Major for Murder
()
About this ebook
No one believes that Caine Butcher was murdered.
That’s the first thing sixteen-year-old Finley Jayne learns when the school paper assigns her the article commemorating the anniversary of the death of Seaside Prep’s best hockey player. The article should have been an easy fluff piece. Yet, when Finley investigates the popular senior’s past, she discovers there’s more to his death than meets the eye.
Faking stats. Cheating on his girlfriend. Betraying his brother. If any of this came to light the golden boy’s image would be tarnished forever.
But would any of those things be worth killing him over? The further Finley digs into the matter, the more she finds herself tumbling down a dangerous rabbit hole. Her best friend, who had a relationship with the deceased, won't speak to her. The victim’s brother, Liam, is as enigmatic as he is attractive, making him impossible to trust with all the questions swirling through Finley’s mind.
Soon it becomes evident wounds of the past won’t heal until dark secrets are revealed. Too bad Finley doesn’t know who the truth will incriminate... and who it will set free.
Major for Murder is the first book in a thrilling young adult mystery series by a USA Today Best Selling Author! Fans of A GOOD GIRL’S GUIDE TO MURDER and ONE OF US IS LYING will be enraptured by the intrigue and suspense found on every page!
Heather C. Myers
Full disclosure: I am an acquired taste. I'm a typical blonde Orange County suburbanite who says 'like' more than necessary, laughs loud and probably obnoxiously, and loves to dance in the rain. I'm a 25 year old college graduate with more than a few tricks up my sleeve, and I also happen to be a pretty big Ducks fan. Oh, and I'm a writer. Like, for real.I recently signed with Anchor Group Publishing, which will see two of my series being published this year. I've self-published over 15 books, with more on the way, so I'm familiar with both a hybrid-traditional publishing method as well as self-publishing.I don't speak in third person (normally) nor do I wear glasses (except when I'm feeling particularly mischievous). I'm lucky to have found my soul mate at the ripe old age of 22, even though he frustrates me on purpose to get a reaction out of me. We live near Disneyland, have two rambunctious female puppies, and have a beautiful baby girl. He has two amazing boys, and has gotten me hooked on Smallville, watching soccer (okay, okay FOOTBALL - FC Barcelona, baby!), and Cancun Juice.
Read more from Heather C. Myers
The Alpha's Possession Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A Diagnosis Dark & Deadly Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTo Pillage a Pirate Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Ice Breakers Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Vampire's Executioner Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5A Beauty Dark & Deadly Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Wolf's Virgin Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Kept on Ice Rating: 1 out of 5 stars1/5Fire & Ice Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsDrawing Blood Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsIce Queen Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Ice Star Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A Reputation Dark & Deadly Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Vampire's Craving Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Holiday on Ice Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Lycan's Redemption Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsCold As Ice Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFour Sides of a Triangle Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTo Seduce a Scallywag Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTo Marry a Marauder Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTo Persuade a Privateer Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsFour Sides of an Attitude Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsTo Believe a Buccaneer Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Vampire's Temptation Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsBloodshade Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsGift of Darkness Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Related to Major for Murder
Related ebooks
Drawing Blood Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsPlease Don't Tell Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5You Can't Hide Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Year of Mistaken Discoveries Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Frayed Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Fatal Secrets Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Eyes of the Forest Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Called Upon: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Mine Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Run, Hide, Fight Back Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Driver's Dead Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Liars, Inc. Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Throwaway Girls Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Remember Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Where You End Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsThe Other Sister Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Paint My Body Red Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsAbaddon Illusion Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsEverything You Wanted Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Every Moment After Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsOf Scars and Stardust Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Random Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Everything You Want Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Amandine Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Seven Dirty Secrets Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5No Way Home Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratingsHidden Pieces: A Novel Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Secrets, Lies, and Scandals Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5The Girl in the Headlines Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Playing With Fire Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5
YA Mysteries & Thrillers For You
Ace of Spades Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Cellar Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Sadie: A Novel Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Delicious Monsters Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This Is Where It Ends Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Thunderhead Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Firekeeper's Daughter Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This Savage Song Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Cabin Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Allegedly Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Suicide Notes from Beautiful Girls Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Devil in Ohio Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Monday's Not Coming Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5White Smoke Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Pretty Little Liars Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Clown in a Cornfield Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/514 Ways To Die Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The New Girl Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Chain Letter: Chain Letter; The Ancient Evil Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Awake Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Truly Devious: A Mystery Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Five Total Strangers Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5Identity Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The First Horror Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5I Will Find You Again Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5Z for Zachariah Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A Study in Charlotte Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Last Thing I Remember Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5The Grimmer Rating: 0 out of 5 stars0 ratings
Reviews for Major for Murder
0 ratings0 reviews
Book preview
Major for Murder - Heather C. Myers
1
A re you okay?
