by Micol Ostow
I mean, it was a truly minor infraction, but still. Right now, it was all about keeping an eye on rebellions, no matter how seemingly tiny or innocuous.
“Nancy Drew,” he said with surprise in his voice as I rapped softly on the open door. He hurriedly stuffed his sandwich into a brown paper bag, which he tossed into a desk drawer, all within the blink of an eye. “What can I do for you?” He frowned, confused. “You got an A on that last essay, so I’m thinking it’s not homework help.” He folded his hands on his desk. “Please tell me you’re not here to pick my brain about things you’re not supposed to know about in the first place.”
“Um, well … the good news is, I’m good on Henry James for right now,” I said, though in truth I wouldn’t have minded something a little less conventional on our curriculum. (Feminist fiction was an elective available for seniors, and I seriously couldn’t wait.) “The less-good news … Well, actually, I kind of hope you don’t mind, but I had some questions for you about Caroline Mark.”
He raised an eyebrow at me, but his expression was unreadable. “Nancy,” he started, using the tone that generally told me an adult was about to offer me some low-level scolding. (Sadly, it isn’t too uncommon when you’re known for being a low-level snoop.) “You know it’s not appropriate for me to talk to you about another student if it doesn’t directly concern you. Under any circumstances.”
I sighed, settling into a front-row desk facing him, shaking my hair out of my face so I could look at him directly. “On the one hand: Yes, of course, I know that. And I understand. I’m not surprised that would be your response.”
“I’m really looking forward to the ‘but,’ here,” he said wryly.
“But …” I gave him a small, hopeful smile. “I actually spoke to Caroline about this already. She specifically sent me to you. So … maybe just the one circumstance, in this case?”
He took a deep breath and folded his arms on the desk. “This still smacks of unprofessionalism,” he said, “but I suppose if you’ve already talked to her, there’s no real harm in this conversation. I may as well hear you out.”
It wasn’t a resounding “yes.” But it was good enough to spur me on. “Yesterday,” I said, “in the morning. When Daisy Dewitt’s locker was found vandalized.” I didn’t have to clarify further. It was a small enough school and a big enough shock; anyone who hadn’t actually seen it with their own two eyes had heard about it by now.
Mr. Stephenson made a sympathetic noise. “Yes, I heard.”
Two eyes: check.
“Awful. But what does that have to do with Caroline?”
“Mr. Stephenson,” I said carefully, “the same way we all either saw or heard about Daisy’s locker … everyone in school knows about how Caroline completely freaked out when she didn’t get cast in the reenactment.”
“True enough,” he said. He scratched his chin. I couldn’t help but think it looked like the gesture of someone who was stalling for time.
“In fact, you were the one who came out to comfort her on the quad—correct?” It was a rhetorical question. I remembered it vividly. That kind of demonstration was hard to forget.
Mr. Stephenson knew as much too. “Now, Nancy. If you’re asking that question, I’m certain that you know that I was.”
I shrugged. “Fine. Never mind. The reason I’m here is because, based on her reaction to the casting, Caroline is the student with the most obvious motive for trashing Daisy’s locker.”
“That feels like a stretch,” he replied. “Even if she were unduly upset about the casting—and I can’t say that I’d definitely categorize her reaction as such—”
I shot him a look, which he pointedly ignored.
“Even if she were unduly upset,” he went on, emphasizing the word, “I don’t see why that should translate to terrorizing Daisy in particular. I’ve never seen any specific animosity between those two. Again—not that I should really be discussing any of this with you.”
“No specific animosity, per se,” I agreed. “But Caroline was disappointed, whatever DEFCON level you personally feel comfortable assigning it. And Daisy’s a legacy who got cast in a lead role. Maybe this was about Daisy … but maybe—and in my opinion, more likely—this was about the reenactment in general, and Daisy just happened to make for a very shiny target.”
“I can’t sign off on that theory, Nancy. I’m certain you know that, too.”
