Her phone was never found, taken by whoever killed her, destroyed before it could be tracked. But at least now I have a glimpse of the moments she and Dad shared when they were apart.

When I call Ross, he says, “Finally. I’m almost done. We should be ready in another week or so.”

I hope this part of the plan goes better than the last. I hope when I go back to school that Monday’s show is already old news, even if that’s too much to wish for.

“I owe you,” I tell Ross, and then I call Frances Banks.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I say. “You probably didn’t expect to hear from me so soon.”

There is silence, then, “Jessica?”

“Look, I totally understand if you don’t want to, but we’re doing something. With your help, we can catch him.”

Chapter 92

Their names are Becca and Taryn, the girls who cornered me at the wrong end of the alley, the ones who laughed while the boys did their dirty work.

When I see them walking toward me, I sneak into the bathroom, but when the door swings open, I know they’ve followed, and I wait for the song to start again, planning what to do if they hit me.

Becca reaches into her bag, and when she pulls her hand out, I flinch. She pushes something into my chest and says, “You’re sick.”

“What?”

“Don’t think I won’t show the police.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about until she lets whatever she’s holding fall to the floor, and I see it and step back and cry out.

“Where did you get that?” I ask.

The girls look at each other, a silent message passing between them, then Becca says, “Don’t act dumb.”

“I’ve never seen that before.” If I had, I would remember.

On the ground, between us, a Polaroid picture of a body none of us want to look at, a reminder that this is not a game. I force myself to look harder, but it’s not my mom.

The woman in the photo has blond hair. That’s all I can make out before I have to look away again.

“How do you know where I live?” Becca asks.

When I don’t answer, Taryn says, “I bet it was you. I bet you killed those women.”

“I was seven,” I say, and for a second, I almost laugh, because how stupid can she be?

But the image on the floor means laughing isn’t an option.

“When did you get it?” I ask.

“Yesterday,” Becca says. “It was under the front door. There’s something on the back. I know it was you.”

I pick it up and turn it over. In small black capitals, it says, ONE FOR SORROW.

The song they were taunting me with. Now someone is singing it back to them.