“I don’t know what you want me to say. We came off the field, Natalie ran off, and I didn’t see her after that.”

“And what about her dress?” the sheriff asks, with a nonchalance that makes it clear this is strategic. A game.

“It was green, with sparkles,” Luke answers. “She died in it.”

“You know she was wearing it when she died?”

There’s a biting laugh, and an incredulity in Luke’s tone that speaks volumes to the Are you stupid? look I’m sure he’s wearing. “Because it was in the paper? Because Cecelia literally found her and we’re friends?”

Now that’s a stretch.

“She wouldn’t have had time to change anyway. That’s obvious,” Luke continues. He’s still leading with confidence, but underneath there’s an unmistakable rattle. “What the fuck is your thing with the dress?”

The sheriff doesn’t scold Luke for language, as I expect. There’s a pregnant pause, purposeful, and then: “What about this?”

There’s a slow scrape of something being slid across the table. I ache to take a peek, but the only thing more dangerous than Luke finding me is having both the sheriff and Luke discover me.

“I did not fucking do that.”

“And where were you during halftime? After the procession.”

The air is pregnant with Luke’s pause. It takes on a static kind of charge, mixed with old-book smell. He sighs.

“With Morgan Quinn. Hooking up. We snuck off to the theater to…you know.”

Morgan was his halftime hookup?

It’s all I need to hear. A whole fucking weekend being cagey about his alibi for that? Did Luke really think anyone would care he’s dating Morgan? Natalie is dead. Leave it to the popular asshole to be ashamed of his hookup. Because Morgan’s not as rich and hot as he is? Fuck him.

Back into the stacks quick as I can, I find my way into the deserted hallway. It’s always strange to be in the halls alone, even when I know a bustle of activity is feet away, behind the closed classroom doors.

I’m pulled to the display case like a magnet. I hover my fingers over the glass, as if to reach out and touch the artifacts within. Angelic Caroline immortalized in black and white, her crown next to her photo, winking at visitors as they pass. It’s exquisite, until I remember that she died with her crown. I imagine Natalie will be added to the display soon. Fallen queens of Seaview, forever behind glass.

“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

I startle, turn. Find a short cardiganed woman at my shoulder. Grace.

“Hello, dear, what are you doing out of class?”

“I was, uh, I was in the library for grief counseling. I was headed back to class, but I got distracted….” For a moment, we both look at the faded picture in silence.