Then our teacher comes in. Mr. Berning. He’s a giant guy, well over six feet tall with bulging biceps and a military haircut. He used to coach the basketball team but stepped down a few years ago after three straight losing seasons. He still teaches though, and the guy is all business. He never smiles at anyone, never cracks a joke. All the students hate him. If his wife disappeared and he made a video, everyone would think he was guilty. No doubt about it.

But maybe Mr. Berning is a really nice guy at home. Maybe he calls his wife silly names and makes dumb jokes that he laughs and laughs about. Maybe he slips little notes under her pillow for her to find when she wakes up. I’ve never thought of Mr. Berning that way, but I understand him a little better now that I don’t want people making cruel assumptions about me. Maybe he has layers we can’t see.

Chloe and I leave notes for each other like that. We write silly things on scraps of paper—I love you! I miss you! You’re the sexiest!—and then try to leave them where the other person will find them later. Stuffed into books or the pockets of our jackets. Placed under the windshield wipers on the car. Chloe once left one that said Kiss Me in the medicine cabinet of our bathroom, and my dad found it while looking for a razor. We laughed a long time at his confused response.

Berning jumps right into graphs and functions. The stuff made zero sense to me before the accident, and it’s no fun studying math with a throbbing head and a missing girlfriend. In fact, the math stuff makes me think of Chloe. She always helps me with my calc homework. She wants to major in chemistry in college, maybe go premed. She has always gently mocked my inability to grasp mathematical concepts right away, and then when I figure it out, she kisses me and says, “See, it’s not so hard.” My mind spirals into images of her until a voice interrupts.

“Attention, please. May I have your attention, please.”

It’s Berning—he’s caught me spacing out. But the voice comes through the loudspeaker above the whiteboard. Berning rolls his eyes and caps his marker. He crosses his massive arms and stares out the window at the changing trees.

“Pardon me for interrupting class time with this important announcement.”

It’s the principal. Dr. Jackson. She almost never speaks to the school over the PA unless it’s something serious. Usually the assistant principal, Dr. Whitley, makes the everyday, mundane announcements in his soft, Kentucky accent.

So why is Jackson on the PA today?

“As you all know, our school community and the community of Bentley have suffered a horrible tragedy—the disappearance of Chloe Summers.”