I was right. My heart is hammering, and I know I should call Teddy, but I can’t. I can’t wait for his reluctant voice, Truman’s inevitable lecture, and risk being sent home without seeing what’s inside Jay’s locker. And it may be nothing more than a shampoo bottle and a pair of dirty gym shorts. But that same voice from the day of the hit-and-run is yelling: It’s mine. I found it. The only-child selfishness rearing its ugly head.

“Perfect,” I say, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. “I need you to take me to locker fifty-four.”

“In the men’s—”

“In the men’s locker room.”

He looks more unsure now than ever.

“You can ask the guys to clear out if you want, but I don’t care either way.”

“Hey,” he says, staring at the list. “The locker belongs to Jay Kemp. Isn’t that the guy who—”

“Yep,” I say, breaking him off and casting a long and obvious look at the students filtering in and out of the lobby.

“Oh, right,” he whispers. “Keep it on the low.”

“Exactly,” I hum back, and wave him on.

The locker room smells like Jay’s bedroom, only more concentrated and lined with some kind of citrus disinfectant. Next to the door is a gray bin full of wet towels. Above it, someone’s graffitied SEND THE RICH MY BEST in Sharpie on the wall. I hear sounds of running water and singing and a couple of guys discussing the latest football game and some player named Swift.

“Lady in the locker room,” Student A yells as we enter. My eyebrows shoot up, and he flushes right to his hairline. “I mean, woman in the locker room?”

“Vagina in the locker room? I don’t care,” I say. “Whatever gets the message across.”

“Really?” he asks, not sure whether to grin or look away.

“No.” I march past him. “Police,” I yell. “Everyone out.”

There’s a startled pause in the conversation and then the sound of lockers slamming, and a handful of guys jog past me—one still holding a towel around his waist.

Student A looks impressed. He must not get out much. Cindy—to this day—still loves to yell “Police!” anytime Teddy and I arrive at a bar or a house party and watch everyone scramble a minute or two before they realize it’s just us. I even ducked once when she did it for Oliver—that flight response long ingrained from my high school years.

“Where’s fifty-four?”

“Here.” He points to a top locker halfway down the row lining the back of the sinks. Other than a dent in one corner, fifty-four is nondescript, the same as all the others, just with a shiny blue padlock.

“Shit,” I say, pulling on the lock. “There’s not a master list of combinations or something?” I ask doubtfully.