8. The Mask Slips

CHAPTER 8

The Mask Slips

WREN

I let Ileana go without a fight, and she disappears into the school, her steps quick and uneven. The way her arm trembled when I held her wrist replays in my mind as I turn back to study the crash scene, but there’s something else tugging at my attention. Something about the car is bothering me, like a half-formed thought I can't quite grasp.

While other students file back inside, I circle the wreck. The hood is crumpled like paper, embedded in the brick wall as though the driver aimed for it. No skid marks. No sign they tried to stop.

“Carlisle, why are you still out here? Go to class.”

I turn at Principal Warrington’s bellow, hiding my annoyance at the interruption. “I’m curious about the car.”

“You should be curious about what you’re going to learn in your next class.”

“It’s English Literature. I doubt Shakespeare is going to teach me anything that’s going to be of any use when I graduate.”

“You’d be surprised.” He descends the steps, stopping beside the trunk of the car. “You can go back inside now,” he tells the hovering teachers.

Once they’re gone, I move to stand beside him. “Did anyone see it happen?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “You tell me.”

“It’s nothing to do with me.”

“And yet, you’re out here showing a lot of interest in it.”

I shrug, keeping my posture loose and casual. “It’s the most interesting thing to happen at school in months. Probably in the whole of Silverlake Rapids. What else would I be doing?”

“Reading Shakespeare in class?”

I laugh, but my attention is already shifting to the back of the car. The license plate is missing.

“Mind if I take some photographs?”

“If it gets you back to class faster, please do.”

I pull out my phone, and document each angle. Through the passenger window, I notice the key is missing from the ignition.

“Did you call the police?”

"They're on their way."

"So I shouldn't open the door, right?"

"Not unless you want to leave your fingerprints on it."

It’s the perfect opening. "I have an alibi for not being behind the wheel of the car. I was standing with Ileana Moreno when the driver was spotted."

Warrington's blank look confirms what I've suspected all morning. "Who?"

Perfect.

She's managed to make herself so invisible that even our principal, who prides himself on knowing every student, doesn't recognize her name. The realization sends a thrill through me.

"There's no key in the ignition," I note, leaning closer to the open driver's door.

"Are you planning to do an investigation of your own, Wren?" Amusement colors his tone.

"I might, but I predict that it'll be nothing more than a drunk driver, or someone who was high."

"We're a small town."

"You think we don't have drink and drug problems here?" I straighten, meeting his gaze. "The things that go on behind closed doors might surprise you."

"You have a very cynical outlook for an eighteen-year-old."

"I prefer realistic."

"Of course you do. Go back to class, Wren. There's nothing else for you to see here."

But I don’t bother going back to class. I go home instead .

The house is silent when I get there, as always. My phone buzzes with texts from Monty and Nico asking where I disappeared to, and if I want to meet at the lake later. I ignore them. I have other things to do right now. Dropping my keys on the kitchen counter, I head straight to my room and boot up my laptop.

Time to see exactly who my invisible ballerina is—or rather, isn't .

I'm halfway through my third failed social media search when the front door opens downstairs.

"Your car's here, but you're ignoring texts?" Monty's voice carries up the stairs. "Since when?"

"Maybe he's plotting revenge on the weird little orange juice girl," Nico adds, their footsteps approaching my room.

I don't look up from my screen. "Her name is Ileana."

"Right." Monty sprawls across my bed while Nico claims the chair by my desk. "So what's the deal with the car crash? You got a good look at it. We were on the other side of school and got forced into class before we could get out and look."

"Missing plates. No key in the ignition." I pull up another search window. "But that's not important right now."

They exchange looks, a silent conversation I catch in my peripheral vision.

"Okay ..." Nico leans forward. "So what is important right now?"

"Research." I turn the laptop to show them the empty search results. "She doesn't exist."

“She who? ” Nico says at the same time Monty speaks.

"What do you mean?"

"No Facebook. No Instagram. No social media at all. Nothing."

"Maybe she uses a different name?" Nico suggests.

"Already tried variations." My fingers move across the keyboard, pulling up the school's poorly secured database. "Look at this. Straight As across every subject. Perfect attendance. But no clubs. No teams. Not even a yearbook photo."

"So she's a nerd." Monty shrugs. "Why do you care?"

I ignore him, switching to DMV records. "No license. No permit applications." Another window. "No bank accounts."

"How are you even—" Nico starts, but I continue talking over him.

"She doesn't have a phone either. At least not in her name or her father's."

"Dude." Monty sits up fully now. "What's with the full investigation? Usually you just mess with people for a day or two and move on."

I pull up property records next. "They pay their rent in cash. Monthly. Who does that?"

"Someone who doesn't want to be found?" Nico suggests.

"Exactly." The room falls quiet except for my typing as I dig deeper.

Here is a girl who excels in every class but somehow maintains complete anonymity. Who can dance like she owns the world, but shrinks away from any attention. Who exists in our school like a ghost—present but unseen.

Hours pass by. At some point, Monty orders pizza. I barely notice them eating it.

"So much for the lake," Nico mutters around nine.

"You can go." I scan through another database.

"And miss whatever this is?" Monty gestures at my screen. "You haven't been this interested in anything since ..."

He trails off because we all know I've never been this interested in anything.

"I'm out," Nico announces, standing. "This is getting weird, even by your standards."

Monty snickers. “He’s got a point, Wren. Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far?”

I wave them off, already opening another search window. “Go home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Their footsteps fade down the stairs, followed by the front door closing.

Each piece of missing information is a pressure point waiting to be pressed. Each absence a question that begs to be asked.

No one tries this hard to disappear without a reason. And I intend to discover exactly what that reason is.