“You’re saying our theology teacher is the Magpie Man?” I ask, and Emily shakes her head.

“I don’t know. But he could have put both articles in your bag, and he was looking at you on SIRK after class. That’s a little creepy.”

“He’s a teacher. He was doing his job,” I say.

She has a point about the articles, though, and the more I think about it, the more pieces fall into place, like how a ten-year-old story could be kept all this time. A kid wouldn’t do that. But a man might. Although it still doesn’t make sense why he would do it.

I went in there to find Clara and came out with something completely different. But I should be used to that by now.

“I can’t think about this,” I say. “It’s not him. It can’t be. I need to find Clara.”

“There probably is no Clara,” Emily says.

But she sounded so scared on the phone. She sounded like she didn’t want to say the words coming out of her mouth.

I believe her. I just need to figure out who she is.

Chapter 108

I went to Doveton Elementary School, so it’s not hard to talk my way past the reception desk and into a conversation with my old teacher Mrs. Maxwell about work experience.

She looks happy to see me, even though I haven’t been here for six years.

“How have you been?” she asks, a flicker of something serious behind her smile.

She was here when Mom was murdered. She knows my history. But she’s trying hard not to bring it up.

“I’m good,” I say. “I’m a junior now.”

Mrs. Maxwell looks surprised, although she shouldn’t be. She knows when I left. She knows how old I am. And yet somehow, when your elementary school teachers see you, they can’t help but express wonder at the passing of time.

“We have a work-experience week coming up soon,” I say, “and I was thinking of doing it here.”

She grins like she’s the reason for my decision, even though being a teacher is the last thing I want to do.

“I’m sure we could arrange that,” she says. If she has any idea about the show, she’s hiding it well.

The classroom looks like it did when I was here last, just different interpretations of the same displays and the same teacher with a slightly older face.

I feel guilty for lying to her. I could come here, moving from class to class, learning every single kid’s name. But I don’t have time for that. Instead, as I’m about to leave, I say, “I think I know someone who goes here. Her name is Clara.”

Mrs. Maxwell shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Jessica. We don’t have a Clara here.”