As we come up on the school in the light of day, I can see properly the chaos of last night. Yellow police DO NOT CROSS tape cordons off the pathway that leads to the pool. Twisted, foot-trodden bags of popcorn and paper cups litter the ground. A game, abruptly halted, the custodial staff banished by police presence, orders not to disturb the scene. I spot a lone figure with a push broom and a dustpan scooping detritus into a giant trash can.

We cut past the main school building, past the Weston Annex to the back quad, where a squat, red-faced, and balding man paces, hovering over a cluster of students crouched low in front of a bench. As we wing closer, I realize they’re placing flowers on the ground, near a cardboard sign that reads RIP, NATALIE.

“And it’s the Caroline Quinn Memorial Bench,” Amber notes dryly. “Apropos.”

Bronte ignores the quip and steers us to the athletic center, which is, thankfully, free of yellow tape. “This should only take a minute,” she says, testing the door handle, which doesn’t budge. Bronte is nonplussed. She angles her head in the direction of Pacing Dude, checking that he’s not looking as she pulls a large, clunky key from her bag. Then her eyes flick up at the roofline. I follow her gaze and find the round bulb of a security camera peering down.

“They don’t check the CCTV unless something goes missing or gets stolen,” Bronte says as she slides the key into the lock and we slip inside.

Or murdered? I’m sure they’re checking the feeds from last night. If only I could get my hands on the footage. Add it to my watch party with Ben later.

“Who is that guy?” I ask. We’re in a nondescript hallway, walls beige cinder block and the hollow dripping sound of a leaky shower hinting at the locker rooms beyond.

“School resource officer,” Amber supplies. “Or rent-a-cop, as my dad calls him, though it’s literally an official full-time gig. But old Will’s a decent enough guy, even if he can be overzealous about petty shit.”

“Like breaking into the school on a Saturday? Do all the cheerleaders have a key?”

“My phone is locked in here, so they can suck it.” Bronte makes a beeline for the girls’ locker room, and I don’t miss how she avoids the question about the key. A crooked line of yellow tape cordons off the back row of lockers, and I can’t help but think it’s strangely in sync with the school colors. Bronte ducks under with the practiced grace of an athlete, going right to a purple locker at the end of the row.