“You dropped this.”
I’m searching my bag for a calculator, pencil in my mouth, but I grab the card with my free hand. “Thanks.”
I look at it, but I don’t get it. It’s a postcard of Hidden Falls. A classic photo of the less-lethal autumn waterfall sprinkling over the ledge, framed by yellows and reds and golds. The shot is angled in such a way that you can see water rippling toward the surrounding rocks in the pool below. Postcards just like this are sold all over town. We might even have this one by the register at the diner. I’m not sure why it was stuck in my locker until I turn it over.
A
LONG
WAY
DOWN
The words are dark, almost blood red, scrawled down the back in block letters. My first inclination is to drop the card again, throw it out, set it somewhere I don’t have to look at it, but I can’t seem to unclench my fingers. An anxious feeling comes over me—like maybe someone’s watching. I swallow, my mouth dry, and raise my head. The first person I see is Marcus. He’s a few lockers down, staring at the postcard in my hand. Our eyes connect and his face mirrors everything I’m feeling. His skin is pale, his eyes wide and scared. I press the card flat against my chest, as if hiding the words might somehow make them cease to exist.
The fire alarm starts ringing. I jump, confused why everyone is flooding into classrooms when clearly we all need to exit the building.
Now.
But there isn’t a fire, it was just the bell.
A dark voice whispers in my ear. “Girls’ room, end of the hall.”
My feet move on autopilot purely because they’ve been given directions. When I push through the door, there are a few people at the counter, chattering something about updos and dresses, but then they see me, and the bell rings a final time, and they filter out quietly, one by one. I listen to my breath for half a minute, half a lifetime, and then the door pushes in and I realize I’m still holding the postcard to my chest.
“Let me see that,” Marcus says.
He studies it. I study him. And just for a second, I almost feel safer with him in this dimly lit space. But then I look at the card again and close my hand around the pepper spray in my backpack. Marcus’s focus is critical at first, examining both sides as if he’s looking solely for answers. His face changes and he turns it over again. This time more slowly, with a careful artist’s eye.
“Did you just get this now?”
“It wasn’t there yesterday.” My heart is pounding so hard, my vision swims with stars.
Marcus reaches toward me and I stumble back.
“Hey. Just take some deep breaths, okay?” His hand is open, his face smooth and calm. I focus on this, on the edges of his mouth. How they turn up a tiny bit when he’s nervous. I move toward him, eager for comfort. But when I look at the dark red words on the card I stop cold.
“I said the photo should’ve had writing in blood.” I slide along the counter, trying to move for the door. “Is this your idea of a joke, or . . .”
He takes a step toward me and I jerk away, ramming my elbow into the paper towel dispenser. Marcus hesitates, a line forming between his eyebrows. “It wasn’t me,” he says through his teeth. “Sonia, I’m just trying to help you.”
I hesitate. Something in my chest pulls toward him. I want to believe it wasn’t him. But I’ve already let my heart get the better of me. I have to remind myself he’s still a potential suspect.
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
He steps back. “You haven’t turned me in yet.”
“Maybe I’ve been saving it for the right time.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak.
I take a breath. “I just want to know who did this—who’s doing this.”
“Kip was there,” he says. “And Reva. Aisha wasn’t too far away . . .”
“It wasn’t any of them.”
“How do you know?” His lip curls. “’Cause they’re your friends?”
“Reva is not my friend,” I say. “How do I know it wasn’t you?”
He hands the postcard back with a humorless smirk. “Because I wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave a fingerprint in red ink.”
I turn the picture over and over—and there it is. Only a partial print, but it’s there in the corner, obscured in a patch of autumn leaves. He holds up his hands and I scan his fingers. They’re surprisingly clean. The only time I’ve ever seen them without a trace of paint.
“Maybe you washed them. Maybe I should ask the sheriff.”
“I think you should anyway.”
I look up, surprised. I didn’t expect him to say that.
“Did you ever show him the other photo?” His eyes are warm, wide with concern. A pang of guilt shoots through me before I have the chance to rationalize it away.
I set down my bag.
“That’s what I thought,” he says.
I place the postcard on the counter, anxious to step away from it. “I don’t understand, why are they doing this? What do they want?”
“It seems pretty clear. They’re trying to scare you.”