He wasn’t going to budge on this, and it wasn’t super surprising. This had essentially become a standoff. But I didn’t actually need his sign-off on my theory. Only his confirmation that Caroline had been where she said she was yesterday.
“Okay. Well, then you know that, of course, I questioned Caroline about the vandalism.”
“It’s definitely not the most shocking thing I’ve heard all day,” he said. “Not that I spend much time speculating about my students and their motives.”
It’s so cute when teachers try to get all clever on you.
“She said she was with you.”
A good detective knows the signs of gifted liar: tiny microexpressions and tells that might be lost on other, more trusting people. A good liar might use excessive superlatives when they talk to you; everything is “amazing” or “brilliant” instead of just plain “good.” A liar might hesitate before telling you “no”; shifting in their seat, coughing, taking a breath before or after answering … all signs of a lie in process. A liar, under questioning, might speak more quickly than usual. He or she might refuse to look you in the eye.
Mr. Stephenson did none of those things. Mind you, I hadn’t asked him a question as such, but it was more than implicit in my comment. He didn’t fidget, or clear his throat, or fiddle with his clothes, or lob a question back in my direction. If anything, he seemed to get even more relaxed in that tiny millisecond of a moment while I waited, silent, giving him the space to compose a response.
“She was,” he said simply.
I nodded, remaining quiet. If a good liar knows not to offer more details than what’s being specifically asked for, then a good investigator has some tricks of her own up her sleeve too. And she knows to give the suspect space—and silence—to fill on their own, in their own time, potentially incriminating themselves.
“She’s head of the Drama Club,” he went on, completely unfazed to my eye. “We meet just the two of us every Tuesday morning for a check-in, since Tuesday after school is when Drama Club meets.”
“Always in the morning?”
“Usually. It’s easier to get it out of the way first thing, touching base. So that we’re caught up before everyone else gets together.”
Touching base. Okay. Plausible enough.
But “plausible” didn’t always mean “true.” Not to mention, if she was so high up in the Drama Club, it was all the more reason that she’d be outraged at not being cast in the reenactment.
“You were … in here?”
He shook his head. “The drama office.”
Not an official office so much as a closet that had been repurposed as home base for productions. It was windowless and dusty and overrun with ancient costumes and yellowing sides from scripts that had accumulated throughout the years. It made total sense that as Drama Club president and Drama Club advisor they’d meet there.
It also made Caroline’s alibi unprovable beyond Stephenson’s confirmation.
Everything came down to whether or not I wanted to believe him.
Fact: I didn’t have much reason not to, other than the nagging, ugly issue of Caroline being the only real suspect in the curse-related stuff, simply by virtue of having a convincing motive when no one else did.
Fact: If Stephenson was a liar, he was a convincing one.
Fact: If he was lying for Caroline—and I didn’t particularly get the impression that he was—what was his motive?
I sighed. There wasn’t one. Nothing obvious that I could see right now, anyway. If the worst thing he’d done was console a disappointed student who w
as in the throes of a very public meltdown, it didn’t exactly scream “character flaw” to me.
He looked at me. “Have I satisfied your curiosity?” Then he wrinkled his brow. “Is there a world in which that would even be possible?”
I had to laugh. “Probably not. But yes. Thank you.” I said it as sincerely as I could. “I appreciate your taking the time.” I stood up.
“Nancy,” he said, giving me pause. “While I think it’s commendable that you’re looking after your friend, I urge you not to jump to conclusions. Caroline is a … passionate student with a lot of energy. But she’s got a good heart. I don’t believe she’d ever lash out at a fellow student the way you’re suggesting.”
I shrugged. “I hope you’re right, Mr. Stephenson,” I said. “I’ve never had any problems with Caroline, myself. But I have learned a few times over now—the hard way, always—that people can sometimes surprise you. And not in a good way.”
And what did it say that her alibi was working so hard to throw me off her trail? Was it possible that was actually more incriminating than if he weren’t?
