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Page 12


  I sur­ve­yed the small of­fi­ce. It had chan­ged dras­ti­cal­ly sin­ce I'd last be­en in a few we­eks ago. The wall-to-wall bo­oks­hel­ves we­re now fil­led with aca­de­mic but ge­ne­ric-lo­oking hard­co­vers, all bo­und in ne­ut­ral co­lors with gold let­te­ring. Dr. Hend­rick­son had used the shel­ves to disp­lay fa­mily pic­tu­res, but the­re we­re no snaps­hots of Miss Gre­ene's pri­va­te li­fe. The sa­me fern hung by the win­dow, but un­der Dr. Hend­rick­son's ca­re, it had be­en far mo­re brown than gre­en. A few days with Miss Gre­ene and al­re­ady it lo­oked pert and ali­ve. The­re was a pink pa­is­ley cha­ir op­po­si­te the desk, and se­ve­ral mo­ving bo­xes stac­ked in the far cor­ner.

  "Fri­day was my first day," she exp­la­ined, se­e­ing my eyes fall on the mo­ving bo­xes. "I'm still un­pac­king. Ha­ve a se­at."

  I lo­we­red my back­pack down my arm and sat on the pa­is­ley cha­ir. Not­hing in the small ro­om ga­ve me any clu­es as to Miss Gre­ene's per­so­na­lity. She had a stack of fi­le fol­ders on her desk- not ne­at, but not messy, eit­her-and a whi­te mug of what lo­oked li­ke tea. The­re wasn't a tra­ce of per­fu­me or air fres­he­ner. Her com­pu­ter mo­ni­tor was black.

  Miss Gre­ene cro­uc­hed in front of a fi­le ca­bi­net be­hind her desk, tug­ged out a cle­an ma­ni­la fol­der, and prin­ted my na­me on the tab in black Ma­gic Mar­ker. She pla­ced it on her desk next to my old fi­le, which bo­re a few of Dr. Hend­rick­son's cof­fee-mug sta­ins.

  "I spent the who­le we­ekend go­ing thro­ugh Dr. Hend­rick­son's fi­les," she sa­id. "Just bet­we­en the two of us, his handw­ri­ting gi­ves me a mig­ra­ine, so I'm cop­ying over all the fi­les. I was ama­zed to find he didn't use a com­pu­ter to type his no­tes. Who still uses long­hand in this day and age?"

  She set­tled back in­to her swi­vel cha­ir, cros­sed her legs, and smi­led po­li­tely at me. "Well. Why don't you tell me a lit­tle bit abo­ut the his­tory of yo­ur me­etings with Dr. Hend­rick­son? I co­uld ba­rely de­cip­her his no­tes. It ap­pe­ared the two of you we­re dis­cus­sing how you fe­el abo­ut yo­ur mom's new job."

  "It's not all that new. She's be­en wor­king for a ye­ar."

  "She used to be a stay-at-ho­me mom, cor­rect? And af­ter yo­ur dad's pas­sing, she to­ok on a full-ti­me job." She squ­in­ted at a she­et of pa­per in my fi­le. "She works for an auc­ti­on com­pany, cor­rect? It lo­oks li­ke she co­or­di­na­tes es­ta­te auc­ti­ons all down the co­ast." She pe­eked at me over her glas­ses. "That must re­qu­ire a lot of ti­me away from ho­me."

  "We wan­ted to stay in our farm­ho­use," I sa­id, my to­ne to­uc­hing on the de­fen­si­ve. "We co­uldn't af­ford the mort­ga­ge if she to­ok a lo­cal job." I hadn't exactly lo­ved my ses­si­ons with Dr. Hend­rick­son, but I fo­und myself re­sen­ting him for re­ti­ring and aban­do­ning me to Miss Gre­ene. I was star­ting to get a fe­el for her, and she se­emed at­ten­ti­ve to de­ta­il. I sen­sed her itc­hing to dig in­to every dark cor­ner of my li­fe.

  "Yes, but you must be very lo­nely all by yo­ur­self at the farm­ho­use."

  "We ha­ve a ho­use­ke­eper who stays with me every af­ter­no­on un­til ni­ne or ten at night."

  "But a ho­use­ke­eper isn't the sa­me thing as a mot­her."

  I eyed the do­or. I didn't even try to be disc­re­et.

  "Do you ha­ve a best fri­end? A boyf­ri­end? So­me­one you can talk to when yo­ur ho­use­ke­eper do­esn't qu­ite… fit the bill?" She dun­ked a tea bag in the mug, then ra­ised it for a sip.

