Marcus doesn’t have a profile that I can find, which disappoints me more than I expect. He’s in a few of Yuji’s photos, broad-shouldered and tan on a fishing trip, or looking oddly mysterious peering out from under his hoodie in the woods. It’s strange seeing him out of the context of school or Gretchen. His mouth twists in a cute way when he smiles. His eyes have a playful gleam I’m not sure I’ve ever seen in person.
There must be two hundred photos from the party scattered on people’s timelines. Most contain at least glimpses of Gretchen, like a ghost in the feeds, but when I look at them as a group it becomes more of a complete scene. Kirsten isn’t in any shots, but she disappeared soon after we got there. There are a few people I don’t recognize, but no one who stands out.
I sit back in my chair, rubbing the bridge of my nose. Anyone could have taken that picture. Whoever put it in my locker might not have even been at the party. They could have easily pulled it off someone else’s page.
I click halfheartedly through another couple of albums—then stop.
I’ve never felt dread reach all the way to my fingertips, but there’s no mistake.
It’s the photo.
I pull the scratched-out copy from between the pages of my chemistry book for comparison, but I know without even looking that it’s the exact same shot. Gretchen laughing, her arms around my neck. My hand is on her arm, bracelet dangling on my wrist. With my face intact, it’s clear I’m not half as amused as she is, which I think was the point. Gretchen loved to push my buttons and knew better than anyone I wasn’t into hugs. My gaze is trained on the ceiling, frozen in something like annoyance or maybe just impatience while she subjects me to her embrace. I hold my breath, staring at this moment, one of the last Gretchen and I ever shared. We look so . . . typical. A sad smile brushes over my lips.
One bitch down.
My eyes go to the name of the person who posted the picture and my face falls.
Kip Peterson’s profile picture is one of the characters from UltaShock. A rugged guy wielding a shotgun with a busty redhead pulled close to his chest. Brianne has a sweet gaming setup in her basement and I found him there the other night once Gretchen got bored and went off to look for Kirsten. He was still there when she stormed downstairs and said we were leaving.
I look at the photo on the screen again. There are eighty-nine likes and eleven comments. Anyone could have found this and printed it. But when I examine the paper version more closely, I notice it’s glossy and thick—clearly not home-printer quality. It was either printed in a store or done on professional equipment. I pause. Kip may sometimes abuse his role as yearbook photographer to take boob shots, but he takes the hobby seriously enough that he’s had photos in the local paper and won several awards. This picture of Gretchen and me is nothing special, though. It’s dark, grainy, and unimaginative, like a snapshot taken on someone’s phone.
I pick up the defaced photo again and frown. Marcus is probably right; I should take it to Sheriff Wood.
There’s a knock at my door and I quickly shove the snapshot back inside my chemistry book. My mother leans against the frame, looking like she’s been on her feet at least two hours longer than she should’ve been. “Are you feeling okay, sweetie? Do you need me to cover your shift?”
“No, sorry—I was just finishing some homework.” I close the lid of my laptop. “You okay?”
“Just tired. Shelly told Dina about a garage that’ll give her a better deal than Wilson’s. I started early to cover her shift.”
“Mom, you should’ve told me, I could’ve done this later.”
She holds up her hand. “If going away to college is really what you want, then you definitely need that scholarship now.”
I grimace. She might be blunt, but she has a point. Even if I’d accepted the Meyers’ offer to send me to Stanford, I could never ask them to follow through on it now. I just can’t help wondering if I had accepted, if Gretchen would somehow still be alive.
“I saw the flowers you sent to Gretchen’s family.” My mother’s tone lightens. “It was sweet of you to send them from all of us.”
I look away, toeing the edge of my rug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
She steps back like maybe she’s headed for bed, but then she lingers in the door. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, Sonia, we could get you some meds.”
I raise my head, surprised. “How did you know that?”
“You didn’t used to cry out at night,” she says quietly. “And I’ve heard you moving around at odd hours. Dr. White came in for lunch today and assured me losing sleep, feeling guilty . . . it’s normal under the circumstances.”
I close my eyes and bite my tongue. I was hoping she hadn’t noticed.
“It just sort of came up,” she continues. “He asked about you, and . . . well, I guess he probably should’ve charged me for the meal.” She clears her throat. “But he assured me it’s all part of the grieving process.”