I glanced at the door and saw my best friend Nora leaning casually against the oak frame, head tilted to the side, and concern in her dark eyes.
I sucked in a breath and glanced down at the crimson carpet underneath my feet, my fingers curling into the mattress. It was a simple enough question. I should be able to answer it. The truth of the matter was, I had no clue how I was feeling. One minute I was singing into a hairbrush in my bedroom back in South Haven, and now I was in a fancy dorm room at Seaside Prep Academy, a prestigious academy located in a wealthy suburb of Detroit. One minute, my parents and baby sister were here fawning over me, and the next, I was alone.
How am I even here?
I asked her. She slid into the room, closing the door behind her before sauntering over to me.
Let’s not question a good thing,
she said, taking a seat next to me. Her tight jeans stretched across her thighs as she took my hands in hers. What matters is you finally got accepted here. We finally go to the same school, Fin! This year is going to be so epic, I swear.
It was easy to get caught up in Nora’s enthusiasm, and my lips curved up involuntarily.
Yeah,
I said. But how? I thought all the scholarships were announced back in May. Suddenly, I get an envelope with my acceptance in July? That doesn’t make any sense.
You’re doing it again,
Nora said gently.
Doing what?
"The Veronica Mars thing. She pulled her hands away from me as she stood up and crossed them over her chest.
You know, where you have to know everything about everything, and if something doesn’t make sense, you get caught up in it like a dog without a bone or however that saying goes. She arched an eyebrow at me in accusation.
I thought you weren’t going to do journalism anymore anyway."
I’m not,
I said, leaning forward. I specifically said I was going to do yoga. Maybe that’ll help with the anxiety.
Because I’d learned getting caught up in a story was definitely not a good thing for my health. It was why my parents didn’t seem to question the fact that I was granted admission to one of the most exclusive academies in the country. Sure, my grades were good, but it wasn’t like I played hockey – something the school specialized in. The only thing I seemed to be good at was chasing down a story until I found out the truth, and then reporting on it.
Maybe a boyfriend might,
she said with a grin. You know, I know a lot of NHL players thanks to Daddy being a big-time agent. Maybe we could go to a Red Wings game and meet the rookies afterward. What do you say?
Before I could respond, there was a knock on the door. Nora shot me a look, asking silently, Who is it?
I responded with a look of my own meant to tell her, I have no idea. I don’t know anyone but you.
Nora walked over and opened the door before stepping back so whoever it was could come in.
Nora? What are you doing here?
Of course the visitor knew Nora. Everyone knew who Nora was thanks to her father.
I’m hanging out with my best friend,
she said, taking a seat next to me again. What’s up?
Are you Finley Jayne?
the girl asked, turning her attention to me. At my nod, she continued, Mrs. Ledger, the counselor, wants to see you at the office.
I looked over at Nora, as though she would have all of the answers. Nora shrugged, just as clueless as I was.
Okay.
I turned back to the girl, who told me where I could find the counselor. Nora offered to take me, but I told her not to worry about it. I wanted to be able to do things on my own without her help, and part of me wanted to be alone a little while longer so I could indulge myself in a bit more self-pity.
And more questions.
Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe someone dropped their scholarship for whatever reason and I was next in line to get one. It just seemed too good to be true.
