lurid Past

Don’t Even Think About It

Pretty Boy

Chained

The Strawberry Tattoo

Freeze My Margarita

Black Rubber Dress

Too May Blondes

Dead White Female

Adult Nonfiction

Jane Austen’s Guide to Dating

Published by Delacorte Press

an imprint of Random House Children’s Books

a division of Random House, Inc.

New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Lauren Henderson

All rights reserved.

Delacorte Press and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Henderson, Lauren.

    Kisses and lies / Lauren Henderson.—1st ed.

        p. cm.

    Sequel to: Kiss me kill me.

    Summary: Orphaned British teenager Scarlett Wakefield postpones her romance with the handsome son of the school groundskeeper in order to travel to Scotland with her American sidekick, Taylor, in search of clues to the murder of a boy who dropped dead after kissing Scarlett.

    eISBN: 978-0-375-89185-4

    [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Murder—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Wealth—Fiction. 5. Orphans—Fiction. 6. England—Fiction. 7. Scotland—Fiction.] I. Title.

    PZ7.H3807Kk 2009

    [Fic]—dc22

2008034711

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