I open the notebook to a random page. It doesn’t matter what it says. I’m looking at the patterns in the words, the curls and the joins. Then I point my phone at the pad and take three quick pictures. I do the same with other pages, then pull a few more things out of her bag and place it back where it was.

“Hurry up,” Zak says, but, when I follow his line of sight, he’s still staring at an empty doorway.

It’s not just a T-shirt. There’s a tiny pair of trousers and a mustard-colored jacket that looks like it would fit Aaron.

I pause, even though I should be rushing, because it’s not what I expected to find.

“What do you think these are for?” I ask, and, when Zak shakes his head and lets out a panicked squeak, I tuck them back in Amy’s bag, zip it closed, and shove it under her chair.

“What the fuck?” Zak says.

“I needed to see her writing, okay?”

But all he says in reply is, “Amy,” and, a few seconds later, she sits down and smiles.

“What did I miss?”

Zak looks at me, and I shrug and say, “Nothing important.”

I want to leave immediately, but it’s another fifteen minutes before the bell rings for fifth period.

When I’m alone, I scroll through the photos of Amy’s writing and then the words on my wall. I zoom in, looking for the slightest suggestion that they were written by the same person. But they don’t match.

Amy’s writing is neat and flowing while the tiny army of HELP MEs are jagged and untidy.

They look as if they were done in a rush, whereas Amy’s journal is like art. She embellishes everything, adding hearts and swirls and doodles. It’s not until I look past the patterns and read the words that I start to panic.

I see it in the way he looks at me. He can’t possibly know the truth, but he knows something isn’t right. And I don’t think he’s going to stop digging.

38

When the doorbell sounds, I ignore it, because it’s never for me. It takes three shouts from Mum before I realize I’m wanted.

“You have a visitor,” she says, with a smile that makes me nervous. And, when I’m halfway down the stairs, I stop in shock because Amy’s there, her grin even wider than Mum’s.

“Surprise,” Amy says.

Mum lets out a tiny laugh, “Come in…come in.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

Mum gives me a look that says I’m being rude. But she doesn’t speak because she’s trying to figure out what’s going on, and she’s not the only one.