Crackenback begins, Mrs. Mac standing nearby, her eyes moist and glittering behind her glasses. Crackenback delivers a brief, no-frills summary of what we all know about Ivy—presumed drowned, police searching the salt marsh—then pauses a moment, as if, somewhere inside that dry husk, a tear has formed. None of us blinks; we’re riveted by him, a museum exhibit in tweed and a red carnation, giving this single drop of precious, genuine emotion time to evaporate before saying, “If you’d like to share your thoughts and prayers with Ivy’s family, Mrs. Mac asks that you write them down and hand them on to her, and she’ll see that they get them. The Thayers should be given privacy at this time.”

Soft sounds of muffled crying in the bleachers, echoing up to the rafters, festooned with sports balls forever wedged between the steel beams and the ceiling. “And finally.” Crackenback’s translucent gaze rises to our faces. “The theft and defilement of my antique auto is hardly news to any of you, I’m sure. All I’ll say is this. We’re aware of you pranksters. We’re highly anticipating your next move, because it will be your last as students enrolled at Pender District High. Anyone”—his gaze sweeps across the bleachers—“named in connection with what happened on Prefect Street, or to my car, will face expulsion. No appeals. No second chances.”

I spot Kincaid as we sweep down through the double doors toward the main hallway, the general confusion forming the perfect distraction for his escape. Black coat, light hair, slipping past the office windows—where the secretaries dwell like supreme beings surrounded by frosted glass, Keepers of the Files, their distorted voices filtered through pipes and grates—right out the front doors. I want to stop him, pull him back, make him talk to me. Really talk, not play games and dance around the truth.

“Trace—” But he isn’t beside me anymore, and I start to hurry, cutting between people, trying to catch up to him. I want some affirmation of Kincaid and me, proof that I haven’t lost Bree for nothing. Him passing off my phone feels like a brush-off, like he didn’t want me to trap him in another conversation. If that’s how I make him feel—caged, smothered—then I sure as hell shouldn’t be the last to know.

I’m not totally clear on Trace’s schedule, but he headed in the direction of the art room the last time we used the basement entrance to get back in time for seventh period. The bell hasn’t rung yet—he’s probably in there, killing the last few minutes before the class change to eighth period.