With that stern warning in the air, we’re released back to class; I’m caught in the riptide of students funneling out of the gym when I see Luke and Morgan, tucked into an alcove under the stairs, heads bowed together in serious conversation. I exit the stream of traffic, double back, and pretend to be tying my shoe in convenient proximity to the stairwell. I can barely make out their hushed words.

“They can’t find out.” Luke is tapping his nervous fingers on a yellowing trophy case so insistently the glass rattles. “I’ll be royally fucked. So will you.”

“They don’t know,” she practically pleads. “They can’t.”

Luke is slick and assured as ever. He looms over Morgan, and I can’t help the panic that spikes through me on her behalf. I’ll fucking kill you. And then Natalie died.

“Stick to the plan,” Luke warns. “It’ll work.”

There’s a rush of air as Luke flies past me. My spine stiffens in fright, but my eyes remain glued fastidiously to my laces, praying he didn’t notice me. What are they up to?

Before Morgan can find me crouched without an authentic excuse, I rush to my next class. But the question pokes at me all through second period and into third. I’m sure I bomb Mr. Diaz’s pop quiz in AP Chem, because I can barely focus on the screen. Each time the intercom crackles to life, calling a new student for questioning, my curiosity intensifies. The third time, it’s Luke’s name that’s read out. Please report to the media center, the scratchy voice pages.

My hand shoots into the air. It’s not hard to put a noticeable wobble in my chin as I ask to see the grief counselor. I need only to think about my mom for two point five seconds, and soon I’m flying down an empty hallway. I’m running on instinct as I slip into the library and immediately disappear into the stacks. To the left, tucked into a corner, is a circular table where a thirtysomething woman in a bargain-store suit sits. There’s a cardboard sign made with fading markers that reads GRIEF COUNSELING taped to the front of the table.

Shit. I want the other side of the library. I dart past a bank of public computers and a row of yellowing celebrity READ posters to where Sheriff Morrow and his deputies have commandeered a cluster of round tables.

Luke’s tense, at a table near the circulation desk, which is, blissfully, librarian-free. If I make a break for it, I should be able to use it as cover and listen in.

I’m getting good at the crouch-and-run, becoming a practiced snoop. Before I know it, I’m behind the desk, Luke’s cocky drawl floating into my ears.