Well never tell, p.1
We'll Never Tell, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Wendy Heard
Cover art copyright © 2023 by Bex Glendining. Cover design by Tracy Shaw.
Cover copyright © 2023 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
Interior design by Torborg Davern.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Heard, Wendy, author.
Title: We’ll never tell / Wendy Heard.
Other titles: We will never tell
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2023. | Audience: Ages 14 to 18. | Summary: While investigating an infamous Hollywood murder mystery for their final YouTube episode, four teenagers visit the scene of the crime, but one does not come out alive, leaving the others to solve crimes old and new—or die trying.
Identifiers: LCCN 2022030605 | ISBN 9780316482332 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316482653 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: YouTube (Electronic resource)—Fiction. | Murder—Fiction. | Mystery and detective stories. | LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H4314 We 2023 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022030605
ISBNs: 978-0-316-48233-2 (hardcover), 978-0-316-48265-3 (ebook)
E3-20230405-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Begin Reading
One: Tuesday, April 4
Two: Wednesday, April 5
Three: Saturday, April 8
Four: Saturday, April 8
Five: Saturday, April 8
Six: Saturday, March 25 (Two Weeks Ago)
Seven: Saturday, April 8
Eight: Sunday, April 9
Nine: Tuesday, March 28
Ten: Sunday, April 9
Eleven: Sunday, April 9
Twelve: Monday, April 10
Thirteen: Monday, April 10
Fourteen: Tuesday, April 11
Fifteen: Wednesday, April 12
Sixteen: Tuesday, March 28
Seventeen: Wednesday, April 12
Eighteen: Wednesday, March 29
Nineteen: Wednesday, April 12
Twenty: Wednesday, April 12
Twenty-One: Wednesday, April 12
Twenty-Two: Wednesday, April 12
Twenty-Three: Wednesday, March 29
Twenty-Four: Thursday, April 13
Twenty-Five: Thursday, April 13
Twenty-Six: Thursday, April 13
Twenty-Seven: Thursday, April 13
Twenty-Eight: Friday, April 14
Twenty-Nine: Friday, April 14
Thirty: Friday, April 14
Thirty-One: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Two: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Three: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Four: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Five: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Six: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Seven: Friday, April 14
Thirty-Eight: Saturday, April 15
Thirty-Nine: Saturday, April 22
Forty: Saturday, July 15
Acknowledgments
Discover More
About the Author
For my mother and daughter.
Our story is my favorite.
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THE HOLLYWOOD REVIEW
SILVER SCREEN TRAGEDY AT SILVER LAKE
SATURDAY, APRIL 15, 1972
Two shocking deaths in the night have shaken Hollywood. At seven o’clock this morning, the household staff of Mr. and Mrs. Andrew Valentini discovered their master and mistress, Hollywood’s leading man and lady, dead in the living room of their palatial mansion in the Silver Lake hills.
“It was a grisly scene,” say neighbors who managed a glimpse: twenty-three-year-old Rosalinda Valentini, the cinema darling known for her roles in On the Water and He Loves Me Not, prostrate on the plush living room carpet in a pool of blood, while studio mogul Andrew lay crumpled near the window in a similarly terrifying state.
Neighbors heard no disturbances, which is unsurprising given the locale. Estates are large and wooded, and the hills provide residents a measure of privacy to protect them from prying eyes… or perhaps they invite evil in.
Is the culprit an obsessed fan? A jilted lover? Tonight, the world will grieve a star-studded couple while the Los Angeles Police Department begins their investigation into who may have had a motive to cut down this dynamic duo in their prime. We’ll be covering the story as it unfolds.
ONE
Tuesday, April 4
“CASEY, LOOK,” ZOE SAYS, CLUTCHING MY HAND. It’s lunchtime, and we’re out in front of Hollywood High in the blazing April sunshine, waiting for her mom to drop off Starbucks.
“What?” I ask, confused. “Is your mom here?”
She points at two people sitting on the steps, riveted by something on an iPhone. “They’re watching one of our videos.”
“No way.” What are the odds?
“Look,” she insists, pulling me toward them so we can peek over their shoulders. On the screen, glowing eyes blink twice and vanish into pitch blackness. The camera moves closer, searching for the eyes again. The creature is revealed: a monkey, high in the branches of a tree. A zoo enclosure.
A smooth narrator voice says, “These are capuchins. They’re from Brazil, and they’re endangered.” The camera pans across the exhibit, and more monkeys appear, curled up on branches, clearly having been awakened from a sound sleep.
“Aww, look at the baby monkeys,” coos the girl holding the phone.
I meet Zoe’s eyes. Hers are full of contained glee, and I’m sure mine look the same. It’s the first time we’ve seen people watching our videos in public.
