When Blackwood mentioned student deaths to me in her office the day I arrived, I didn’t for one minute imagine she meant murder. My stomach churns uncomfortably, and I fight the urge to shift around, rub my hands over my face, do anything that might show how sick I feel about this whole situation.

“Your privacy is revoked, and you’ll be subject to tests and observation whenever and wherever Dr. Conner and I choose. And just because you can’t see guards, that doesn’t mean they’re not following you.” Blackwood smooths a wrinkle in her blazer. “For the time being, all meals will be served in your respective suites rather than the dining hall. That is all you need to know; you may go.”

I look at Layla, hoping she’ll explain the brevity of that speech and the cold cruelty of Blackwood’s demeanor. There was no sensitivity to the fact that students have just lost their classmate, no reassurance that we’ll be safe; in fact, it felt like the opposite—we’ve been assured that we’re not only in danger, but also potential suspects. However, Layla just stands and heads for the door like all the other students. No one says a word. No one looks at anyone else.

Someone taps my shoulder and I nearly jump out of my skin. My heart sinks when I whip around to find Conner right behind me.

“Follow me, November,” he says, and I catch Ash watching me from across the room.

Conner leads me back to Blackwood’s office. I take a seat in the armchair in front of Blackwood’s desk while Conner settles into a chair near the wall, his folder and pen at the ready. The fireplace is ablaze with crackling and snapping wood—a familiarity that I would usually find comforting. But the coldness in Blackwood’s and Conner’s expressions and the heavy stillness suck any sense of comfort out of the room.

We all sit there silently for so long that I wonder if this horrible moment somehow got frozen in time.

“So…,” Blackwood finally says. “You left your room last night after curfew, November.”

My pulse throbs in my temples and my stomach twists uncomfortably. I’ve always been good in conversations with principals and deans. And I’ve definitely been in trouble enough to know my way around them. But that was back when the worst thing that could happen to me was suspension, not an eye-for-an-eye punishment system. “Yes, I did.”

Blackwood folds her hands on her desk. “And a student is dead.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

I hesitate. “You just told us in the assembly.”

“Hmmm,” she says, and Conner takes notes.