Inside is frozen, the same dusty picture I left the other week. But on the other side of a murder, reeling from bad news, I see it with new eyes. My mom used to read magazines on that bed. Change in that closet. Type her papers on that computer.

Papers about the Caroline Quinn murder for her AP Psych class. I’m too curious not to pry. I’m not naive enough to expect her ancient PC to turn on, so instead I riffle through her desk drawers. I saved every paper I ever wrote, and my mom told me more than once that she used to, too. The question is whether Maura threw them out. But this room doesn’t look like it’s seen spring cleaning in decades.

The papers aren’t in her desk, so I cruise her bookshelves, and finally I get on my hands and knees, peer under the bed. There’s a plastic storage bin just out of reach of my fingers. I lie down on my stomach, ignoring the inch of dust sticking to my cheek. It takes some contorting, but I stretch my arm until—yes. I manage to hook the edge of the bin with my index finger and fish it out.

Inside is a treasure trove: Spiral-bound journals, laminated school agendas, and weathered folders labeled by subject. AP Brit Lit, American Lit, AP Gov, and there! AP Psych. I expect yellowing paper, faded words, but the thick printer paper’s been locked up tight for twenty-plus years, so other than the ink now looking a bit closer to navy blue than black, it’s none the worse for wear. It’s surreal to see my mom’s name typed neatly at the top left corner: VANESSA ELLIS, 12TH GRADE.

I skim the paper, titled “Small-Town Justice: Mob Mentality and the Caroline Quinn Murder.” There are names I expect to see: Caroline Quinn, Joe Bedecki, Maura Ellis, Grace Sawyer, Sheriff Vann—Ben’s grandfather. But one name confuses me: Mayor Bergen. In 1970. The Mayor Bergen I know, Natalie’s dad, can’t be older than fifty, so the one my mom was referencing during the original murder investigation has to be related to him. Father, uncle, or grandfather. A town dynasty.

And a quote from Grace: “They needed someone to be guilty, fast, and my brother was convenient.”

Natalie is dead. Suzanne might be, for all I know. A copycat murder. Suddenly failing brakes. Two victims connected to two people responsible for putting Joe Bedecki away. A note in Natalie’s blackmail file: SO ANGRY about her brother Joe.

Bile rises in my throat as I realize two things: It was supposed to have been me with Suzanne. Maybe it’s not people connected to those involved. But people related to them.

And Ben might be next.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE