by Sarah Gailey
“Hm?”
“Mrs. Webb, your secretary,” I said. “I just noticed that her voice is kind of…?”
“Oh,” Torres said with a grimace. “No, she’s not ill. She used a spell to alert the school of an emergency, when she found the body in the library. That spell is…” She paused. “It’s fallen out of favor. The impact it has on the caster’s body is significant.”
“And permanent?” I asked.
“Yes and no,” she said. “For many people, it is. But Mrs. Webb is working on it. She already sounds much better than she did in November. In a few more months, she’ll probably sound normal again.” She stooped to pick up a crumpled ball of notebook paper, then tossed it into a big gray trash can that stood watch over the hallway. It looked like every trash can I’d ever tipped over at Andrew Jackson Memorial during my reign of apathy.
The trash cans weren’t the only thing about Osthorne that were familiar: it all felt like a place I’d seen a thousand times before. There were the scuffed gray linoleum floors lined with lockers, and the walls were frosted with paint that went on fresh every other summer. “Assthorne Asscademy” was scratched into several surfaces with what I’d bet was ballpoint pen. Bulletin boards hung thick with notices—auditions for The Tempest, lacrosse tryouts rescheduled due to weather, take-a-number to call Brea Teymourni for tutoring in math/economics/magic theory, lost my phone $50 reward call Arthur PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.
There it was again. That feeling like maybe, in another life, I could have fit in here. I could have auditioned for The Tempest. I could have tried out for lacrosse. It was a feeling like nostalgia, but for something I’d never done. Something I’d never had.
“Ms. Gamble?” I looked up. Torres was halfway down the hall in front of me, waiting. Her face was set to “patient,” but something in her posture made me hurry to catch up.
Classes were in session, and I swiveled my head like a small-town tourist in the big city for the first time. I don’t know what I expected to see—mostly, I was shocked by how familiar it all seemed. How recent. The sights of posters hanging on classroom walls took me back to my own note-passing, sneaking-chips-in-my-backpack days. Most of the classrooms featured wide windows into the hallway, the glass crisscrossed with wire, and I peeked in at each one to look at the students doodling in their margins. I lingered just long enough to be seen: let the students wonder who the visitor was, let them whisper at lunch, let the word spread that someone was asking questions about the murder. I had never investigated a murder before, but this part was no different from any other case—let people know that there are questions being asked, and they’ll line up to give you their version of answers.
“They look so young,” I murmured, staring in at a classroom full of baby-faced teenagers hunched over tests. The sea of dark-blue blazers and starched white dress shirts was broken up by crests of brightly dyed hair and islands of eyeliner. The kids were filling in Scantron bubbles with number-two pencils and flipping back and forth between the pages of a packet.
“Freshmen,” Torres intoned with crisp amusement in her voice. “They’re always younger than you remember. It’s easy to forget that fourteen is so close to twelve, isn’t it?”
I fell into step next to Torres for a few paces, but stopped short before we rounded the corner. I was frozen in place, hypnotized by the lurid orange graffiti that sprawled across a row of sky-blue lockers: SAMANTHA IS A SLUT. The letters didn’t look sprayed on—someone had been at this with a fine brush and a steady hand.
Torres paused next to me, regarding the graffiti. “It’s more ordinary here than you expected.”
It wasn’t a question, but it hung in the air between us all the same. “I’m not sure. I guess I thought there would be more … I don’t know. I thought it would be different.”
“More cobblestones and gabled windows and moving stairways?” Torres’s laugh said she had caught my embarrassed grimace. “I know. I get it. But at the end of the day, we’re just a high school, Ms. Gamble. We’re a very nice high school”—she gestured out a nearby window to the velvety green of the grounds—“but we’re still a high school. That means gum, graffiti, cell phones, sex-ed, stupid pranks, students smoking weed behind the bleachers.” She tipped me a wink. “If it makes you feel any better, here, I’ll show you something magical.” She pulled an impressive folding knife from the pocket of her jeans. “I confiscated this from a student earlier today. It’s not the magical thing, it’s just a knife. But watch this.”
