Mr. Thomas, our third-period teacher, shuffles over to answer it. He’s a tubby, balding man with a perpetual mustard stain on his shirt. He exchanges hushed words with someone in the hallway before turning and scanning the room, eyes narrowing as he searches.
When his gaze locks on me, my stomach drops.
Oh god. Please no.
“Lina, you’re needed in the front office.”
A chorus of immature heckling rises from my classmates as I gather my things. I keep my head down. I’m the quiet, nerdy one who never gets in trouble. That should comfort me, but it doesn’t. My hands are sweating so badly, I nearly drop my book.
When I reach the front office, the secretary doesn’t even glance up.
“Head on in,” she instructs, motioning me toward the principal’s office.
I linger in the doorway. Sitting behind his desk is Principal Thompson, lips pressed into a grim line. Across from him, a woman in an ill-fitting suit sits fiddling with her skirt. Two uniformed officers lean silently against the wall. My mouth goes dry.
“Lina,” Principal Thompson says. “Please, have a seat.”
I nod because my voice won’t work, and lower myselfinto the unoccupied leather chair across from him. My purple backpack lands softly at my feet.
The woman swivels toward me and gives a tight, practiced smile.
“I’m Mrs. Smith. I’m a social worker for the district.” Her voice is overly sweet. “Do you know why we’re here?”
It takes a second to find my voice. When I do, it cracks. “No.”
“That’s okay,” she says gently. “Did you happen to see or speak with your mom this morning?”
I frown. “Yes… she texted me while I was on my way to school.” Her silence prompts me to continue. “I didn’t see her, but we exchanged a couple messages.”
“May we see them? It’s important.”
I hesitate. Not because there’s anything incriminating, but because it feels like an invasion of privacy. Still, I pull out my phone, unlock it, and hand it over. Mrs. Smith passes it directly to the older of the two officers without even glancing at the screen.
The younger officer avoids eye contact. The room is too warm. Mrs. Smith’s cloying perfume makes my stomach churn. I shift in the chair, suddenly desperate for air.
“Is everything okay?” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
No one answers.
“When did you last see or hear from your dad?” the older officer asks.
“Stepdad,” I correct instantly. Joe doesn’t get to be called dad.
I think back to last night. The yelling, the sounds of fists on doors. “Late last night. My mom and Joe were… talking.”
“Arguing?” he presses.
“Not really,” I hedge. “It sounded… tense.”
I shrug, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything. I won’t completely lie, but I’m also not going to give Joe ammunition to beat the shit out of me later.
The second officer gives Mrs. Smith a subtle nod. She leans in and reaches for my hand. I shudder, startled by the contact, but she doesn’t let go. She keeps me tightly trapped in her red manicured grip. Her voice drops to a soft murmur.
“Sweetie, I don’t know how to tell you this… but your mom was found dead this morning. She’d been shot multiple times.”
The world stops. My heartbeat thunders in my ears. My vision tunnels. The room tilts. Words keep coming, but I can’t make them out. All I can hear is a low, roaring hum in my head.
Dead?