“So cynical.” He looked slightly concerned.
“Not cynical,” I corrected him, feeling my phone buzz in my pocket. “Just pragmatic. And I’ve gotta say, for the most part, it’s worked out for me.” I pulled out my phone and glanced at the message that had just come in. From Daisy, a group text to Lena and me. Newspaper office. NOW. 911.
Speaking of surprises, probably not of the good variety.
“Thanks. Again.” I barely glanced at Stephenson now, as I shoved my notebook into my bag and gathered myself up. “I have to run.”
“Take care, Nancy,” he called as I raced from the room. But I didn’t have time to reply.
* * *
Daisy wasn’t one to use a “911” lightly. Another light fixture could have full-on exploded, and I wouldn’t have stopped to take the stairs fewer than two by two. I think nothing short of nuclear fallout would have kept me from scrambling into the newspaper room, so that by the time I burst into the space, heart hammering, I was so out of breath that it took me a beat longer than normal to figure out what I was looking at.
When the image did resolve, though, it was a killer.
“What the hell?” I stammered, brushing my hair out of my eyes to step back and fully take in the scene. “What is this? Who did it? ”
The classroom was absolutely trashed. Desks and chairs overturned, angry spray paint dripping down walls, trash bins emptied over the teacher’s desk at the front of the room. Someone had egged the whiteboard, bright, greasy yolks still running in clumpy streaks down the wall in places where they hadn’t quite dried yet.
“What does that … say?” It was Lena, who’d sidled up beside me while I was still gaping, trying to process the chaotic scene.
I turned to see where she was pointing—the back wall of the room. The bulletin board that hung there had been stripped in angry, jagged slashes, ribbons of colorful paper now strewn across the floor. Over the now-blank canvas were words, bright red—the official color of this Naming Day curse, or so it was starting to seem.
LAST WARNING.
The bird.
Daisy’s locker.
The message on my windshield.
Now this.
“What the hell does it mean?” I said, almost as much to myself as anyone else. Nothing good, that much I was sure of.
Daisy looked at us, helpless tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know who did this. Or why. It was … it was like this when I came by. I just … I had to pick something up… .” She trailed off, wordless, still in shock.
“You don’t need to tell us why you were in here,” I said gruffly. “Obviously, we trust you. But—something very, very messed up is happening here, Daisy. Someone is clearly targeting you. We can’t just pretend these incidents are random or unconnected.”
“Even if they were, each one on their own would be seriously bad news,” Lena added.
“Well, yes,” I agreed. “But there’s no way we still think we can take them on their own … is there?” I glanced at both of my friends cautiously. I knew Daisy had been clinging to hope, long past a rational person’s point of no return. But this was … something new. Un-ignorable. This told me just how borderline irresponsible I’d been in giving her the little bit of latitude that I already had.
I hesitated. I ignored my gut.
“Now my friends may be in danger.” I didn’t even realize I’d spoken out loud until I looked up to see both Lena and Daisy, closer now, real fear on both of their faces, a tear running down Daisy’s cheek.
“You agree, right? You’re on the same page with me?” I looked at Daisy, hesitant. Lena glanced my way and nodded, then put a hand on Daisy’s shoulder.
Daisy blinked, wiping at her face. “Of course, Nancy. Of course I agree. I’m just … I’m embarrassed that it even took me this long. I should’ve been on board from the second the bird hit that window. I shouldn’t have asked you to sit on it.”
“You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Lena said, her voice gentler than usual, reassuring. “We get that the festival was a big thing for you.”
She sniffled. “Sure, yeah. A big thing. I get to star in the Naming Day reenactment at long last. How pathetically small-town-girl can you get?”
“It’s not pathetic,” I said, trying to match Lena’s soothing tone with my own.
“It is a little,” she insisted, trying to lighten the moment ever-so-slightly, for which I was grateful.
