He nodded, leaning back against the lockers and staring over her head.

She slowly twisted the combination to zero, and then, crossing her fingers on both hands, she delivered a sharp little kick to the base of the locker. The door sprang open, shuddering with a wobbly metallic sound in the empty corridor. She glanced up and down the hall to see if anyone had heard.

“Where the hell did you learn that?” Ethan asked, looking impressed.

She grinned. “My friend Alex taught me, back in Henderson.”

The locker smelled strongly of peanut butter and some kind of musky aftershave. A hooded sweatshirt hung on the hook. Books were neatly stacked on the top shelf, surrounded by assorted bits of clutter—a plastic comb, a handful of loose change, an athletic mouth guard in a plastic case. Hanging on the inside of the door was a magnetized mirror, a faded Sports Illustrated picture featuring Mia Hamm celebrating a win by ripping off her shirt, a photo of Garrett and Louisa standing in front of the Grand Canyon, and a snapshot of Celeste curled up in an overstuffed armchair in a book-lined study.

“What are you looking for?” Ethan whispered, peering into the locker.

Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe this is pointless. I guess he’s not going to have a sign saying I DID IT on the inside of his locker.” She chewed her lip, her eyes running across Garrett’s things. “I read that some killers keep mementos of their crimes so they can relive them later.” She shivered, imagining the kinds of things she would find in his locker if Garrett had taken a keepsake. It would have been horrifying to find a lock of Sutton’s hair or a piece of her clothing—or worse.

She crouched down to unzip a Nike duffel bag slouched on the floor of the locker, but all it held was a pair of soccer cleats, white socks, mesh shorts, an enormous green plastic water bottle—and a flask of something that smelled like bourbon. She zipped it back up, still kneeling, and sighed.

“I guess it’s a bust,” she said, disappointed. Ethan didn’t answer. She looked up at where he stood next to her, frowning. “Ethan?”

He was gazing at something on the top shelf. He reached slowly upward, and carefully, as if it were something dirty, he picked up a tiny silver key hanging on a metal tag.

“Ethan?” She rose slowly to her feet. “What is it?”

She held out her hand, and he let the key fall into her palm. It was small—too small to be a house key. On one side of the metal fob, she could just make out the word ROSA. A second word was too scratched to decipher. Below that was the number 356.

She frowned. “Does this mean something to you?” She didn’t know anyone named Rosa at Hollier.