Seaside was where I wanted to be, I reminded myself. This was what I wanted. Yes, I had anxiety, but as long as I wasn’t immersed in journalism, I thought I’d be okay. And being at such a challenging academy meant I could focus on other things. Things I might want to do once I graduated. The problem was, I had no idea what those things were. I was sixteen, almost seventeen, and I felt that the students here already had their lives planned out, while I was just playing catch up. Did I really belong if I didn’t know where I was going? Was I wasting my time here? Maybe I was just psyching myself out because it was my first day. Maybe I didn’t realize how much I would miss my family until they were already gone. Maybe I felt guilty that I was awarded a scholarship when my younger sister Ellie was the best hockey player on her bantam team and she was still going to South Haven High.
I headed across the grounds, taking in their beauty. There was a large expanse of green, with trees surrounding the borders of the campus. Flowers lined the grass, clinging to the last bits of summer before autumn came in with a blanket of cold, preparing them for a long winter slumber. The sky was a blue-gray, pregnant with anticipation. The academy itself and the attached dorms were made of classic red brick. The building had been around for nearly one hundred years but the bricks seemed bold and sturdy, almost like they replaced the material constantly so the school never looked old.
I could have walked around the dorm building through a small hallway that connected each building together, but Nora told me that typically wasn’t used unless it was winter and students wanted to avoid stepping outside into the frigid Michigan cold. Plus, I hadn’t gotten a chance to see the campus since I took the tour Nora’s father coordinated two years ago, the summer before my freshman year of high school. It still looked exactly as I remembered it.
The doors were heavy when I tried them, but I grunted my way through it and walked down a long hallway lined with lockers. I had no idea what classrooms were on either side of me. Teachers’ names in block letters were on the windows so at least I’d be able to find where I was supposed to be when school officially started next Monday. As it was, I took my time getting to the main office, hoping to familiarize myself with the building now rather than waiting until I needed to be in class.
The main office was a room filled with more rooms. The secretary’s desk sat in the middle, and there were four doorways leading in different directions – the principal’s office, the vice principal’s office, the nurse’s station, and the counselor’s office. I was surprised there was only one office for the counselor. At South Haven High, we had three counselors on staff just because of the size of our school. Granted, Seaside had a third of the students, which probably meant a second counselor wasn’t required.
The secretary’s desk was empty, though a steaming cup of what looked like tea sat on a desk calendar with important information written in the date blocks. She was here, just not here. A machine hummed behind me, and a silhouette was perched over something. It was hard to make out due to the texture of the glass that made up the door. More block letters spelled out COPY ROOM.
The counselor’s door creaked open and a woman stuck her head out. Finley Jayne?
she asked, black curls tilting to the side, along with her head. At my nod, she smiled and waved me in. This way. I wanted to touch base with you regarding your schedule. I had to make an adjustment to it.
Adjustment? I frowned. Why would there need to be any adjustments? I sent off my proposed schedule three months ago, the second I got my acceptance letter. I made sure to do everything before I needed to in order to guarantee my classes. Thanks to Nora’s help, I knew exactly what I wanted to take out of what they offered here.
I stepped into her office, dropping my backpack onto the floor. I expected an orderly desk, maybe a cute planner and a desktop computer she was poised over. What I found instead were three files with paper slipping out of it, a Dwight Schrute bobblehead, and two pens in her dark hair. It was the complete opposite of orderly. I tried to keep my face neutral instead of contorting with judgment. She was probably extremely busy, and this might be orderly for her. It wasn’t my place to be critical. Although…my eyes dropped to the folders with scattered papers. How anyone could keep track of notes when they were messed up in this way was beyond me.
She walked around her desk to drop into her seat, and then scooted forward so she could start typing. I took my seat across from her, sliding my hands under my thighs so I wouldn’t be tempted to touch anything. I felt my heartbeat speed up just slightly. For some reason, this felt like being in a principal’s office even though I hadn’t done anything wrong.
How are you settling in?
she asked me, her eyes never leaving the screen. However, her lips curled up into a small smile, like she wanted me to know that she was still giving me some of her limited attention and she was genuine with it. Sometimes, adults pretended to listen but really, they didn’t give a shit about you or your problems. They just acted like they did in order to get you to talk, which wasn’t something I particularly liked to do.