Torres flicked it open—the blade was long, with a wicked curve at the tip. She dragged it across poor Samantha’s name. Paint peeled from the locker in little blue curls. Torres flicked the knife closed. I ran my fingers across the locker—I could feel the groove in the blue paint, but the screaming orange letters remained unscathed.
My jaw clenched. “How?”
“I’m not sure. Our graffiti artist used a spell that I’ve never encountered before. It’s probably something they came up with themselves. Our groundskeeper—Francis Snead,” she added as I took out my notebook. “He’s tried a hundred different ways to remove it or paint over it, but nothing’s worked so far. He’s been working with the head of the Physical Magic department for weeks now.”
“Can I talk to him? Snead?”
“Of course,” she said. “He’s the one who’ll set you up in staff housing.”
I blinked at her. “In what?”
The headmaster cocked her head at me as though I were posing a riddle. “Staff housing. We have a small apartment available for you to stay in while you’re here. Unless you wanted to make the drive down from Oakland every day…?”
It made perfect sense; there was no reason to say no. I aimed those thoughts at the twist in my gut, willing it to listen to logic: there was no reason not to stay here. Just for a little while. Just for the case.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thanks, yes. I really appreciate that.”
“Ivy—I can call you Ivy, right? I want you to have unfettered access to whatever you need.” A tendon stood out in her neck as she spoke in a low, urgent voice. “Nowhere on this campus is off-limits to you, so long as you don’t endanger any students. Talk to whomever you want to talk to. Talk to students, teachers, staff—I don’t care.” Torres’s eyes shone hard and bright as she stared at me like I had the answers. She took a long, deep breath and let it out slow. “I have a responsibility here, to make sure that things get set right. The investigators who said that this was a suicide—they let Sylvia down. Do you understand? One of my staff members died on my watch, and those investigators barely lifted a finger to get her justice.”
“I’ll do my best,” I said, and I tried to make her hear the thing I couldn’t say because it’s the kind of thing you just can’t say: I can’t bring her back. I failed, though. I could see it in her face: she thought I was nervous, thought I was uncertain. But she didn’t understand yet that I couldn’t give her the thing she really wanted. I can never give any of them what they really want: I can’t fix a marriage, and I can’t undo a lie, and I can’t raise the dead.
And I can never tell them, because they think they just want answers.
“Yes, you will,” Torres said. “You will do better than they did.” She took another deep breath, and this time I counted—five seconds in, eight seconds out. It was a familiar exercise. I took a mental note: Torres had been through anger management. “Anyway, yes, you can talk to our groundskeeper after he gives you the key to your apartment. And you should also talk to the head of the Physical Magic department. His name is Rahul Chaudhary. I’m sure he’ll be able to answer any questions you might have about this particular incident.” She waved her hands at the word “SLUT,” which was still glowing radioactive on the lockers.
I ran my fingers over the orange paint again. I had never seen magic done by anyone but my sister. Something in me ached at the knowledge that a child had used their incredible, impossible magic for this: to make sure that after the world had ended, wh
en alien archaeologists were digging up the thing that Earth used to be, they’d know that Samantha had been a slut. It hurt even more than the idea that someone had used their magic to murder Sylvia Capley. The idea of some teenager getting stoned and then etching the word “SLUT” into history—it burned in my throat like a swallowed sword.
Why them? Why do they get the opportunity to waste this?
I let my fingers linger on Samantha’s name a moment too long, and something under my fingers popped, stinging. I snapped my hand away, startled.
“Ah, yes—I should have warned you about that,” Torres said. “Sorry.”
I stuck my sore finger in my mouth, glaring at Samantha’s name. Samantha, I thought with unexpected venom. Then I realized: that was the whole point. Even if you didn’t think Samantha was a slut, you’d remember that she’d stung you.