The couple switches to a different clip, the one at an abandoned, burned-down clothing factory in Downtown LA. That was a cool episode; we’d found all the old sewing machines, some of them untouched by fire, collecting dust.
“What’s the name of this channel?” the guy asks.
“We’ll Never Tell,” his girlfriend replies. “I can’t believe they don’t get caught.”
“I bet it’s not that hard to sneak into these places. Come on. The zoo? Some old factory?”
“I’m sure there’s security,” the girl argues. “If it were easy, there wouldn’t be a whole channel about it. Besides, that’s not the point. You and I aren’t going to go break into the zoo in the middle of the night. So they show you. It’s about satisfying people’s curiosity. Seeing something off-limits. You know?”
I meet Zoe’s eyes. She’s wearing hot-pink eyeliner, and when she purses her lips and gives me a mischievous smile, her hazel eyes glow like a cat’s.
A horn honks twice. It’s Zoe’s mom, at the curb in her white Expedition, and we hurry down the steps to meet her. The passenger’s side window opens smoothly, and Zoe reaches in for the drinks. I accept the one offered to me and call, “Thank you, Maria!”
She blows me a kiss, as always looking too beautiful and petite to be driving this behemoth. She was a pageant contestant back in the Philippines, even competing in Miss Universe, until she met Zoe’s dad. “Love you guys,” Maria calls in her always-cheerful singsong voice. “Have a good day! Be safe at work, Casey!”
I smile and wave as she pulls away. “Your mom is seriously the best,” I tell Zoe.
“I know.” She flicks her eyes left and right. “Have you seen Liam?”
The guy she likes. “No,” I reply, sipping my caramel macchiato. “Want me to go find him and tell him you want to have his babies?”
“I’ll kill you in your sleep.”
I grin at her for a minute, feeling a sudden rush of nostalgia for her many crushes over the years and all the times I’ve tormented her about them. Two more months and we’ll be done with high school. Another two months after that, she’ll be gone, off to MIT, as far geographically as a person can be while still in the continental US.
“What?” she asks, noticing my expression. “Tell me.”
I feel suddenly stiff and awkw
Her eyes go wide. “That’s a great point, actually. Major fashion opportunities await in the coat department. It’s completely unexplored.”
I bite my tongue. That isn’t what I mean.
She wraps an arm around my neck, and we wander along the sidewalk, killing time until the bell rings. “You excited about the murder house?” she asks.
I brighten, thinking about our next—and last—episode. “I am.”
“A million subscribers. Did you ever imagine we’d get here?”
I make a face. “No.” She knows how I feel about internet fame. Some of our douchiest classmates will talk your face off about their follower counts.
She laughs. “Whatever. We’re legends. People will be watching our channel for years to come.”
“We can never tell anyone,” I remind her.
She rolls her eyes. “Please. I don’t want to lose my spot at MIT because I’m out here doing time. Orange is not the new black.”
I try to imagine what the other programming students at MIT are going to be like. I wish I could see their faces when they meet her. She’s the most vibrant person I know, from her halo of curly, blue-streaked hair to her bright outfits and the eyeshadow that changes daily.
“Casey, Zoe!” We turn toward school. It’s Jacob and Eddie, trotting down the steps. From far away it’s not always easy to tell them apart; both are medium height, slim, with dark hair. As they get closer, their differences are more visible: Jacob is fair-skinned, with shaggy, messy brown hair, freckles, and sharp, pretty features, while Eddie has a tan from hours of playing basketball, shiny black hair cut short, strong, straight brows, and a square jaw. Eddie is hanging back behind Jacob, scowling like they’ve just finished arguing.
Zoe greets them cheerfully. “Hey, losers.”
Jacob grabs the Starbucks cup from my hand and takes a long sip. “Rude,” I say.
Making unwavering eye contact, he licks the lid daintily with the tip of his tongue. He’s such a brat.
His eyes wander down to my clothes. “I’m liking this look,” he tells me, stepping back. “What is this, a vintage bowling shirt?”
I point to the name patch on the left breast pocket. “Look, I’m Marjie.” We share a love of thrifting and have delved into some truly esoteric parts of town looking for deals. In Hollywood and the surrounding areas, thrift stores are as expensive as regular ones, which completely defeats the purpose.
I notice a yellow paper folded in Eddie’s hand. “Is that a tardy slip?” I gasp, stealing it. Sure enough, it says Eddie Yu, 8:55 a.m.
He shoots Jacob a glare. “Not my fault.”
“Ho-ly crap,” Zoe whispers dramatically. “Mark this freaking day. Eddie was late for something.”
Jacob shakes his head, lips pressed together. “Ix-nay, ladies.” Eddie clearly doesn’t think this is funny.
Zoe shoots Jacob a wink and changes the subject.
