I hear Alex say, “How are you holding up?”

I can hear the surprise in Reeve’s voice when he says, “I’m all right.”

“Come on, man. I know how much you cared about her.” Alex pauses. “I’m still pissed at you for going after Lillia—”

“That’s over.”

It hurts to hear him say it, but it’s time.

Then Alex says, “If you ever want to talk—I’m here for you.”

There’s this long beat, and I’m holding my breath, hoping. Hoping that Reeve will let him in. Alex has always known how to talk to Reeve. His opinion is the only one Reeve has ever really cared about besides Rennie’s.

Gruffly Reeve says, “I’m good. But thanks.”

I let out the breath I was holding. Then I hear Alex say, “All right,” and then a few seconds later the front door opens and closes.

I step out, thinking it’s Reeve who left. Only it wasn’t.

Reeve looks up and sees me standing there. “Oh, hey,” he says, startled.

“Hey,” I say. I busy myself picking up plastic cups.

We work in silence. When we’re almost done, I hear a muffled sound, and I look up and see Reeve, his back to me, his shoulders shaking. He’s crying.

I go completely still. For a few seconds I’m not sure what to do for him. Then I realize I do know. I don’t look at him when I say, “Just go. I’ll finish up here.”

Reeve takes a ragged breath. Then he gets his coat, says “Bye, Cho,” and leaves. When he’s gone, I burst into tears.

Chapter Seven

KAT

I CAN’T GET MARY OUT of my head.

So Monday morning, I cut first period and go looking for Ms. Chirazo. Maybe she can tell me something about where Mary went. Just because Mary isn’t locked up in the attic with her freaky aunt doesn’t mean I have the best feeling about what could have happened to her. The guidance secretary doesn’t see me come in, she’s on the phone, so I just walk straight into Ms. Chirazo’s office.

She’s not there.

I wait for a few minutes, feeling stupid. I’m not sure what Ms. Chirazo is going to be able to tell me. I bet there are privacy laws and shit that she won’t be able to go against, even if she is cool with me. There aren’t even any student files on her desk. Everything’s on her computer. I lift my ass off the chair and peer at the screen. It’s open and on, no password required.

Fuck it. I jump into her chair. If I can look up Mary’s student records, maybe there will be some contact information. Either for Aunt Bette or for her parents. Mary might have gone home to them for the holidays and decided not to come back. If that’s the case, I’ll call her or write her a letter. Better yet, Lillia and I can take a road trip to visit her.

I open an icon that says “Student Transcripts,” and I type in “Mary Zane” and then hit enter. An hourglass pops up as the computer searches the records. It takes forever because this computer is as old as shit.

Nothing.

I try it again with “Zane, Mary.” And then just “Zane,” in case maybe “Mary” is short for some weird name I don’t know. No dice. Weird. I plug in her address and search again. But each time, nothing comes up.

There’s no record of her at all.

What the hell?

I hear a pair of sensible shoes outside the door, and I have just about half a second to get out of Ms. Chirazo’s chair and back into the one on the other side of her desk.

“Kat?”

“Hey.” I feel like Ms. Chirazo knows I was up to something, because she gives me this weird, distrusting look. I’ve gotten that look hundreds of times, but never from her. “I wanted to stop by and make sure that whole smoking thing from last week was taken care of.” I clear my throat. “I should probably get to class.”

“Yes,” she says slowly. “Good idea, Kat.”

*  *  *

After school I meander over to the Preservation Society office in White Haven. It’s my first day back since the holidays. The decorations have already been taken down—the wreaths, the electric candles flickering in each of the windows, the balsam greenery they had me wrap around the banisters and the door frame.

If I had driven straight over, I would have been on time, but I sort of cruised around the island for a bit with my windows down, because, well, I don’t know. I guess I hoped that the fresh air would clear my head. Except it didn’t. I’m as much of a mess as the piles of dirty slushy snow along the road.

I trudge up the stairs, reeking of cigarettes, my boots soaked clear through, and my nose running snot like crazy. Hopefully they’ll take one look at me and send me home, but as soon as I’m through the door, Danner Longforth jumps out of her office and points at the clock on the wall with a bony, manicured finger.

Danner Longforth is one of the youngest women working at the Preservation Society. I bet she’s not even thirty. She’s married to a super-old rich guy who lives near the Chos. I doubt she’s ever had a real job. She gets way too excited about office supplies—paper clips and shit.

“Katherine.” Her voice is as thin as her body, and she holds the n sound of my name until she’s standing directly in front of me. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

It catches me off guard. Danner isn’t my superior or my boss. In fact, I didn’t even think she knew my name. “I—”

“I know you don’t think so, but we do important work here.” She waves at the wall next to us, where a bunch of framed proclamations with fancy calligraphy and gold foil seals are hung up. “Our efforts have been recognized by the governor for the last six years running. And if you want to remain in the privileged position of volunteering here, if you want to receive the kind of recommendation letter that will make your college application shine, you’ll need to earn it. And the very least of your obligations here is to arrive on time.” She folds her arms and purses her lips.

I stare at her and, in as flat a voice as I can manage, say, “There was a prayer service after school today. For Rennie Holtz, the girl who died over New Year’s.”

It’s a lie, but whatever. Bitch needs to check herself.

“Oh,” Danner says quietly, and fiddles with one of the many rings on her fingers. “Well, why didn’t you just say that?”

“When? You were too busy reaming me out.”

I instantly worry that I’ve gone too far, that Danner will fire me on the spot. But she doesn’t. She has this fuzzy camel-colored sweater-wrap thing on, and she pulls it tight around herself. “You were that poor girl’s friend?”