Julie stood up. “Let’s get you home, okay? My home, I mean. You look awful.”
“No.” Parker shook her head, then immediately regretted it as another wave of pain washed over her. “You go. Ava’s right. You should get to the reception. I can make it back to your place on my own.”
Julie gave her a long, measuring look. Then she hugged her. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”
“Okay. I promise.”
Julie handed her the umbrella, then tugged up the hood of her jacket and walked quickly through the rain toward the street where she’d parked her car. Parker sat unmoving for a long moment, staring after her. She noticed a gargoyle in a high cornice on the side of the church, sticking its tongue out at her. A shiver ran through her as she met its malicious little eyes.
There’s nothing to worry about, she told herself. There’s no reason anyone would even suspect you were involved.
But she couldn’t shake the feeling that her already damaged life was about to get a whole lot worse.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“STRINGS, I CAN BARELY HEAR you!” Mrs. Rabinowitz shouted, gesturing at the violins. “That crescendo needs to be powerful!”
Mac sat in a small chair in the Beacon Heights High music wing, her cello wedged between her knees. It was Monday and Mrs. Rabinowitz was making them rehearse Mahler’s funeral march. She’d added it to the fall concert program, in memory of Nolan.
The room smelled like the floral Febreze spray Mrs. Rabinowitz always sprayed before practice, and there were pictures of famous conductors and composers on the wall—a persnickety Mozart, a scattered-looking Beethoven, a haughty Scarlatti, who Mackenzie thought was always following her around the room with his discerning gaze. Today she felt as if they were all glaring at her, condemning her for what she’d done to Nolan. She still couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Was someone really trying to frame them?
You were the one who sent out those photos, a punishing voice in her head said. You really think that trick that techie guy from band camp taught you to set up a fake email address is going to fly with the cops? They’re going to find you.
Next to her, Claire—currently the second-chair cellist to Mac’s first-chair—leaned back and forth with the music as they played. When they got to the end of the page in the sheet music, Claire hurriedly flipped the page and fumbled her bow. It was always the second chair who turned the pages. Mac knew the duty well: She and Claire were always swapping positions, the two of them almost equally talented.
When Mac glanced up again, the room was silent, and Mrs. R was staring at her. “Mackenzie, you’re a half beat off.”
Mac blinked. “I am?”
Mrs. R nodded. “You didn’t notice?”
Mac started to panic. Was she that out of it?
Claire glanced at Mac sympathetically. “We’re all a little distracted today.”
That was an understatement. All day, Mac had been on the verge of hyperventilating. What made it worse was Principal Obata’s announcement when everyone returned to class after lunch. Social workers are on call for anyone who needs extra support right now. And please, if you have any information about the party, please talk to a teacher or a counselor—no questions asked.
No questions asked. The words kept swirling through Mac’s mind as she ran her bow across her strings. Maybe they should step forward. What if they’d seen something important, something they didn’t even realize? Maybe they could help catch the real killer.
“Psst.”
Mac looked over. Claire sat with her cello bow resting lightly on her instrument. She pulled out a brown paper bag and handed it over.
“I got these for you,” Claire whispered.
Mac peeked inside. Mini gummy violins lay in a pile almost to the top. Gummies were her favorite food, and the violins were hard to find—you could only get them at a specialty candy shop in Seattle.
She looked at Claire. “What’s this for?”
Her friend shrugged. “A pick-me-up. You’ve seemed down lately.”
There was no malice in her expression. No snarky, underhanded manipulation, only a kind, earnest look. A sour taste welled in Mac’s mouth. You kissed her boyfriend, a voice chided. You said something terrible about her in film studies. And it’s too late to take any of it back.
For the first time in her life, Mac wondered if she was a truly awful person.
Suddenly, the door to the music room swung open, and all heads swiveled up. Two men in suits stepped inside. They looked around for a moment, their eyes raking over the symphony. Mrs. Rabinowitz gave a little jump and turned to face them, too.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the first man said. He was huge—at least six foot six—and dark-skinned, in a charcoal-gray suit. His voice was a booming baritone that filled the space effortlessly.