“I think you’re overreacting. Some girl says she knows the Magpie Man and then disappears. It’s probably the same person leaving the articles. Or it’s those tenth graders messing with you again.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, that’s up to you. But this is too risky.”

She stares at me, doing her best impression of someone responsible, and I say, “Fine. I’ll do it on my own.”

I start walking away, even when I think this isn’t working, until I hear her catch up and groan.

“If we get caught, I’m blaming you for everything.”

Chapter 105

Theology hasn’t been the same since Mayfield Lodge.

We should be sharing private jokes about the place, going off on tangents as we reminisce about Andrea and Saffron and Reg, laughing about the kangaroos, and smiling about the prayer room. We should love Mr. Humphries even more than we used to for telling us about his son. Instead, no one talks about it, and that only makes it more obvious.

Maya eventually admitted she was the one who bought the liquor, and she got a two-week suspension.

Sometimes there’s a whispered recollection, but it’s quickly snuffed out, just in case it offends Bernie or reminds Mr. Humphries of the night we let him down.

But today I have other things to worry about, and from the look on Emily’s face, she’s just as scared.

The class drags on, and ten minutes before the end, I talk myself out of it. But I have to know if Clara goes here.

SIRK has all our photographs. It has our addresses. If I’m right, if Clara is right, I could finally be closing in on some answers.

When the class ends, we leave like normal, only I wait in the hallway, my back pushed hard against the wall, hiding in the corner as my classmates walk the other way.

Emily looks back, waits until the hallway is empty, then screams.

Mr. Humphries is out the door quicker than I expected.

I slip inside and run to his computer. I push a button, but the screen is locked, the password box empty, asking me a question I can’t answer.

I hit Enter, even though I know it’s useless, then stare around the classroom, wondering how much time I have.

There are more noises outside, and I hold my breath, trying to figure out if the voices are getting closer or further away. But I can’t waste this. I might not get another chance.

His lesson planner is on his desk, and I flick through it, looking for words that might mean something or random letters and numbers he couldn’t possibly remember. But there’s too much in there, pages of notes and reminders and names. It could be any of them.