“Thanks,” I say.
Aisha gives me a sympathetic nod. “You need to go home? Or can I walk you to class?”
I wipe my face in the now naked mirror. I really don’t feel up to the whispers and the gossip and the stares, but if I go home I’ll just be proving to my mother I can’t handle normal routine.
“I’ll be okay.”
Aisha fiddles with her hair as we walk down the hall. I can’t remember when she stopped wearing it braided, but now it falls around her shoulders, relaxed into soft waves. Haley would’ve already found a way to fill the air with chatter, but Aisha remains silent at my side.
“I really didn’t mean to suggest anything before, about Tyrone being in Gretchen’s room.”
She keeps her gaze straight ahead. “I know it wasn’t Tyrone. And I don’t think it was Kip. But Derek had a point, so let’s just be clear—my brother doesn’t need an accusation like that being spread around.”
“You’re right, I’m sorry.” I bite my lip. Neither of us wants it to be Tyrone. “Your parents must be thrilled to have him home.”
“Yeah, he finished the semester early.” She says this so quickly, I almost don’t catch it. Then she stops in the middle of the hall and ducks her head close to mine. “Look, Tyrone was holed up in his room all night, but I saw Marcus leaving the park after Gretchen disappeared.”
“Leaving the park?” My eyes widen. “When? Did you tell Sheriff Wood?”
She nods. “It was a little before midnight. I heard something outside and when I looked out, I saw him coming up the path out of the trees.” She straightens, her eyes clear and confident. “Whatever alibi he came up with will have to be good to explain that.”
My skin prickles. She’s right. “You’re sure it was him?”
“Yes.” She glances over her shoulder at something going on down the hall. “It must’ve been right when Mr. Meyer reported the intruder. All the cops showed up a few minutes later.”
I nod, remembering the muffled call coming in, and every officer but Shelly abruptly clearing out of the diner.
The warning bell rings and I hurry down the hall toward Government, clenching my jaw, trying to imagine Gretchen’s moody artist boyfriend chasing after me in the dark. He was already at the top of my list, but it’s easier than I expect. I slow as I pass a large group clustered around a bank of lockers. Once I’m close enough, I realize it’s just one locker people are looking at. A janitor is there, brushing a fresh coat of purple paint over Marcus’s yellow locker door, covering large black letters that spell out KILLER.
SIX
BY THE TIME AISHA DROPS me at home, my throat is so tight, I only manage a whispered thank-you for the ride. I look across the street to the place I saw Marcus this morning, but all that’s there are the trees. I rub my hands over my arms. Several versions of the intruder story floated around school after lunch, including one where it was a serial killer leaving a calling card and another where Marcus was trying to convince Gretchen to elope. The only thing people seem to agree on is that there was, in fact, some guy in her room, but this is the part that disturbs me most. Who was he? What was he doing there? And why wouldn’t Sheriff Wood tell me about that?
I volunteered at the sheriff’s office my sophomore year to fulfill a school requirement, but ended up spending so much time with the deputies that I know them all by name. If I can catch one of them—Shelly or Amir—they might answer my questions more freely than the sheriff.
I move out of view of the diner, walking quickly down the sidewalk, gripping the pepper spray inside my pocket. I’m halfway up the stone steps of the sheriff’s office when a tall, beautiful dead girl steps outside.
Gretchen?
My heart leaps, a cold flash of relief rushing through my veins. I trip over my boot and crash to the stairs, pain radiating through my knee. It’s a moment before I realize what I’m actually seeing and begin to breathe again. Kirsten Meyer, Gretchen’s younger sister, walks down the steps toward me. She’s a natural blonde, but I’d forgotten she experimented with dyeing her hair a couple of weeks ago. At the time, Gretchen was annoyed, remarking that she’d never match her own vibrant natural red, but it’s startling—no, disturbing how much Kirsten looks like her now.
I wish she would dye it back.