Lena laughed and nodded, holding two fingers up in that kinda sort of gesture. “Little bit,” she admitted. “But we forgive you. Your small-town charm and whimsy are two of our favorite things about you, after all.”
“Totally forgiven,” I said before turning serious. “With one major caveat: that you’re on board with me going all in on investigating this. And finally getting some authorities involved. This is two incidents of nasty vandalism—and if that whiteboard is permanently damaged, the school board is going to be pissed—and that’s before you even bring in the whole thing with the, um, threatening note tied to a dead bird.”
“Super on board. Completely and totally. Like, I’m actually driving the bus. Except not literally, because I don’t have a commercial license.”
“I like where you’re going with this metaphor,” Lena said. “But please know, we’d never put you in charge of driving a bus. Just the Mini is more than enough responsibility for you.”
“Mean,” Daisy retorted, clearly not bothered—and not arguing, either.
“Ladies, I don’t mean to break up this slumber party moment,” a voice said, startling us all so we collectively jumped, “but I think we’ve officially gone beyond the point of sassy wordplay and into clear-and-present-danger-ville.”
It was Theo, looming in the doorway, slouched just so and surveying the damaged room. His dark hair flopped over his eye, and he brushed it back from his forehead with a defiant tilt of his chin, looking at me with an implied challenge in his eye.
“Actually, fanboy, your timing is excellent,” Lena said. “Because we are all in agreement: It’s time to break out the big guns.”
“Metaphorical guns; I really don’t believe in violence,” I said.
Theo waved his hand. He looked legitimately impatient. “More cutesy wordplay, girls. You don’t seem to get it.”
I rolled my eyes. “We do, though. The classroom was trashed. Next, it could be us.” If I sounded flippant, I felt anything but. “We’re on it. We’re going straight to the principal to bring her into this. We’re going to tell her everything. Everything,” I added, with emphasis. “Including the raven.”
“Forget the principal,” Theo said.
Daisy looked confused. “But you just said—”
“Forget the principal, because she already knows. Well, she knows about some of it.”
“You talked to her?” I asked, surprised. Also a little bit irritated—this was my investigation
, even if it was undercover.
“I had to. I mean, at least broad strokes. I’m sure there are plenty of details for you to fill in.”
“Which broad strokes?” Casual, cavalier Theo going to the principal? Before he’d seen the trashed office?
He waved me off. “The good news is that unlike you three, she is actually truly on it. In that she’s notified the chief, who’s on his way to the school to investigate. There might even be an emergency assembly.” But he didn’t sound as cynically thrilled at those words as I might have expected. For once, Theo seemed truly distressed.
He looked at me. “She called your parents, too. Lawyer, social worker … seemed to think they’d be good types to have on hand in this kind of crisis.”
My parents were coming? They were already in on this?
I glanced at Daisy and could see she was doing the same calculations I was. Her face was white.
“It’s officially a crisis?” I asked, knowing the answer already, as I took in the blaring red graffiti on the whiteboard. “Did you even know about this room? Did you know it had been trashed?” My head was spinning.
He shook his head. “That’s what I’m getting to. It’s so much worse than you even know. Like, this”—he gestured at the ruined space of the classroom—“is not even the tip of the iceberg.”
“First this, then one of us,” I said, my voice hoarse.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re still one step behind, Nancy,” Theo said.
Oh, no. I swallowed. “Who? What happened?”
His face crumpled in a way that made my stomach clench too. “No one knows what happened. That’s why the police chief’s on his way. We need to find her.”
“Find who?” Daisy asked, desperate. “Who’s lost?”
“It’s Melanie,” Theo said grimly. “She’s gone.”
PART TWO THE VANISHING
Some say the town was founded in exchange for a sacrifice, for sacred blood. Only a very few—those who have lived in the town long enough to see through the cracks in the quaint veneer—think the history of Horseshoe Bay’s very discovery is a testament to the poison at the root of our town’s foundation. There are stories of incidents, of tragic events unfolding around Naming Days past.