  "I ha­ve a best fri­end." I'd ma­de up my mind to say as lit­tle as pos­sib­le. The less I sa­id, the shor­ter the ap­po­int­ment. The shor­ter the ap­po­int­ment, the so­oner I co­uld vi­sit Vee.

  Her eyeb­rows pe­aked. "Boyf­ri­end?"

  "No."

  "You're an at­trac­ti­ve girl. I ima­gi­ne the­re must be so­me in­te­rest from the op­po­si­te sex."

  "He­re's the thing," I sa­id as pa­ti­ently as pos­sib­le. "I re­al­ly ap­pre­ci­ate that you're trying to help me, but I had this exact con­ver­sa­ti­on with Dr. Hend­rick­son a ye­ar ago when my dad di­ed. Re­has­hing it with you isn't hel­ping. It's li­ke go­ing back in ti­me and re­li­ving it all over aga­in. Yes, it was tra­gic and hor­rib­le, and I'm still de­aling with it every day, but what I re­al­ly ne­ed is to mo­ve on."

  The clock on the wall tic­ked bet­we­en us.

  "Well," Miss Gre­ene sa­id at last, plas­te­ring on a smi­le. "It's very help­ful to know yo­ur vi­ew­po­int, No­ra. Which is what I was trying to un­ders­tand all along. I'll ma­ke a no­te of yo­ur fe­elings in yo­ur fi­le. Anyt­hing el­se you want to talk abo­ut?"

  "No­pe." I smi­led to con­firm that, re­al­ly, I was do­ing fi­ne.

  She le­afed thro­ugh a few mo­re pa­ges of my fi­le. I had no idea what ob­ser­va­ti­ons Dr. Hend­rick­son had im­mor­ta­li­zed the­re, and I didn't want to wa­it aro­und long eno­ugh to find out.

  I lif­ted my back­pack off the flo­or and sco­oted to the ed­ge of the cha­ir. "I don't me­an to cut things short, but I ne­ed to be so­mew­he­re at fo­ur."

  "Oh?"

  I had no de­si­re to go in­to Vee's at­tack with Miss Gre­ene. "Lib­rary re­se­arch," I li­ed.

  "For which class?"

  I sa­id the first ans­wer that pop­ped to mind. "Bi­ology."

  "Spe­aking of clas­ses, how are yo­urs go­ing? Any con­cerns in that de­part­ment?"

  "No."

  She flip­ped a few mo­re pa­ges in my fi­le. "Excel­lent gra­des," she ob­ser­ved. "It says he­re you're tu­to­ring yo­ur bi­ology part­ner, Patch Cip­ri­ano." She lo­oked up, ap­pa­rently wan­ting my con­fir­ma­ti­on.

  I was surp­ri­sed my tu­to­ring as­sign­ment was im­por­tant eno­ugh to ma­ke it in­to the scho­ol psycho­lo­gist's fi­le. "So far we ha­ven't be­en ab­le to me­et. Conf­lic­ting sche­du­les." I ga­ve a What can you do? shrug.

  She tap­ped my fi­le on her desk, tid­ying all the lo­ose she­ets of pa­per in­to one cle­an stack, then in­ser­ted it in­to the new fi­le she'd hand-la­be­led. "To gi­ve you fa­ir war­ning, I'm go­ing to talk with Mr. McCo­na­ughy and see abo­ut set­ting so­me pa­ra­me­ters for yo­ur tu­to­ring ses­si­ons. I'd li­ke all me­etings to be held he­re at scho­ol, un­der the di­rect su­per­vi­si­on of a te­ac­her or ot­her fa­culty mem­ber. I don't want you tu­to­ring Patch off scho­ol pro­perty. I es­pe­ci­al­ly don't want the two of you me­eting alo­ne."

  A chill tip­to­ed along my skin. "Why? What's go­ing on?"

  "I can't dis­cuss it."

  The only re­ason I co­uld think why she didn't want me alo­ne with Patch was that he was dan­ge­ro­us. My past might frigh­ten you, he'd sa­id on the lo­ading plat­form of the Arc­han­gel.

  "Thanks for yo­ur ti­me. I won't ke­ep you any lon­ger," Miss Gre­ene sa­id. She stro­de to the do­or, prop­ping it open with her slen­der hip. She ga­ve a par­ting smi­le, but it lo­oked per­func­tory.