“We just saw people playing one of our videos. We were standing out here waiting for my mom, and the couple next to us was totally watching that one we did at the zoo.”
Eddie’s scowl has relaxed. “Did you stay cool, or did you give us away?”
Zoe makes a pouty face. “After three years of total secrecy, why does everyone still think I have a big mouth?”
All three of us chorus, “Because you do.”
With her non-Starbucks hand, she starts slapping at us in turn, hitting our arms. There’s a minute where we engage in a four-way play fight, and then Jacob calls a truce so he can finish my coffee in peace.
I take a moment to look at them, really look. Eddie and Jacob, friends since elementary school, have such different personalities, it’s sometimes hard to believe they’re as close as they are. Zoe and me, same thing—no one would match us up on the street, but here we are, best friends since freshman year. We’re definitely not popular, but I like to think we’re a unique little band of misfits: Zoe is a programmer by day, lock picker by night, brilliant and stylish; Eddie is the strong silent type, like someone out of a Calvin Klein ad; Jacob is a hundred percent punk rock, teleported straight from early eighties New York; and I’m… I don’t know. A brunette with bangs and glasses whose entire wardrobe is secondhand. “If your eccentric grandma were young and cute,” Jacob had said in the group chat once, which… thanks?
“This last episode needs to be perfect,” I tell them.
Jacob lifts his stolen drink in a toast. “All good things must come to an end. We’ll Never Tell, you’ve had a sweet ride. Time to go out with a bang.”
Zoe and I make little hooting noises, but Eddie furrows his brow and doesn’t respond. Zoe looks at me quizzically, noticing it, too. Eddie is always quieter than Jacob, whose energy is so unpredictable, he’ll give you whiplash. But Eddie’s quiet is usually calm, not gloomy like this. Can he really be this out of sorts just because Jacob made him late for school?
Jacob forges ahead. “You guys want to have a planning session tomorrow? If we’re doing the murder house this weekend, we need to be tighter than ever.” He grins, his excitement palpable. I think he’s happy we took his suggestion for our last episode. I had wanted to do a different location—the oil rigs in San Pedro, which are terrifying at night—but I’d been unanimously overruled when Jacob had suggested the Valentini murder mansion.
We all agree to meet at Zoe’s. The bell rings, and the guys hurry back toward school. As they walk away, Zoe asks, “Are they in a fight?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, analyzing the back of Eddie’s stiff shoulders. “Something’s definitely off, though.”
The evening bus hosts the usual assortment of people: normies getting off work, homeless folks sleeping, an older woman with a dog in a stroller, and of course the guy selling incense, who you absolutely do not make eye contact with under any circumstances. I have a personal hygiene policy of never sitting down, and I keep my balance with practiced ease, tucked into the little vestibule by the door. I’m tired, having gone straight from school to work at Sunset FroYo, and I reek of sour, melted frozen yogurt from cleaning the machines.
I get off at LaBrea and Franklin, turn right, and trudge uphill; we live near Runyon Canyon, at the base of the Hollywood Hills. Our street is lined with large apartment buildings and is always congested—cars circling endlessly, searching for parking spots they’ll never find.
Our building is one of the older, less-nice ones on this street, but I don’t mind. One thing I’ve learned the hard way—you have to appreciate what you’ve got because things can always get worse, and rent control is as good as it gets. I let myself in the front gate and hurry through the courtyard to our unit on the ground floor. I find Grandma stretching on the carpet in front of the TV. She looks up when I enter. “Hi, baby.” Her smile is weary, all her makeup worn off. She’s pretty, with warm brown eyes and short blond-brown hair. She always seems younger than my friends’ grandparents.
I love the way she smells coming home from the flower shop, like roses and Oasis—the spongy, wet material inside vases—along with a cool refrigerator scent. I have so many memories of helping her on holidays, sticking flowers into Oasis and learning to tie ribbons into fancy bows.
“Hi, Grandma. Tired?” I drop my backpack on the floor by the small dining table and kick my shoes off.
“I’m fine.” She’s lying. Her job has been wearing her down since she turned sixty, but she has no other skills; she’s been doing floral design for forty years.
I wash my hands in the kitchen sink and sit next to her on the carpet. It’s not a big place; the little galley kitchen, dining nook, and living area are all one space, and half the living room is partitioned off with Ikea room dividers to serve as my bedroom.
She wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me affectionately, then examines me, straightening my bangs and smoothing my ponytail. “How was work? School? Friends?”
“All fine. A chill day.”
“You need dinner?” she asks. “I made some chicken soup. A big pot for the week. Oh, and I brought some chocolates home from work.”
I groan at the idea of more sugar. “I had way too much froyo.”
She twists her mouth into a playful grimace and hands me the remote. “Okay, then, I’m heading to bed. When you’re old, eight thirty is the new midnight.”
