I head up the flight of wide stone steps as she pulls away, trying to recenter my thoughts. Ms. Dixon called me back to her office this afternoon. The Penn dean of admissions will be reviewing the “incident” over the weekend, but wants to meet with me Monday before making a decision. I’m as much terrified as I am relieved. A meeting isn’t a no . . . yet. I spent my free period with Mr. Hanover going over the guidelines for Gretchen’s assignment and forwarding copies to Ms. Dixon. I have to straighten things out once I see the dean.
Before I can do that, I need to tell the sheriff about the postcard. Marcus is right. I’m still trying to process the idea that Gretchen was seeing someone I never knew about, though it was easier to imagine once I saw the guy’s mug shot. Gritty-good-looking was 100 percent her type. And there might be a hundred reasons he could have killed her. . . . Gretchen tended to leave a trail of unhappy guys in her wake. It’s possible she miscalculated and pissed off the wrong one. But I can’t figure out how to connect him to the postcard or the photo. Or even how he could’ve gotten them into my locker. The fingerprint could clear up a lot of things, but I’m not exactly sure how to ask the sheriff about it without drawing a lot of attention and causing my mom to freak out.
I text her before I get to the door.
Hanging with Shelly for a few. Be there before my shift starts.
The sheriff’s office has always smelled of ink and linoleum. It doesn’t look like anything fancy when you first walk in. The building might be historic, but the inside still suffers from a decades-old renovation that left it with lots of ugly tan cabinetry and countertops. I head straight for Martina Blake, the desk sergeant, approaching her with a concerned but hopeful smile. She’s on the phone, but puts the call on hold as soon as she sees me.
“Sonia, it’s been ages.” She comes out from behind the desk and squashes me in a hug. “How are you doing?”
I set my backpack at my feet. “I’m holding up.”
The phone starts ringing again and she exhales sharply. “It has been a total circus in here since they brought that kid in.”
“He’s here?” I stiffen. I’m not sure where I thought they might’ve brought a murder suspect besides the jail, but now that I know the guy is in the building I want out of here even faster.
“Downstairs, under lock and key, thank God. We can all get some sleep. He won’t be going anywhere for a while.” She holds up a finger and reaches for the phone, which hasn’t stopped ringing. “Hang on one sec— Black River County Sheriff, is this an emergency? Yes. No. The sheriff will be holding a press conference later this evening. He’ll answer questions then.” She hangs up again, smiling apologetically. “Sonia, is there something I can do for you?”
“I don’t know, maybe I should come back later. I just kind of had a question for Sheriff Wood.”
“He’s currently in a meeting . . .” She checks her computer screen, pursing her lips. “Is it something I can answer? Or I could see if one of the deputies is free.”
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal if he doesn’t have time.” I pick up my backpack, ready to leave.
“Have time for what?” Sheriff Wood pokes his head out of the conference room behind Martina. His face is more relaxed than it’s been in weeks. “Everything okay, Sonia?”
I take a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “Do you have a minute?”
“I happen to have several. We can’t do anything else in here until Amir gets back with more doughn— I mean bagels.” He grins at Martina.
“I just had a question. . . . It’s kind of about Gretchen.”
A wrinkle cuts across his forehead. His smile fades. “Why don’t we talk in my office.”
I follow him down the familiar narrow hall, past the wanted posters and missing persons bulletins, including the composite sketch I did with Amir. It looks nothing like Alex Burke. The sheriff closes the door once we’re inside his office, gesturing for me to sit in one of the visitor chairs. He shuffles papers on his desk, unearthing a new legal pad and setting aside a mug that reads DAMN FINE COFFEE.
“What is this about, Sonia? Did you remember something new?”
“No, it’s not that.” I hesitate, staring at the little plaque engraved with his name. “Someone left this thing in my locker. . . . I feel kind of stupid even asking you about it. It’s probably just some kind of mean prank.”
He frowns. “Do you have it with you? Can I see?”
I nod, pausing as I pull the zipper of my backpack. Once I hand over the postcard, I could lose control of this very fast. He’s more likely to tell my mother what’s going on than me, and I need exactly the opposite. “The thing is . . . I don’t want my mom to know about this.”
“Sonia, if it turns out to be—”
I rise from my chair. “If you don’t think you can keep it confidential, I’d rather not discuss it at all.”
“Wait, wait, wait—hang on.” He holds his hands up. “Just sit down and let’s talk about this.”