"I know about what happened to Emily under the bleachers at North Hampton. I know about the blue and yellow paint."

He pushed the ad back in line with the other one and looked at me, confusion written all over his face.

"I don't think she'll be the only one. I think these ads were written by the same person. This was in today's paper." I tapped the table above the second ad. "That part about the play not being the thing is a reference to Hamlet. It's a play on words." I slid the Hamlet flyer across the table. "Tonight is opening night. I know this sounds like a stretch, but I think something bad is going to happen tonight during the play."

The lieutenant stared at me blankly. He didn't look at the flyer. The only sound was the second hand on the wall clock over the door. I fidgeted in my seat and fought the urge to look at it, staring him straight in the eye until the first beads of sweat trickled down my back.

Lieutenant Nicholson drew the flyer toward him, his face as expressionless as the room. "Why did you come?"

I wondered the same thing. Why had I come? I wasn't close to Emily. And I didn't owe her any favors. I should have minded my own business. Too late now.

"Telling someone seemed like the right thing to do, that's all." I wiped my palms over my jeans.

The lieutenant watched me. "What makes you assume these ads are related?"

I shrugged, not having any plausible answer for that.

"Do you know the person who wrote these ads, Miss Boswell?"

"How would I know that?" I wiped my lip, uncomfortably aware that I was the only one sweating. The small interrogation room felt stuffy and hot.

"I don't know. That's a really good question. Maybe you should tell me." He thought I was lying. "Who are you rolling over? An ex-boyfriend? What happened? He piss you off and now you're going to air his dirty laundry?"

Of course that's what he thought. What kind of person would report a crime before it happened? Unless they were somehow involved. Normal people don't make a habit of studying the personal ads.

I crossed my arms and leaned back in my chair. His smile was supercilious, and it put me on the defensive. "I don't have a boyfriend. And I have no idea who wrote the ads."

"Then how can you assume they're connected to Emily?"

"It's not rocket science. Emily was found under the bleachers at North Hampton on the same day this ad came out." I shoved the ad back toward him. "Our school colors are blue. North Hampton's are yellow. You know . . . Newton? Isaac Newton?" The lieutenant either didn't remember or hadn't passed this particular class in high school. His face was impenetrable. "And then today's ad about Hamlet . . . it seemed too coincidental." I pinched the bridge of my nose. This conversation was giving me a headache, and I hadn't even touched him.

Lieutenant Nicholson stared a hole through me, as if the answer to some question was hidden inside my skull. "Do you make a habit of reading the newspaper cover to cover . . ." He paused to read my ID card. "Nearly, is it?" The corner of his lip turned up, like he was amused. Like I was a joke.

I crossed my legs, knees tight together, feeling exposed. "No."

"Just the personals, then?" He cocked a silvering eyebrow.

"No." I jammed my fists into the pockets of my hoodie.

"I thought all you kids were into the online dating thing. I thought only old farts like me still read the newspaper." He lowered his voice and leaned toward me. "Why were you reading the Missed Connections, Nearly?"

Heat crawled up my neck and my head began to pound. The metal chair legs scraped as I stood up. I'd come voluntarily. I could leave on my own terms as well. If he slapped me with a truancy report, I'd find a way to deal with it. I threw my pack over my shoulder. "I found the ads by accident. I was only trying to help."

I stepped toward the door, but the lieutenant's meaty hand beat mine to the knob. He handed me a card, his face softening. He pinched the card. "Look," he said, waiting for me to meet his eyes before letting me take it. "If you think of anything else you think may be important, call me at this number. I want to help you."

For a second, I thought maybe he did. That maybe I'd done the right thing by coming. I reached for the card, letting our fingertips brush, then yanked it from his hands.

He didn't believe me. Not at all. And his distrust clung to me like smoke.

I pocketed the card without looking at it, and trained my eyes on the door. He stepped aside, but his suspicion held fast, all the way to the exit.

My relief fizzled as soon as I realized I'd left my school ID behind. I backtracked through the maze of desks and offices, retracing my steps.

The narrow hall was lined with identical doors under cold fluorescents. Police escorted disheveled prostitutes and gang-bangers up and down the hall. I kept my head down and walked like I had a clue where I was going. I couldn't remember which door I'd come from, so I peeked in each one. Some were shut.

Laughter echoed, becoming louder as I approached an open door.

"I don't see much money on the table." A man's voice- not Nicholson's.

"I got my money on my man, the Game Boy."

"How much?"