Deadly Little Sins Read Online Free PDF Page A

serious blow this summer without it—I basically have no idea what’s going on in the outside world. Except, for like, the political unrest in the Ukraine and a landmark gay rights case in the Supreme Court. (I’m allowed to read The New York Times .)
    But I have no idea what kind of sociopolitical environment I’m about to walk into at Wheatley. Who’s pissed at who? What are people saying about my suspension? I can’t count on Remy for the gritty details.
    All of the calls and texts I missed are still flooding in as Remy and I get on the train. I start with the most recent messages and work my way back.
Mom says I can come up to Boston for a weekend in Nov. EEE! xox (Chelsea)
I didn’t get to see you all summer (needy friend Madison)
    The reminders that I’m leaving New York aren’t helping with the weight in my stomach, so I return to my text in-box and scan the messages for any from my Wheatley friends.
    An unknown number catches my eye, because it has a Massachusetts area code. I open the message. It’s two words—or rather, a name.
Natalie Barnes.
    Something pings in my brain. I’ve seen this number before. I check my calls to be sure: The number has called me before. Back in May, and then again a few weeks ago.
    It’s Dr. Muller.
    I check the date on the text message. Three days ago. I mumble an excuse to Remy about needing to go to the bathroom.
    I shoulder my way to a half-filled car at the back of the train and call Dr. Muller.
    Hello! You’ve reached Rowan. I’m afraid I’m not available now …
    I hang up. Who is Natalie Barnes? Is that Ms. C’s real name?
    Maybe he found her. I allow myself the slightest twinge of relief as I make my way back to our seats. If Dr. Muller found out who Ms. C really is, maybe she’s safe.
    Maybe this year will be normal.
    Four hours and a twenty-minute cab ride from South Station later, Remy and I are passing through Wheatley. Not Wheatley the school, which looks like Harvard, but Wheatley the town, which looks like something from a Stephen King novel. Our driver ascends the hill leading up to the school, and almost instantly everything looks a little more green and alive.
    Once we get on campus, there are signs that say WELCOME SENIORS with red and gold balloons attached. Others direct us to the student center for check-in, where there’s a line to get our photos taken for new ID cards. Remy is stressed out because her hair is frizzy from the humidity. “Why can’t we keep our old cards?”
    A lanky strawberry blond guy in front of us turns around. Dan Crowley. He’s grown an inch and buzzed his faux-hawk over the summer.
    “We’re getting bar codes,” he tells us, beaming, because a bar codes is exactly the type of thing that would excite Dan. “We get to tap our IDs now instead of swiping them.”
    Remy frowns. “Why would they change it?”
    “Magnetic stripes are so outdated. Bar codes are the way of the future,” Dan says. “I bet by next year everyone will be using their phones to get in and out of the dorms.”
    Remy smiles politely, obviously wishing he would stop talking. Dan turns to me.
    “So how was your summer?”
    “I was grounded,” I say. “You?”
    Half-listening about the fancy software design camp he attended, I glance up and down the line. Brent is nowhere in sight. Neither are any of our other friends. Kelsey and April are already in Amherst, our dorm building—Remy texted them as soon as we got to Massachusetts. I offer a limp smile for the photographer and wait with Remy while our new IDs are printed.
    The back of my T-shirt is soaked with sweat by the time we trek over to Amherst will all of our bags in tow. I desperately want to shower after we drop our crap off in the room—an exact replica of mine from last year—but April and Kelsey have already met up with Cole and Murali in the refectory, and Remy doesn’t want to be left out, I guess.
    Remy and I are starving. She wants a grilled cheese, but after I say I’m