He could imagine Pollard cruising slowly past while talking to his wife on the phone, explaining to her and to himself that he was taking the long way home from work, his sparkling brown eyes aimed at the front steps, hoping to see a ghost.

Santa Rosa High was a beige building, squat and charmless, with slits for windows like a jail. It probably hadn’t changed a bit since April Cooper was a student, which made Quentin understand, to a small degree, how she might have run off with a deranged murderer. Anything to escape.

After he pulled into the visitors’ parking lot and found a space, Quentin took out his phone and recorded that thought. If this were to become a podcast, the story might very well start here, in the hellhole that spawned April Cooper. The skin prickled at the back of his neck, the feeling a familiar one—the thrill of being onto something, that first spark of understanding that would fire his curiosity, pushing him to investigate further. Quentin was beginning to understand April Cooper. Whether he wanted to or not.

“A place like this,” he said into the voice recorder, “might even drive someone to kill.”

QUENTIN HAD BEEN wrong about Santa Rosa High School being unchanged since the ’70s. While it was definitely true of the décor, not to mention the ventilation system (How can any of these kids stay awake in class?), the security at SRHS was 2019 all the way. Intercom. Metal detector. Heavy glass doors that, according to Melanie at the front desk, were bulletproof. “We haven’t had an actual school shooting,” she said, “but we’ve had some close calls. The PTA petitioned the school board, and with the help of a wealthy donor . . .”

“You’re safe now,” Quentin said.

“I guess,” said Melanie. “You ask me, they could have spent some of the money on new computers. Maybe a few books.”

“Central air-conditioning?”

“Exactly. But the donor was specific.”

“Interesting.”

She shrugged. “People are scared in this town. Too scared if you ask me.” Melanie clashed with her industrial surroundings. Raven-haired and pale-skinned, thanks to a shiny dye job and copious amounts of matte powder, she could have been anywhere from twenty-five to fifty years old, though Quentin figured she had to be on the lower end. She wore glittery cat-eye glasses, bright red lipstick, a vintage ’50s frock that looked like something Lucy Ricardo would have worn out shopping with Ethel. A hell of a lot of work, just to sit at the front desk of a stifling-hot high school over summer vacation, talking to absolutely no one for 90 percent of the day. An older person, he thought, probably wouldn’t have bothered. “At any rate,” Quentin said, “thanks for buzzing me in.”

“Are you kidding me?” she said. “You’re Quentin Garrison.”

Quentin blinked at her.