  After le­aving Miss Gre­ene's of­fi­ce, I cal­led the hos­pi­tal. Vee's sur­gery was over, but she was still in the re­co­very ro­om and co­uldn't ha­ve vi­si­tors un­til se­ven p.m. I con­sul­ted the clock on my pho­ne. Three ho­urs. I fo­und the Fi­at in the stu­dent par­king lot and drop­ped in­si­de, ho­ping an af­ter­no­on spent do­ing ho­me­work at the lib­rary wo­uld ke­ep my mind off the long wa­it.

  I sta­yed at the lib­rary thro­ugh the af­ter­no­on, and be­fo­re I re­ali­zed it, the clock on the wall had pas­sed qu­i­etly in­to eve­ning. My sto­mach rumb­led aga­inst the qu­i­et of the lib­rary, and my tho­ughts went to the ven­ding mac­hi­ne just in­si­de the ent­ran­ce.

  The last of my ho­me­work co­uld wa­it un­til la­ter, but the­re was still one pro­j­ect that re­qu­ired the help of lib­rary
re­so­ur­ces. I had a vin­ta­ge IBM com­pu­ter at ho­me with di­al-up In­ter­net ser­vi­ce, and I typi­cal­ly tri­ed to sa­ve myself a lot of un­ne­ces­sary sho­uting and ha­ir pul­ling by using the lib­rary's com­pu­ter lab. I had a the­ater re­vi­ew of Ot­hel­lo due on the eZi­ne edi­tor's desk by ni­ne p.m., and I ma­de a de­al with myself, pro­mi­sing I'd go hunt down fo­od as so­on as I fi­nis­hed it.

  Pac­king up my be­lon­gings, I wal­ked to the ele­va­tors. In­si­de the ca­ge I pus­hed the but­ton to clo­se the do­ors, but didn't im­me­di­ately re­qu­est a flo­or. I pul­led out my cell and cal­led the hos­pi­tal aga­in.

  "Hi," I told the ans­we­ring nur­se. "My fri­end is re­co­ve­ring from sur­gery, and when I chec­ked in ear­li­er this af­ter­no­on, I was told she'd be out to­night. Her na­me is Vee Sky."

  The­re was a pa­use and the clic­king of com­pu­ter keys. "Lo­oks li­ke they'll be brin­ging her to a pri­va­te ro­om wit­hin the ho­ur."

  'What ti­me do vi­si­ting ho­urs end?"

  "Eight."

  "Thank you." I dis­con­nec­ted and pres­sed the third-flo­or but­ton, sen­ding me up.

  On the third flo­or I fol­lo­wed signs to col­lec­ti­ons, ho­ping that if I re­ad se­ve­ral the­ater re­vi­ews in the lo­cal news­pa­per, it wo­uld spark my mu­se.

  "Excu­se me," I sa­id to the lib­ra­ri­an be­hind the col­lec­ti­ons desk. "I'm trying to find co­pi­es of the Port­land Press He­rald from the past ye­ar. Par­ti­cu­larly the the­ater gu­ide."

  "We don't ke­ep anyt­hing that cur­rent in col­lec­ti­ons," she sa­id, "but if you lo­ok on­li­ne, I be­li­eve the Port­land Press He­rald ke­eps arc­hi­ves on the­ir web­si­te. He­ad stra­ight down the hal­lway be­hind you and you'll see the me­dia lab on yo­ur left."

  Insi­de the lab I sig­ned on­to a com­pu­ter. I was abo­ut to di­ve in­to my as­sign­ment when an idea struck me. I co­uldn't be­li­eve I hadn't tho­ught of it ear­li­er. Af­ter con­fir­ming no one was watc­hing over my sho­ul­der, I Go­og­led "Patch Cip­ri­ano." May­be I'd find an ar­tic­le that wo­uld shed light on his past. Or may­be he kept a blog.

  I frow­ned at the se­arch re­sults. Not­hing. No Fa­ce­bo­ok, no MySpa­ce, no blog. It was li­ke he didn't exist.

  "What's yo­ur story, Patch?" I mur­mu­red. "Who are you- re­al­ly?"

  Half an ho­ur la­ter, I'd re­ad se­ve­ral re­vi­ews and my eyes we­re gla­zing over. I spre­ad my on­li­ne se­arch to all news­pa­pers in Ma­ine. A link to King­horn Prep's scho­ol pa­per pop­ped up. A few se­conds pas­sed be­fo­re I pla­ced the fa­mi­li­ar na­me. El­li­ot had trans­fer­red from King­horn Prep. On a whim, I de­ci­ded to check it out. If the scho­ol was as eli­te as El­li­ot cla­imed, it pro­bably had a res­pec­tab­le pa­per.

