My words crack his shell. His shoulders deflate a fraction, and he looks out at the busy hallway.
Guilt tears at my insides. What’s gotten into me? I know what I did was wrong. I touch his arm, and he flinches. Laughter echoes through the hallway, and my cheeks burn.
“Just…just tell me you didn’t do something stupid.” He looks at me again with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
I briefly consider telling him everything about Los Demonios, but something about the threatening look in his eyes tells me that confessing to him would be a very bad idea. Which brings me to plan B: throw him off the trail. Stat.
“Look, Bishop. I’m sorry. I was just so mad. Aunt Penny just finished saying there was nothing I could do about Paige, then I went to you and expected you to be on my side but you just said the same thing and”—I shrug—“I guess I just lost it. I needed to get away for a bit.” It’s not technically a lie. “But I realize now that I made you both worry, and I won’t take off like that again without letting someone know.”
He doesn’t respond. A twist of dark hair falls around his jaw; his lips are so tense I have the urge to part them with a kiss. He’s so close to me, yet the space between us feels like a chasm.
“Look,” I whisper. “If you’re going to break up with me, could you at least make it quick? Everyone’s looking.”
He laughs then, low and quiet. The sound startles me.
“You think I’m going to break up with you?” he asks.
“You’re…not?”
“Indie,” he says, hooking his fingers through the belt loops of my jean skirt and tugging me closer. He gives a half smile—not his characteristic grin, but not his new scowl either, so I’ll take it. “I would never break up with you.”
Relief floods my body, and I swear I can feel actual endorphins racing through my veins. “You might regret saying that later,” I reply.
He tucks my hair behind my ear, grinning genuinely as he leans in to kiss me.
“All right, break it up, you two!”
I startle at Mr. Lloyd’s voice. He stands in front of us, wedging us apart with his palms. “More booky booky, less kissy kissy, comprende?”
Bishop laughs, and Mr. Lloyd shoots him a glare.
“Are you even a student here?” he asks.
Crap.
“See you after school?” Bishop says as he walks backward away from me.
“Sure,” I say. He gives me a two-fingered salute, and then he slips into the crowd.
One thing I haven’t missed about school is Mrs. Davies’s boring lectures. After I slept like the dead for just a few hours last night, her monologue on some after-school SAT prep course has me fighting the urge to head-desk.
It doesn’t get better in math class. My exhaustion, combined with the fact I haven’t cracked a textbook in ages, makes the test questions look like they’re written in an alien language. I get about halfway through before giving up and taking a nap on my desk.
I almost leap out of my skin when the intercom buzzes. Mrs. Malone’s voice comes over the speaker.
“Good morning. Would all students and teachers please file down to the gymnasium for a mandatory assembly? Thank you.”
“I guess the test will have to be rescheduled,” Mr. Lloyd says.
Joy. I can fail tomorrow instead.
Whoops rise from the class. In the back of the room, Bianca loudly discusses skipping out for Starbucks. It’s probably the first great idea she’s ever had. I’m already imagining what kinds of research I can do with my free time when Mr. Lloyd claps his hands.
“Did everyone hear Mrs. Malone? This is a mandatory assembly. Anyone not present will be reported to the office and dealt with appropriately. I will be taking attendance in the gym.”
All twenty-five kids let out a groan.
The gym is already three-quarters full and booming with the murmurs of students by the time our class arrives. I file into one of the hastily erected rows of orange chairs and scan the crowded room for a sign of what this is all about. I notice a few uniformed police officers chatting by the side of the raised stage, and my back stiffens.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Malone crosses the stage as briskly as one can in a leather miniskirt too tight to allow full range of leg motion. She stops in front of a microphone, then taps it twice, sending interference through the speakers, which makes everyone groan.
“Quiet, please,” she says. “Thank you all for joining me. I’ve asked you here this morning for a very important issue. A tragedy has befallen one of our own.” She pauses. “Mrs. Hornby’s daughter has gone missing.”
Shock slams into me as the gym falls completely silent.
Mrs. Hornby is the coach of the girl’s soccer team, and ever since Ms. Jenkins died (or rather, was killed by Leo), she’s been filling in as the cheerleading coach. All I know about her is that she loves soccer with a passion and has been nicknamed Horny, on account of her unfortunate last name. I didn’t even know she had a daughter.
Mrs. Malone allows a moment for the shock of her statement to wear off before continuing.
“Samantha Hornby, a junior at John Marshall High, hasn’t been seen since yesterday morning.” Mrs. Malone covers the microphone with her hand and speaks to a janitor. In a moment, a picture flashes across the drop-down screen behind her. The girl in the picture smiles brightly at the camera, her brown hair pulled into a glossy ponytail at the top of her head.
“Samantha was last seen by her parents at ten to eight yesterday, when she left for school with a friend. She was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. All efforts to contact her via phone and social networking have failed. Her family says this is very unusual for Samantha and they’re very concerned for her welfare. Please, everyone take a close look at this photo. If you have any information that could help in the search for Samantha, anything at all, please come forward to speak to one of the officers, who will gladly take your report.”