Jagged deep letters were carved into the wood. You lost the gold crown.

Better luck next time.

Goose bumps rippled over me. The last message on my desk led to a dead cat on my doorstep. And that message was only in ink. This one had been carved in angry-looking purposeful lines, deep enough to splinter the wood. And this time I had no doubt it'd been left for me.

You lost the gold crown.

I paced, filtering through memories of lectures and texts, sorting what I knew about math and Archimedes.

Archimedes' Principle was based on the story of a gold crown. He'd written his Treatise on Floating Bodies after discovering he could determine the weight of a gold crown by measuring the volume of water it displaced.

So what? What did that have to do with anything? Or with the play? What could the gold crown possibly have to do with . . . Hamlet?

My brain worked fast, outpacing my pulse as it divided out all the factors until just one common denominator was left. A chill raced down my spine. There was a floating body in Hamlet . . . Ophelia.

I took off at a run, my footsteps echoing back at me down halls that seemed to go on for miles. I flew around the corner of the gymnasium and slipped into the girls' locker room. The door closed behind me and I waited, winded, while my eyes adjusted to the dim yellow lights. I headed for the moist hot scent of chlorine until the concrete gave way to rubber floor runners.

When I came to the door, I took a breath before inching it open.

The light around the Olympic-size pool was a steamy green. Watery lines danced on the ceiling, refracted light from below the pool's surface. I stood, listening. The huge space was silent, as if the water muted all the sound except the ragged breaths I couldn't quiet. I stepped slowly toward the pool, scanning the bleachers for shadows or movement.

"Marcia?" I called quietly.

My own voice came back in soft echoes.

"Marcia, are you here?"

I perched on the curved lip below the diving boards, beside the depth markings . . . twelve feet. I looked down the length of the pool, following the lap lines that wavered like long black threads, marking the distance to the opposite end of the pool. Except for one, which seemed to stop, disappearing prematurely into a blur of shadow by the far wall.

My skin prickled as I rounded the corner of the pool. The shadow in the water grew as I neared, a dark mass floating above it. As my feet picked up speed, the shadow cleared, the dark mass becoming black tendrils of hair, drifting like cobwebs over a pale face and tangling between purple lips.

"Marcia!" I ran to the edge.

Her eyes were closed, as if she was sleeping. She lay on the shallow bottom, mouth open and legs spread, her big cotton dress billowing up around her. Her gray fingers reached for the surface but didn't quite touch.

I dropped to my knees and plunged both arms into the water. Her hand was cold and slippery and didn't grab back. The dress, flowing and weightless below the surface, clung to a drain at the bottom of the pool. I pulled hard, but the dress was like an anchor, weighing her body down.

"Come on, Marcia! Please!" I dropped my grip to her wrist, leveraging all my weight. Her elbow scraped the lip of the pool. Then her head broke the surface, heavy hair tipping her head back on her neck. First her nose, then eyes, then lips. Then her face emerged, blue and green under the light. I pulled again, catching her underarm on the concrete. Her head rolled toward me, water spilling from her mouth and draining down her chin.

I whispered frantically, begging her to wake up, begging her dress to stop fighting me, but the harder I pulled, the more I was losing her. I looked at her wrist, feeling her frail joints strain. Her wet sleeve fell back, revealing a mark.

A number.

Through the water, the number eighteen appeared, clear and dark against her forearm like a blue tattoo. I stopped breathing, unable to move as her wrist slipped through my fingers. I watched her mouth and nose slide under. Watched the number drift slowly to the bottom, her sleeve stuck stubbornly in the crook of her elbow, dark hair floating above her.

I covered my mouth with my sleeve, icy streams of pool water trailing down my chest.

The locked exterior doors rattled on their hinges.

"Marcia? Are you in there?" came muffled voices from the other side.

I scrambled to my feet and looked down at Marcia one last time as the next set of doors shook, louder this time. I had minutes, maybe seconds, before they found another way in. And there was nothing I could do for her. She was gone.

I took a back stairwell to the second floor and hid in a remote girls' bathroom, retching into the sink. When I was done, I washed my face and wrung out my sleeves, too afraid the automatic dryers would attract attention. I needed to get out of the building without being seen.

Someone had wanted me to be here tonight. Someone wanted me to find Marcia's body. Maybe even get caught with it.

And he'd marked her. But why? What did it mean? The number looked like it had been written in blue ink, but it wasn't smudged or faded by the water. Permanent marker.

They drew the number ten in permanent marker on her arm . . .

Like the number ten on Emily's arm.