Is it at all possible that Misha was a victim, too?

A bored-looking secretary shows me to a folding chair and hands me a copy of the school handbook. I flip through it—anything to keep my hands busy. Nothing seems to have changed: it’s all no drinking, no smoking on the premises, stuff like that. A zero-tolerance policy that I doubt is ever, or was ever, enforced.

Finally the visiting parent storms off, clutching her pocketbook to her chest, and the secretary shows me in. Here among the clean angles of the modest office, surrounded by towers of paperwork, is Misha.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.

When she stands up to give me a quick hug, I see that she’s wearing a skirt suit just a tiny bit too small for her. I focus on that visible flaw to counteract a surge of panic.

“Please. You’re doing me a favor. At least now I have a break from the usual rotation of parents. They don’t see why their precious Jeremy is flunking out of school when he shows up at least once a week.”

I take the chair pulled up close to her desk. Maybe it’s meant for students—it is noticeably lower than hers, and suddenly I feel like a kid, like I should be apologizing for something.

“I see the school has expanded,” I say, directly.

“Sure has. We had to absorb the kids in Basher Falls after the town lines got redrawn.”

“That must have been a strain on the teachers.” I’ve stolen this technique from Joe: Start with some softballs, some light chitchat, the conversational equivalent of a sedative. Then, once they’re relaxed, strike hard and get out quick.

Misha smiles brightly. The sun shining through the window makes a good impression of a halo around her head. “Luckily, we were able to bring in some new hires. And we’ve been working with local donors on a scholarship fund to improve extracurricular involvement.”

Somehow, even though I can see her speak the words, they still seem as though they’re coming from someone else’s mouth. Rehearsed. “Let me guess. Optimal is one of the local donors?”

“The biggest.” She spreads her hands. She doesn’t look sorry. “Like I said, they’ve been great partners. They’ve really helped turn this town around. How was seeing Brent, by the way? You know there’s nothing to do in Barrens but mind everybody else’s business,” Misha says teasingly.

Time to go in for the kill. “That’s good to hear,” I say, “because I actually have some questions for you about what happened to Kaycee Mitchell back then.”

I might as well have slapped her. The smile drops right off her face. After a long second, she forces a laugh. “I could have saved you the trouble,” she says. “I haven’t heard from Kaycee since three weeks after she left.”

“Where was she?” I ask.

“Why do you care so much? I thought you were here to look at the water.”