  I clic­ked on the link, scrol­led over the arc­hi­ves pa­ge, and ran­domly cho­se March 21 of ear­li­er this ye­ar. A mo­ment la­ter I had a he­ad­li­ne.

  STUDENT QUESTIONED IN KINGHORN PREP MURDER

  I sco­oted my cha­ir clo­ser, lu­red by the idea of re­ading so­met­hing mo­re ex­ci­ting than the­ater re­vi­ews.

  A six­te­en-ye­ar-old King­horn Pre­pa­ra­tory stu­dent who po­li­ce we­re qu­es­ti­oning in what has be­en dub­bed "The King­horn Han­ging" has be­en re­le­ased wit­ho­ut char­ge. Af­ter eigh­te­en-ye­ar-old Kj­irs­ten Hal­ver­son's body was fo­und han­ging from a tree on the wo­oded cam­pus of King­horn Prep, po­li­ce qu­es­ti­oned sop­ho­mo­re El­li­ot Sa­un­ders, who was se­en with the vic­tim on the night of her de­ath.

  My mind was slow to pro­cess the in­for­ma­ti­on. El­li­ot was qu­es­ti­oned as part of a mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on?

  Hal­ver­son wor­ked as a wa­it­ress at Blind Joe's. Po­li­ce con­firm that Hal­ver­son and Sa­un­ders we­re se­en wal­king the cam­pus to­get­her la­te Sa­tur­day night. Hal­ver­son's body was dis­co­ve­red Sun­day mor­ning, and Sa­un­ders was re­le­ased Mon­day af­ter­no­on af­ter a su­ici­de no­te was dis­co­ve­red in Hal­ver­son's apart­ment.

  "Find anyt­hing in­te­res­ting?"

  I jum­ped at the so­und of El­li­ot's vo­ice be­hind me. I whir­led aro­und to find him le­aning aga­inst the do­orj­amb. His eyes we­re nar­ro­wed ever so slightly, his mo­uth set in a li­ne. So­met­hing cold flus­hed thro­ugh me, li­ke a blush, only op­po­si­te.

  I whe­eled my cha­ir slightly to the right, trying to po­si­ti­on myself in front of the com­pu­ter's mo­ni­tor. "I'm-I'm just fi­nis­hing up ho­me­work. How abo­ut you? What are you do­ing? I didn't he­ar you co­me in. How long ha­ve you be­en stan­ding the­re?" My pitch was all over the pla­ce.

  Elli­ot pus­hed away from the do­orj­amb and wal­ked in­si­de the lab. I gro­ped blindly be­hind me for the mo­ni­tor's on/off but­ton.

  I sa­id, "I'm at­temp­ting to jump-start my ins­pi­ra­ti­on on a the­ater re­vi­ew I'm sup­po­sed to ha­ve to my edi­tor by la­ter to­night." I was still spe­aking much too fast. Whe­re was the but­ton?

  Elli­ot pe­ered aro­und me. "The­ater re­vi­ews?"

  My fin­gers brus­hed a but­ton, and I he­ard the mo­ni­tor dra­in to black. "I'm sorry, what did you say you're do­ing he­re?"

  "I was wal­king by when I saw you. So­met­hing wrong? You se­em… jumpy."

  "Uh-low blo­od su­gar." I swept my pa­pers and bo­oks in­to a pi­le and sho­ehor­ned them in­si­de my back­pack. "I ha­ven't eaten sin­ce lunch."

  Elli­ot ho­oked a ne­arby cha­ir and whe­eled it next to mi­ne. He sat back­ward on it and le­aned clo­se, in­va­ding my per­so­nal spa­ce. "May­be I can help with the re­vi­ew."

  I le­aned away. "Wow, that's re­al­ly ni­ce of you, but I'm go­ing to call it qu­its for now. I ne­ed to grab so­met­hing to eat. It's a go­od ti­me to bre­ak."

  "Let me buy you din­ner," he sa­id. "Isn't the­re a di­ner just aro­und the cor­ner?"

  "Thanks, but my mom will be ex­pec­ting me. She's be­en out of town all we­ek and gets back to­night." I sto­od and tri­ed to step aro­und him. He held his cell pho­ne out, and it ca­ught me in the na­vel.

  "Call her."

  I lo­we­red my ga­ze to the pho­ne and scramb­led for an ex­cu­se. "I'm not al­lo­wed to 20 out on scho­ol nights."

