Free Deadly Little Sins by Kara Taylor Page A

Now.”
    Banks’s face falls. I allow myself to breathe. For once, maybe someone at this school is going to get what they deserve.
    When he moves past me, he slows down just long enough to mutter two words in my ear.
    “Prove it.”

CHAPTER
    ELEVEN
    Farrah has a sprained ankle. Banks isn’t in trouble. I’m seething, which probably means it’s a bad idea to pay a visit to Caroline Cormier-Frey.
    But I do it anyway.
    The only way to Weston is to head into South Station and change to the commuter rail. When I’m on the train, I slip on my Wheatley blazer, convert my ponytail to a high bun, and reapply my rosebud lip salve.
    I wriggle past the throng of commuters getting off the train at Weston. My phone says 65 Sugar Maple Lane is ten minutes away by car, so technically I could walk. But a bored-looking cab driver at the station waves me over.
    I have him stop a block away from Caroline Cormier-Frey’s house. “Could you wait right here? It’ll probably be about twenty minutes.”
    “Mm-hmm.” He’s already turning his radio to the Red Sox game.
    Sugar Maple Lane looks like a snapshot from a real estate brochure about a neighborhood no one can afford to live in. All of the houses are two or three stories, with white columns and nineteenth-century masonry. In between them, I catch glimpses of a lake.
    I almost turn around when I see the elaborate brick-and-ivy mailbox with a gold-plated number 65. People with ivy wrapped around their mailboxes don’t let just anyone into their homes. If Caroline Cormier-Frey detects even the faintest scent of bullshit, this won’t work.
    A security camera trains on me as I ascend the driveway. I focus on tugging my blazer down so I don’t look straight at it. Best not to have a record of me being here.
    I ring the bell and step back as a dog begins to bark inside. I expect a housekeeper or something to coming running. Instead, a woman I assume is Caroline Cormier-Frey answers the door. She’s wearing a baby blue sleeveless blouse and khakis, and her chin-length brown hair is perfectly blown out. Her face is wide and round, the corners of her mouth lilting downward as if she’s on a horse tranquilizer.
    “Yes?” Her eyes move to my Wheatley blazer, something like contempt flashing in them.
    “I’m looking for Miss Cormier-Frey.”
    Caroline eyeballs me. “Why?”
    “I’m a student at the Wheatley School, and I was wondering if you had a moment to hear about the Alumni-Student Liaison.”
    Caroline stiffens, her hand moving to the door handle. “I already received information about that in the mail.”
    “Listen,” I lower my voice. “I have to do this to be a member. Please—I’ll only take five minutes of your time.”
    Caroline’s gaze moves to the staircase. On the second story, someone yells at the dog. Calm down, calm down. “What did you say your name was?”
    I didn’t. “It’s Elizabeth.”
    Caroline opens the door for me and turns down the hall. I assume she wants me to follow, so I trail after her.
    “Why would you want to be a member of that awful club?” she asks, without turning around.
    “College applications.” I follow her into a spacious living room off the foyer. She takes a seat on a cream-colored couch next to a fireplace the height of my closet. I sit opposite her in an armchair.
    “So,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. Something about Caroline’s hard stare makes me feel like I could pee myself. “When did you graduate from Wheatley?”
    “Two thousand five,” she says. “Isn’t that on file?”
    “Just making small talk,” I mumble. “Sorry.”
    I realize what it is that freaks me out about Caroline: She doesn’t blink. Not once.
    “My family has donated quite a bit of money to the school over the years,” she says. “I’m not quite sure what else I could contribute without attending one of those dreadful events. You know, where the board members try to ingratiate themselves with wealthy alumni by shoving their noses