CHAPTER
FIVE
THE LIBRARY WAS JUST AS familiar as the halls had been. The checkout counter was unmanned; half of the lights were off, leaving the room lit mostly by morning sun. Tall rows of bookshelves flanked several banks of long, worn study tables. A poster encouraged kids to return overdue books to avoid fines. I was biting down on thickening disappointment—Is this all there is?—when a steel returns cart rolled past me, unattended. As I watched, it bellied up to a shelf, and books began nudging their way back into place between their fellows. I wanted to feel a sense of affection for the cart, or at least a sense of satisfaction at the understated practicality of the magic on display. But it wasn’t enough to cut through the bitter ordinariness of the room.
There were four girls clustered around a study table, bees all trying to nose into the same flower. At the sound of Torres’s voice, all four of them sat back in their chairs. The cell phone they’d been looking at had vanished, and I couldn’t tell if it was teenage sleight of hand or real magic that had made flash cards appear in front of each of them.
“Hello, ladies,” Torres said, her voice edged with a warning. “What are we studying today?”
“Theoretical Magic, Miss Torres,” answered a girl with a long, rich fall of thick black hair. Her shirt was long-sleeved and high-necked but fit her closely enough that I could see her ribs—she was brittle-thin. Under the table, her feet were tangled with those of the girl sitting across from her. “We’re doing a unit on electrical manipulations.”
“Thank you, Brea. And how is the study session going? Fruitful, I trust?” Torres asked with just the barest brush of sarcasm. A click in my brain: Brea Teymourni, the tutor from the bulletin board. I’ve always had a good memory for names. Someone once told me at a conference that’s all it really takes to be a private detective: a good memory for names and faces, an eyeball for details, and a halfway decent invoicing system.
I looked Brea over, searching for details, and found just enough overachiever signposts to satisfy my assessment of her from the flyer: textbook bristling with sticky-note flags, clear pencil case stuffed with a rainbow of highlighters, nervous twitch under one eye.
“It’s going fine.” This from the girl sitting next to Brea—pale, tall, broad-shouldered. Her brunette hair was held up in a falling-apart bun by a pencil and a paintbrush; her white uniform shirt was baggy and conspicuously paint-stained. Everything about her was screaming artist at top volume. I was flooded with memories of sitting in my bedroom, agonizing over what my fashion choices meant, what people would think when they saw me. It all used to be so important.
More than a hint of sarcasm from Torres now, and all four girls bristled. “Oh, good, Courtney. I’m so glad to hear it. I can expect your grade in the class to improve, then?” The square-jawed Asian girl whose feet were tangled up with Brea’s—no makeup, low ponytail, basketball shorts—glared at Torres with her arms crossed. A half sleeve of ballpoint doodles crawled up her left arm. “And Miranda. Is this a new school uniform I was unaware of, or are you on your way to practice? Last I checked, the basketball team doesn’t meet in the library.”
“Um, excuse me?” This from the fourth girl at the table, a Renoir blonde with skin that told me her parents had money. She didn’t sound affronted so much as politely confused. “Do you mind if we get back to studying? We have a big test on Friday.” She aimed a you-understand-how-it-is smile at Torres, and pushed a wave of silken hair behind one ear. As her eyes flicked between me and Torres, my knees went watery. I felt like I was floating in a sea of everything’s-fine-don’t-worry-it’s-all-under-control. I wanted more than anything to move along.
“Of course,” Torres said, sounding slightly dazed. “Stick to studying while you’re in here, ladies. Keep up the good work.”
Torres turned to leave, and I trailed after her, feeling as though I’d missed something important. I felt the weight of four pairs of eyes as the girls began to whisper to each other. The moment I was out of sight of them, that move-along feeling dissipated. What the hell? I opened my mouth to ask Torres about it, and realized that I didn’t really know what to ask. Was that normal, what just happened? Torres hadn’t seemed to notice it.
The shelves of the library were marked with endcap labels that pointed to either side, Dewey decimal numbers and subject matter. I followed Torres past Math and Mathematical Magics; Economics; Fictional Magic and Applications of Magical Fiction; Electricity, Theoretical Electricity, Electricity Manipulations. She paused at Poisons and Theoretical Poisons. The next row over—Theoretical Magic—was roped off. A sign hung on the rope: NO UNSUPERVISED ENTRY. Behind the rope, the aisle seemed to blur—when I tried to look at it, my eyes crossed, and I could feel the first prickles of a headache creeping into my temples. I looked away just in time to see Torres flick her wrist, pulling a thick file from midair. She handed it to me.
