Holly’s eyes meet Julia’s for a second, but whatever she sees warns her or satisfies her, or both. Becca glances up and starts to ask something, but Selena touches her arm and they go back to the iPod. Some game is sending little orange darts zipping across the screen; white balloons explode in slow motion, silent fragments fluttering down. Julia sits in the weeds and watches Finn walk away.

Chapter 21

Chapter 21

We didn’t talk about Holly, me and Conway. We held her name between us like nitroglycerine and didn’t look at each other, while we did what needed doing: handed Alison over to Miss Arnold, told her to hang on to the kid overnight. Asked her for the key to the lost-and-found bin, and the story on how long things stayed in there before they got dumped. Low-value stuff went to charity at the end of each term, but pricey things – MP3 players, phones – they got left indefinitely.

The school building was dim-lit for nighttime. ‘What?’ Conway demanded, when the crack of a stair made me shy sideways.

‘Nothing.’ When that wasn’t enough: ‘A bit jumpy.’

‘Why?’

No way was I going to say Frank Mackey. ‘That light-bulb was a bit freaky. Is all.’

‘It wasn’t fucking freaky. The wiring in this place is a hundred years old; shit must blow up all the time. What’s freaky about that?’

‘Nothing. The timing, just.’

‘The timing was there’d been people in that common room all evening. The motion sensor’s been working overtime, something overheated and the bulb blew. End of fucking story.’

I wasn’t going to fight her on it, not when I agreed with her and she probably knew it. ‘Yeah. I’d say you’re right.’

‘Yeah. I am.’

Even arguing, we were keeping our voices down – the place made you feel like someone could be listening, getting ready to jump out at you. Every sound we made flitted away up the great curve of the stairwell, settled to rest in the shadows somewhere high above us. Above the front door the fanlight glowed blue, delicate as wing-bones.

The bin was black metal, old, off in a corner of the foyer. I fitted the key – quietly as I could, feeling like a kid slipping through forbidden places, springy with adrenaline – and swung open the panel at the bottom. Things came tumbling out at me: a cardigan smelling of stale perfume, a plush cat, a paperback, a sandal, a protractor.

The pearly pink flip-phone was at the bottom. We’d walked past it on our way into the school, that morning.

I put on my gloves, eased it out between two fingertips like we might get prints. We wouldn’t. Not off the outside, not off the inside of the cover, not off the battery or the SIM card. Everything would be shiny clean.

‘Great,’ Conway said, grim. ‘A cop’s kid. Beautiful.’