Okay,
I said, leaning my shoulders forward slightly. I smiled tightly, my eyes on the bobblehead rather than on her so she wouldn’t know I was lying. I hadn’t settled in at all yet; I hadn’t had time to.
She snorted. You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say.
She clicked her mouse a couple of times and suddenly, the printer sprang to life. I won’t take it personally.
Huh. So, she knew I was lying.
Look, I get that you’re new and you have a donor paying your tuition fees, but if anything is bothering you, be it boys or school or college or how much you fucking hate hockey, you can always come talk to me. That’s my job. Because I would love to listen to someone talk about how much they hate hockey.
I furrowed my brow. I’m sorry,
I said, shifting in my seat. Did you say I had a donor? Does that mean I’m a scholarship student?
She stopped, brushing loose black curls from her face as the printer began screaming behind her. No, not exactly,
she said. Our scholarships are distributed in May. You were invited to attend because an anonymous donor specifically selected your application at the beginning of summer and offered to pay the full annual fee upon acceptance. It’s why I needed to update your schedule. Things are finalized by the end of May or early June, and we received your paperwork in July. One of your electives was filled up by then so we have a space to fill in your schedule.
I blinked, trying to take everything she was saying in. I had a space in my schedule? That couldn’t be right. I sent my schedule request the next day specifically so there weren’t any hiccups.
I couldn’t have there be any hiccups.
Who’s the donor?
I asked. Who would willingly shell out fifteen grand just so I could attend this place, especially since I had absolutely no interest in or aptitude for hockey?
Mrs. Ledger stood and headed for the printer. Sorry, the donor requested that they remain anonymous,
she said. Anyway, here is your schedule with your new elective, which you’ll be starting Monday.
I didn’t get to choose? My heart leaped into my throat and I tried not to choke on it. What were the odds I would have to do journalism? Probably not a lot.
Hopefully.
She handed me the sheet and I took it, my heart thumping against my chest.
I scanned the list of classes until my eyes rested on Journalism 101.
Journalism. A class I had no intention of ever doing again. I sucked in a breath and tried not to crush the page in a fit of rage. I could feel my hands get slick with perspiration and I had to focus specifically on not wiping my palms on my thighs.
Don’t sound too excited, Ms. Jayne.
Mrs. Ledger brushed a curl behind her ear.
It’s just…
I scooted towards the edge of the chair, trying to remain polite. I don’t do journalism. I don’t. And –
That’s strange,
she said, knitting her brow. I remember going over your previous high school’s transcripts. Journalism was something you excelled at.
Um, yeah, yes.
I nodded once, setting the schedule gingerly in my lap before grabbing the wooden arms of the chair. I’m not going to do that anymore. I’m trying to, uh, look for other avenues of interest. Not journalism.
Huh.
She leaned across her desk, twisting her torso so she could go back to typing. Sorry, I thought it explicitly stated in your acceptance letter that journalism was a required course. We reached out over the summer. Did you not get our letter?
No.
I shook my head. Wait, students have to take journalism?
I asked.
No.
Curls danced as Mrs. Ledger shook her head. Well, not all students. But you, yes. The stipulation your anonymous donor put in place for your attendance at the academy is that you must take a journalism class and write stories for the paper. Now, they can’t insist on what story or what placement you get, but they have some influence on what classes you can take.
I just,
I said again before pressing my lips together. I released a breath through my nose, my nostrils flaring. I’m not sure I can do that.
Oh.
She chewed her bottom lip. That’s disappointing. I’ll have to rescind your acceptance as a student then. I mean, I can give your parents the opportunity to pay for it, of course. I don’t want to discriminate. I’ll just call them -
I blinked once. Wait,
I said, holding up a hand. "I know you mentioned a stipulation – are you telling me I have to take journalism or else I can’t attend the school?" I didn’t know why I needed her to repeat this information. I should understand it. But I needed her to say it again because this just didn’t make sense to me.