“This is all the information about the case. All the information I have access to, at least. Photos, mostly. And copies of everything the investigators could legally give me.” I flipped the folder open. There was a stack of photos inside. I looked away before I could process what I was seeing, but I had a fleeting impression of blood matting white-blond hair.
“Right. I’ll look over these tonight.” With a drink on hand. “Shall we take a look at the scene?” The scene of the murder, I thought, fighting dizziness. The murder-scene. I’m going to investigate a murder-scene.
A flicker of hesitation. Then Torres unclipped the rope from the end of the shelves. I went to step past her, but she stopped me with a raised hand.
“Hang on. The rope is kind of a formality, and a warning. There’s a ward. You’ll get bounced out if you don’t have a pass.” From the same spot of air from which she’d drawn the file, she produced a lanyard with a laminated tag on the end that read “Theoretical Magic ACCESS.” It was cut crooked along the bottom, like a teacher’s assistant had gone at it with a pair of budget-cut scissors.
I looped the pass around my neck. “Why the ward? Is it dangerous in there?”
Torres rolled her eyes. “Meddlers. Students who think they can find the killer. This section has always been closed off—used to just be a simple no-access ward, to keep kids from getting into magic they weren’t ready for. They couldn’t walk between the shelves without a staff member present, and nobody could remove a book from the aisle, not even staff. If anyone wanted to look in a book, there would be a staff member standing right next to them to make sure they didn’t try anything stupid. But after the murder, I asked Ms. Gamble—er, Tabitha, that is—to ramp things up a bit.” The first mention of my sister. I didn’t let myself blink at it. It’s fine, I’m fine. I don’t care. “Now, you can’t see or hear anything that happens in there, and if you try to get in without a pass and a staff member, you bounce right back out.” She eyed me. “We’ve had more than a few bruised behinds in the front office since we set this up—students who thought they would find hot clues, thought they would solve the murder themselves.”
“Kids here do that?”
“One kid in particular,” Torres replied, looping a second pass around her own n
eck. “Dylan DeCambray. You met him earlier this morning.”
“Tall, brooding, hair that he spent a good few hours messing up?”
“That’s the one,” Torres said. “He was in my office trying yet again to convince me that Dark Forces are at work at Osthorne. Something about a Great Evil that’s Bending the Will of Students.” She spoke with great sweeping flourishes and heightened letters that lit up the absurdity of Dylan’s accusations.
I cleared my throat, fighting the flush that was already rising in my cheeks. “Um … are, are they? At work? Dark forces, I mean?”
Torres laughed. She had a good laugh. “Ms. Gamble. Dark forces are at work everywhere. Turn on the news. But this kid … he wants to find a mystery. A conspiracy. Anything.” She shook her head. “He’s what I would politely call ‘troubled.’ Don’t worry—I’m sure you’ll have a chance to talk to him.”
“I’m sure I will,” I said.
I pulled out my cell phone as soon as I stepped between the shelves, taking pictures of the broad swath of stained carpet that took up the middle third of the aisle. The stain was dark, closer to cocoa than rust; the blood had seeped through the carpet, saturated it. It was a Rorschach test, shaped like a distorted butterfly. The photos I took were for my reference, not for a client’s use in court, so I didn’t need to lug around my fancy, heavy camera with the zoom lens. I just needed to be able to remember later what everything had looked like. I wished, not for the first time, that I could capture the way things were beyond just how they looked—the way things felt. The old-things smell of the library, the tension in the air, the feeling that the books in this row were watching me. I crouched down and touched the edge of the stain with my middle finger.
“You haven’t had this cleaned out?” I said quietly.
“We’re going to have it replaced,” Torres replied, only a bit defensive.
“Sensible,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “No wonder you’re in charge.” Torres softened a bit at that, although her smile said that she knew when she was being buttered up. “Do you mind walking me through what happened? I’m sure it’s all in the file, but it’d help me to hear you tell it.”
