“It was murder,” he said, and I took a step back. He tapped his finger off the beat of my step, not expecting it.

“Who was murdered?” I asked, hunched in on myself, not wanting the answer.

You can’t be talking about Colette.

Can you?

I wanted to get away from him; I took another step back. His eyes had wandered toward the window again, so he didn’t tap.

“Is it time?” he asked, looking out.

“Time for what?” I whispered, afraid of the answer.

He looked at me again, sharply.

“You know,” he said, annoyance in his voice. “Time for the girl to come back.”

chapter 17

Karly didn’t say anything about my tardiness when I walked in and slinked into my seat. She just came over and quietly said, “We’re working on our sculptures or personal projects today. Your choice.”

The room was filled with soft instrumental music, and Karly had lit a candle on her desk that smelled like the forest, but not in an overpowering way.

I flashed weak smiles back at Jasmine and Izzy, screaming on the inside about what had just happened, about talking to a man in a yellow scarf named William about murder and returning girls.

Gathering the tools for sculpture seemed too daunting. My hands shaking, I got out my sketchbook, flipping past failed attempts at portraits of Colette. I knew I couldn’t draw anything real in this state, but I needed to draw something, I was so amped up.

Opening my pencil box, I dug for my favorite—but it wasn’t there.

I looked at the floor under my table, then twisted around in my seat. I stood up to see if it was on my chair, thinking I’d left it there yesterday.

“What’s wrong?” Boy Sam asked, manicured eyebrows raised. He reminded me of my dog, Pirate, always ready to spring into action. Only both of Boy Sam’s eyes worked.

“I can’t find my favorite pencil.”

“What’s it look like?” he asked, eyes on the floor. “I’ll help.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll just use something else.”

“But it’s your favorite,” Sam said, leaning closer and whispering, “I need an excuse to procrastinate anyway. Not feeling it today.” He stood, too. “What type of pencil is it?”

It didn’t seem like Sam was going to give up, so I gave in. “It’s a 3H,” I said. “The outside is silver.”

“On it,” he said, turning and walking the rows, checking the floor and people’s desks and even the garbage, like someone might have thrown it out. After we’d searched the room, Sam stopped and folded his arms over his compact chest. “Anyone seen a silver 3H?” he said loudly. “Tess is missing hers.”