Unfortunately,
she said. Which means I need to know what you want. You’re more than welcome to leave. School hasn’t started. But I can guarantee you, you will not get this opportunity again. More than that, if anyone in your family hopes to attend Seaside, it’s highly unlikely they will get an opportunity based on your refusal. It’s not fair, but it’s how these things tend to work.
She paused. Well? Do you want to leave? Or can I assign you to Journalism 101?
I sighed. Well, it’s not like I have much of a choice, do I?
I asked, unable to keep the bitterness from my tone.
She smirked. Welcome to Seaside Prep.
2
Monday morning, and I was heading to journalism. Journalism. My passion. Something I identified with. Something I was . Something I needed to give up.
I got no sleep last night, and I was positive I looked it, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. My mind wouldn’t let go of Ledger’s words from Friday.
It had to be a coincidence, didn’t it? Out of all the electives they could have forced me to take, it had to be journalism? Why would my mystery donor want that?
No. Digging.
And what’s going to happen when I’m given an assignment and expected to write about it?
I asked myself, slugging my bookbag down the well-lit hallway.
A couple of underclassmen looked at me with strange scowls on their faces. It was only when they whispered loudly, their Mary Janes squeaking on the shiny tile, that I realized it probably looked like I was talking to myself.
Great.
I ran my fingers through my hair before rolling my shoulders back. A spark of excitement caused my heart to skip a beat – a dangerous feeling to have. Journalism was bad for me, for my health, and yet, there was a small thrum of anticipation. From selecting a topic to write about and coming up with an angle about the topic to writing a catchy title and limiting myself to so many words, journalism was everything I craved – order, direction, structure. Even finding photographs that might go with the article was a fun way to collaborate with other people.
I circled the long hallway and then glanced down at my schedule. I was lost. Chewing on my bottom lip, I tried to focus on the words in the glass window of each door.
All you’re doing is finding a classroom. Can’t be that hard.
After a few more doorways, I stopped.
There – right near the back entranceway.
I paused, studying the sturdy door, the black words. I rubbed my lips together, jutting out a hip. I didn’t want to go in there. If I was an addict, this was my drug, and the second I was immersed again, it would be much harder to claw my way out.
If I could.
I heaved a sigh. I couldn’t avoid this. I had to do it. If not for me, then for my sister and the chance for her to be able to attend. I forced myself to take one step and then another until I opened the door and walked inside. I wasn’t sure how to prepare myself for it, so I didn’t do much of anything, which felt unnatural for me. It was a spacious room with a few desks positioned in front of a whiteboard. For the most part, there were round tables with multiple chairs that filled the room so students could partake in group discussions. Along the walls, there were framed editions of the academy’s official newspaper, The Pirate’s Deck, a cute play on words with the academy’s mascot, and candid photographs that seemed to span years of former journalism students enjoying themselves in this very room.
I was the first person here despite it being two minutes into class time.
Unless I was the only person here.
I set down my bag at the closest desk to the door but instead of taking a seat and waiting, I decided to peruse the articles on the wall, just to get a feel for what students attending the academy wrote about. Part of me assumed it was all sports, all the time, but I hoped it wasn’t. There was a lot more than hockey I could write about, even though this school seemed to live and breathe the sport. How much more could one talk about hockey in a way that hadn’t been done before?
As I expected, most of the articles were hockey-related. One article discussed the probability of a player who made the varsity team – what was known as the Elite Pirates Team – getting drafted by the National Hockey League, and coming up with a 92.6% likelihood statistic. Even the girls’ team went on to play competitively, with the majority of the Olympic team being selected from here. But there were other topics that weren’t hockey, which seemed to ease a heavy ache in my chest. Typical school topics – homecoming court, weather in Michigan, tornado warnings, hometown heroes – also filled up space, which meant there was hope for me here after all.
I didn’t have to do the hard stories. I could do soft ones.
Relief filled me and my shoulders sagged forward slightly. I even allowed a smile to coast over my face.
God, what the fuck are you doing here?
I straightened and craned my neck, only to come in contact with