  "It's cal­led lying, No­ra. Tell her ho­me­work is ta­king lon­ger than you ex­pec­ted. Tell her you ne­ed anot­her ho­ur at the lib­rary. She's not go­ing to know the dif­fe­ren­ce."

  Elli­ot's vo­ice had ta­ken on an ed­ge I'd ne­ver he­ard be­fo­re. His blue eyes snap­ped with a new­fo­und cold­ness, his mo­uth lo­oked thin­ner.

  "My mom do­esn't li­ke me go­ing out with guys she hasn't met," I sa­id.

  Elli­ot smi­led, but the­re was no warmth. "We both know you're not too con­cer­ned with yo­ur mom's ru­les, sin­ce Sa­tur­day night you we­re with me at Delp­hic."

  I had my back­pack slung over one sho­ul­der, and I was clutc­hing the strap. I didn't say anyt­hing. I brus­hed past El­li­ot and wal­ked out of the lab in a hurry, re­ali­zing that if he tur­ned the mo­ni­tor on, he'd see the ar­tic­le. But the­re wasn't anyt­hing I co­uld do now.

  Half­way to the col­lec­ti­ons desk, I da­red a glan­ce over my sho­ul­der. The pla­te-glass walls sho­wed that the lab was empty. El­li­ot was now­he­re to be se­en. I ret­ra­ced my steps to the com­pu­ter, ke­eping my eyes on gu­ard in ca­se he re­ap­pe­ared. I tur­ned on the mo­ni­tor; the mur­der in­ves­ti­ga­ti­on ar­tic­le was still up. Sen­ding a copy to the ne­arest prin­ter, I tuc­ked it in­si­de my bin­der, log­ged off, and hur­ri­ed out.

  CHAPTER 12

  MY CELL PHO­NE BUZ­ZED IN MY POC­KET, AND af­ter con­fir­ming I wasn't be­ing evil-eyed by a lib­ra­ri­an, I ans­we­red. "Mom?" "Go­od news," she sa­id. "The auc­ti­on wrap­p
ed up early. I got on the ro­ad an ho­ur ahe­ad of sche­du­le and sho­uld be ho­me so­on. Whe­re are you?"

  "Hi! I wasn't ex­pec­ting you un­til la­ter. I'm just le­aving the lib­rary. How was ups­ta­te New York?"

  "Upsta­te New York was… long." She la­ug­hed, but she so­un­ded dra­ined. "I can't wa­it to see you."

  I lo­oked aro­und for a clock. I wan­ted to stop by the hos­pi­tal and see Vee be­fo­re he­ading ho­me.

  "He­re's the de­al," I told my mom. "I ne­ed to vi­sit Vee. I might be a few mi­nu­tes la­te. I'll hur­ry-I pro­mi­se."

  "Of co­ur­se." I de­tec­ted the ti­ni­est di­sap­po­int­ment. "Any up­da­tes? I got yo­ur mes­sa­ge this mor­ning abo­ut her sur­gery."

  "Sur­gery is over. They're ta­king her to a pri­va­te ro­om any mi­nu­te now."

  "No­ra." I he­ard the swell of emo­ti­on in her vo­ice. "I'm so glad it wasn't you. I co­uldn't li­ve with myself if anyt­hing hap­pe­ned to you. Es­pe­ci­al­ly sin­ce yo­ur dad-" She bro­ke off. "I'm just glad we're both sa­fe. Say hi to Vee for me. See you so­on. Hugs and kis­ses."

  "Lo­ve you, Mom."

  Cold­wa­ter's Re­gi­onal Me­di­cal Cen­ter is a three-story redb­rick struc­tu­re with a co­ve­red walk­way le­ading up to the ma­in ent­ran­ce. I pas­sed thro­ugh the re­vol­ving glass do­ors and stop­ped at the ma­in desk to in­qu­ire abo­ut Vee. I was told she'd be­en mo­ved to a ro­om half an ho­ur ago, and that vi­si­ting ho­urs en­ded in fif­te­en mi­nu­tes. I lo­ca­ted the ele­va­tors and punc­hed the but­ton to send me up a flo­or.

  At ro­om 207 I pus­hed on the do­or. "Vee?" I co­axed a bo­uqu­et of bal­lo­ons in­si­de be­hind me, cros­sed the small fo­yer, and fo­und Vee rec­li­ning in bed, her left arm in a cast and slung ac­ross her body.

  "Hi!" I sa­id when I saw she was awa­ke.