The cop disappeared into the red hues of the theater and I crept back into the hall just as the auditorium doors pulled slowly closed. I withdrew the ad from my pocket. The clue suggested two possible scenarios.
The first—the reference to the play and the invitation to meet up after the show—was an obvious one. Almost too obvious. But the second?
Archimedes knew the play wasn’t the thing.
Was the play a decoy? Was the real prank happening somewhere else? Somewhere Archimedes—one of history’s greatest mathematicians—would likely be? Do the math . . . I couldn’t be in two places at once.
The cop already had the auditorium covered, so I followed my gut to the math department at the far end of the school on tiptoe, pausing every few feet to listen.
I ducked under the stairwell where I could see most of the wing, and since I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, I waited. The ad just said “find me after the show.” I checked the clock above the fountain. Ten. The show was ending. After the show was now. I squatted low, my breathing shallow. The wing was quiet and still.
The second hand crept slowly over the face of the clock, and each passing second I felt more and more like an idiot for being there. My knees began to ache where they pressed against the cold tile, and a cramp pinched my calf. I shifted positions, stretched my legs, checked the clock again. The whole thing was probably a complete waste of time. I wasn’t even sure I was in the right place, or what I would do if I spotted someone, or exactly what I thought they might be doing, but I stayed put, remembering what had happened to Emily. If there was a chance something like that could happen again, I couldn’t abandon my suspicion and walk away. I urged the red hand of the clock forward with my mind, wanting to get this night behind me.
By eleven o’clock, I was sure the audience was long gone. The actors were probably washing off their stage makeup and heading to the after-party. The cop was probably shaking his head, chalking the wasted night up to a paranoid girl.
I stepped out from under the stairwell, stretched, and scanned the dark passage. All closed doors.
With the exception of one. Room #112. My AP Physics class.
It was barely cracked, but I kicked myself for not having noticed it sooner. I eased it open, listening. The room was silent. Pitch-black. The hair on my neck prickled.
I reached inside and flipped a switch. The fluorescents flickered to life, turning lumpy shadows into recognizable shapes. Chairs stacked neatly upside down on tables, the blackboard wiped clean, trash can empty.
Everything neat. Nothing out of place. Except one chair.
Mine. It rested on the floor, flipped over as if someone got up in a hurry. I walked over and saw my desk.
Jagged deep letters were carved into the wood. You lost the gold crown.
Better luck next time.
Goose bumps rippled over me. The last message on my desk led to a dead cat on my doorstep. And that message was only in ink. This one had been carved in angry-looking purposeful lines, deep enough to splinter the wood. And this time I had no doubt it’d been left for me.
You lost the gold crown.
I paced, filtering through memories of lectures and texts, sorting what I knew about math and Archimedes.
Archimedes’ Principle was based on the story of a gold crown. He’d written his Treatise on Floating Bodies after discovering he could determine the weight of a gold crown by measuring the volume of water it displaced.
So what? What did that have to do with anything? Or with the play? What could the gold crown possibly have to do with . . . Hamlet?
My brain worked fast, outpacing my pulse as it divided out all the factors until just one common denominator was left. A chill raced down my spine. There was a floating body in Hamlet . . . Ophelia.
I took off at a run, my footsteps echoing back at me down halls that seemed to go on for miles. I flew around the corner of the gymnasium and slipped into the girls’ locker room. The door closed behind me and I waited, winded, while my eyes adjusted to the dim yellow lights. I headed for the moist hot scent of chlorine until the concrete gave way to rubber floor runners.
When I came to the door, I took a breath before inching it open.
The light around the Olympic-size pool was a steamy green. Watery lines danced on the ceiling, refracted light from below the pool’s surface. I stood, listening. The huge space was silent, as if the water muted all the sound except the ragged breaths I couldn’t quiet. I stepped slowly toward the pool, scanning the bleachers for shadows or movement.
“Marcia?” I called quietly.
My own voice came back in soft echoes.
“Marcia, are you here?”