“We have our ways,” Student A says slyly. “Wait here.”

He returns seconds later waving red bolt cutters and looking proud of himself. “We mainly use these on the day lockers, but since he’s, you know—”

“Go for it,” I say, and step back.

He obeys, and I yell, “Police business” at a couple open-mouthed jocks who burst unexpectedly into the room. They shuffle out just as I hear the satisfying crunch of Jay’s last hope of privacy. The padlock breaks and falls to the floor.

“Don’t touch it,” I say when Student A bends to pick it up.

He jumps away from the locker like he might incriminate himself just by breathing.

“If you don’t mind,” I say, pulling a pair of gloves from my bag, “hang out by the entrance and let the guys know the locker room’s closed for cleaning.”

He does me one better and pulls a yellow bar out of a supply closet with a chained sign and an empty mop stand to boot. He lingers by the door anyway, casting occasional glances in my direction, but like a good boy, he stays where he’s told.

I prize the door open carefully in case it’s stuffed to the brim and a whole wave of hidden objects come tumbling out. But there are very few things inside. A towel hangs from the top hook—clean, thank god. I can only imagine the stench if it had been molding in there for over half a month. Underneath is a pale blue folder and—I suck in my breath—a small black flip phone.

I press the side button with my finger. Dead. No surprise there. I flip it open. It’s old-school. No touch display. Just buttons and a small square screen. I had one like it in high school. I feel a flicker of anticipation. No apps with disappearing messages on this thing. Just texts and phone calls. I turn to the folder. What could Jay have wanted to hide so badly that he’d stand in this foul-smelling, fluorescent-lit room any longer than absolutely necessary?

I take a breath and open it.

Inside are dozens of folded pieces of paper. Love notes, I think before I flick the first one open.

I blink.

In large black letters, reads one word: Traitor.

Then the next: Traitor, and the next. Traitor. Traitor. Traitor.

All variations of the same message, just different slanting handwriting. And one Judas.

Something cold grips my chest.

They were unanimous, his brothers: Jay was well-liked. The life of the party. Everyone loved him. But a month before he died, he purchased a rental locker and hid these notes and a second cell phone. Why? What changed?

“Closed for cleaning,” I hear Student A say.

“No problem. I’ll grab my—”

I recognize the voice before the person rounds the corner, and shove both phone and folder into my bag.