No less than ten minutes later, she’s bursting into my dorm, her couture pantsuit looking ridiculously out of place in these surroundings.
“They found the weapon,” she says as soon as she enters, her brow covered in sweat.
I freeze.
“What? Where?”
“Under the bleachers of the soccer field,” Mom says. “It’s all over the news.”
“But…” I swallow hard. “Why wouldn’t the cops have found it the first time they looked, if it was there all along?”
“I don’t know, mija. But they’re going to be fingerprinting everyone in the school, even the teachers, to see if they can find a match on the knife. That’s why I’m here.” She takes a deep breath. “Are you going to be okay getting your prints taken?”
I stare at her, the realization dawning on me.
“Why wouldn’t I be? What are you afraid of??” She doesn’t answer, and I press on. “Do you think I did it, Mom? Do you actually think that?”
“Shh!” Mom clamps her hand over my mouth, her eyes flashing with panic. “You can’t say things like that out loud. What if someone overhears and gets the wrong idea?”
“Okay, sorry!”
She lets go of me and starts pacing my dorm room.
“I imagine they’ll start taking fingerprints as soon as possible. I wanted to prepare you.”
“Thanks,” I say dully.
“Your father is taking the train back to DC late tonight,” she says, switching the topic abruptly. “Why don’t you join us for dinner at the hotel before he leaves? It’ll probably be good for you to get out of this environment.”
“Fine. Hey, Mom?”
She pauses.
“Yes?”
“Do you still think they’re going to arrest Nicole?”
She gives me a contemplative look.
“Yes, mija. I’d be surprised if they have their eye on anyone else, and if the fingerprints match, well…then her goose is cooked.”
The words are so confident, yet the look in her eyes betrays her fear. I wonder, as I lean my head back and try to remember that night, if I should be afraid, too.
As it turns out, I’m not free to go to dinner with my parents, or to set foot anywhere outside of campus tonight. A couple hours after my mom comes bearing her warning, there’s a rough knock on my door. I open it and find one of the school’s new security guards, handing me a typewritten sheet of paper.
“Everyone’s required in the dining hall tonight,” he tells me, before moving on to the next door.
Stephanie, who’s back from class and busily texting Ben Forrester, glances up from her phone.
“What’s going on?”
Instead of replying, I just hand her the paper. She sits up straighter, reading it aloud.
“Due to new key evidence found in the Chace Porter case, we require every student and teacher to be present at dinner tonight. You will be taken in groups of twenty to have your fingerprints scanned, after which time you will be free to return to your meals. We’ve enlisted security guards to retrieve and escort any student or teacher who fails to show up, so please do us the courtesy of arriving on time.
Thank you, Headmaster Higgins”
Steph stares at me, her eyes wide.
“This sounds serious. If what everyone’s saying is true, then this is going to be the final nail in Nicole’s coffin, huh?”
I bite my fingernail, a childhood habit that’s resurfaced this week.
“Let’s hope so.”
Stepping into the dining hall that night, Stephanie and I are met by a sea of panicky faces. Apparently, the headmaster’s letter scared most of our classmates into not just showing up, but showing up early.
The whole space is reconfigured, with the two long dining tables in the back serving as fingerprinting stations manned by uniformed cops, while the rest of the dining hall retains its usual purpose. But of course, the trays of food go untouched.
“What were they thinking, combining this with dinner?” Stephanie mutters in my ear.
A young woman swoops down on us, dressed in plainclothes and a badge around her neck that reads OFFICER SIMONE.
“Hello, girls. Please sign in here.” She holds out a clipboard, and Stephanie scribbles our names. “You’ll be in group six, straight ahead. When I call your number, your group will get fingerprinted, and then you can go back to your table for dinner.”
Yeah, right. Fat chance of me eating at a time like this.
I follow the direction Officer Simone is pointing in, and a block of ice sets in my stomach. She is there, her scarred face even paler than usual. Nicole is sitting between Brianne and a woman I recognize as her mom from the framed picture she used to keep on her side of the nightstand.
Catching my expression, Stephanie gives the officer a pleading look.
“Isn’t there another group—?”
“This isn’t social time, ladies,” she snaps. “Go on now.”