Mr. Humphries says Mr. Collins is “old school,” but that’s a polite way of saying he’s a dick.

I push my fingers to my temples, trying to calm the headache that has come hard and fast.

Who did this? And why?

I look around the classroom and suddenly don’t trust anybody.

I read the story over and over again, and when class ends, I fold it and tuck it in my pocket, my fingers smudged gray.

Who keeps a newspaper for ten years? We keep what we want to remember. We hoard what we can’t live without.

I feel sick and my head is racing, and when I stand up to leave, I feel dizzy and fall back into my seat. The classroom is empty except for me and Mr. Collins.

He starts talking to himself, then notices me and says, “Jessica. It’s lunchtime.”

I stare up at him, yet all I can see is my mother’s face.

I think about going home and not coming back. But I need to show someone, so I head straight to the homeroom, where Emily and Hanna are waiting for me.

“Hey,” Emily says. “We’re—”

But Hanna touches her arm to stop her and says, “What is it, Jess?”

She’s getting used to these moments. She knows the look that comes before drama.

I pull the clipping from my pocket and hand it to her. “Someone put that in my bag today.”

Emily leans over, and Hanna shakes her head and says, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. It wasn’t there this morning, and now it is.”

They don’t know what to say, and I don’t blame them. Even Emily is speechless.

Hanna says, “It has to be the same guy, the one with the brick. He must go here.”

I shake my head. “It was published years ago. Why would someone keep it all this time?”

“Maybe they found it?” Emily says. “My mom keeps all sorts of crap.”

“Or eBay,” Hanna says. “You can buy anything online. They’re doing it to freak you out.”

“Well, it’s working.”

None of us laugh. We sit in silence, staring at the black-and-white photo of my mom, the woman neither of my best friends will ever know.

Chapter 57

I look closely at everyone, studying the rest of the school, waiting for a crack to show.

I need to stay focused on the Magpie Man, but I don’t know what’s real anymore. I don’t know what is dangerous and what is harmless.

I think of the shape outside my window, the brick and the drawing, the letter left at the front door, and now the article. Is it all the same person? What is a clue, and what is someone messing around? I need to figure out who’s playing with me. This is too much to ignore.