“We are. I thought Kaycee’s perspective could be valuable.”

“Here we go. I thought that stupidity had gone to the grave.” Misha is much better at controlling her temper now. “It was a lie. I’ve put that whole episode behind me.”

“But you must have gotten the idea to lie from somewhere,” I say. “There was a case back in Tennessee, before Optimal changed names—”

“It was Kaycee’s idea. And you know as well as I do, Kaycee never needed a reason for anything.” Misha’s voice turns hard, like the old Misha, the one whose first instinct was to attack. “Last I heard she was on her way to New York. Honestly, I was relieved. It sounds awful, but I was sick of all her little games. I was sick of playing along. You know how it was.”

I do. But again, I resent her for reminding me. “Is it possible she had another reason for running away?” I ask, and Misha sighs, as if she’s realized I won’t be easily distracted.

“No,” she says. “She knew that I wanted to come clean about making the whole thing up. Cora and Annie, too. We never expected it to get that out of control. I mean, Cora’s mom went on the news…” She shakes her head. “Kaycee ran off before everyone could call her a liar. Best day of my life, God’s truth.”

For a second, I’m left speechless. Did anyone actually like Kaycee Mitchell? Was anyone sorry to see her go? But before I can ask Misha anything else, the secretary pokes her head in.

“Mrs. Danning brought in another cell phone. Jessica Moore again. She’s on her way in for detention.”

Misha stands up so quickly she bangs a hip against the desk, sending several pens rolling to the floor. “I’ll take it,” she says. Turning back to me, she adds, “No-cell-phone policy. We give them back. But during school hours it keeps the kids from getting distracted. Cuts down on cyberbullying, too, although I swear some of these kids spend more time in detention than they do in class.”

For the first time, I think I see the appeal of the job to a person like Misha. It must make her feel powerful to mete out punishments and rewards. And for that part of the gig, at least, she’s a natural.

An ear-splitting bell signals the end of first period, a pitch identical to the one that used to hack up my days into periods of forty-five minutes.

When Misha remains on her feet, I realize the meeting is over.

“So good to see you, Abby,” she says, embracing me again. While her lips are still very close to my ear, she whispers, “It’s just like old times, isn’t it?”

I half expect to feel her teeth sink into my jugular, vampire-style.

But she just releases me and laughs. “Next time, I say we meet for a drink.”

—

As I weave my way through the hall, navigating the throngs of students pouring out of classrooms, a memory needles in the back of my mind, begging for attention. We had our own version of bullying, back in the early days of Facebook, before Snapchat, Instagram, and trolls. I haven’t thought about the Game in years, or the rumors that spread like a toxic fume, the girls who were targeted moving through the halls, white-faced, humiliated, trailed by a faint snake-hiss. Slut. Slut. Slut.