Nausea rises in my stomach.You’re a true saint, Neil.I scroll further, finding, to no surprise whatsoever, that Sage has chimed in.
SAGEWHEELER:Ortega never should’ve let those monsters back in the school after what they did to my cousin
THEREALDEALNEIL:everyone was better off with them locked away in their castle on a hill
TELLISON:my grandparents were right about those weirdos
But after the back and forth, everyone echoing the exact same unfounded sentiment, there’s a comment that stops me in my tracks. A strangelyspecificcomment.
SPIKEATTACK77:I saw one of them walking off intothe woods with Kennedy, yesterday during the fire drill.
TELLISON:seriously? I knew it
SAGEWHEELER:@spikeattack77 you have to tell the cops
SPIKEATTACK77:I did
SAGEWHEELER:which one was it?
SPIKEATTACK77:not sure but his hoodie had an A on it
I huff under my breath and click onspikeattack77’sprofile, just so I can call this jerk out the next time I see him. The hoodie is the kind of detail anyone could easily make up. There’s no proof.
I soon discover that the account belongs to Kacey Ross, a volleyball player—not a dude named Spike—and someone I’d always thought of as a nice person. Guess I misjudged her; she’s just like every other hateful gossip in town. I close the app without reading another word and head to the shower.
***
Once I enter the school, I immediately see why the police chose it as their interrogation center. They’ve rounded up more students than would fit in the cardboard box–sized station over in Central Springs. Roughly ten kids sit slumped on the hallway floor outside the office, backs against the wall, awaiting their turn.
There’s no sign of the Abbotts, but I spot Sage near the front of the line. Avoiding eye contact, I take a seat at the back.
My hands are fidgety, so I pull out my phone to play a game.Only I have no attention span for it and lose in the first few seconds. Not knowing if the boys have already gone through this is making me anxious. I keep checking my text messages, though I would’ve heard the ding if Henry or Bram had texted me back. After twenty minutes or so, I text Dad to tell him about the wait and that he might as well head to work.
At some point I hear my name and start to get to my feet, thinking it must be my turn with the cops. Only when I look up, it’s Sage standing over me, apparently having finished her interview. I keep my lips pressed flat, my eyes disinterested. I refuse to talk to someone who’s been spouting off inflammatory rumors that could wreck the lives of real human beings. Human beings I care for deeply.
“You need to wake up, Hayden,” she spits with enough venom that I flinch. “Yourfriendsare murderers. And if you’re not careful, you could be next.”
She spins on her heels, and I’m too stunned to speak until she’s way down the hall. My heart is thumping so loudly that I barely hear the man calling the next person in line—me—into the office.
I get up, still seething. When the man says hello and offers his hand, I merely grunt. “I’m Detective Chase,” he tries again, looking more amused than offended. He’s about fifty, with wrinkles around his green eyes and salt-and-pepper hair, and my only thought is that he’s in good shape for an old guy. Immediately, I note his title: notOfficer—and he’s definitely not the friendly man who gave our second-grade tour—butDetective. “And this is my colleague, Detective Wilson.” He gestures to a woman in her thirties, hair slicked back ina low bun. They’re both wearing suits, and since they’ve taken over the principal’s office, they direct me to the chair that usually seats kids who’ve either done something very good or very bad.
Why do I feel like the latter?
“Sorry, I’m Hayden,” I say, settling into the chair. “Phillips.”
“Ah,” Detective Chase says, sharing a look I can’t read with his colleague, “yes, Hayden. How are you this morning?”
“I mean,” I say, my cheeks heating, “okay, I guess. My dad said you needed to speak to me because I was there yesterday, right? In the woods. Except by the time I arrived, there was already a crowd, so I couldn’t really see anything.”
Detective Chase clears his throat. “We’re more interested in the eventsleading upto the discovery of Kennedy Russo’s body.”
At the wordbody, my mind threatens to unravel again. “Of course.”
“Did you happen to see Kennedy earlier that afternoon? Maybe during the fire drill?”
I shake my head. “I was with my class. The last time I saw Kennedy”—alive, I keep to myself—“was at lunch.”
“And how did she seem?” Detective Chase asks, taking the principal’s seat behind the desk.
