"I think so," said Callie. "She's asked me about him before. Knows I work with him."

"Awkward."

"You can say that again."

Toby was shaking his head, eyes mirthless and jaw set. He looked like he was explaining something to Mrs. Beasley. Something that he'd explained before. She crossed her arms, forehead crumbling into a ma.s.s of wrinkles. At some point she interrupted him, gesturing and shouting in an explosive display of anger. He stood against it like a mountain against the wind. She switched to begging. That didn't work. Soon she was using her sleeve to wipe a tear off her cheek, turning her back as Toby threw up his hands and glanced at the ceiling in desperation.

"Wow. Poor Mrs. Beasley."

"Poor Toby, too," Callie said. "I guess breaking up sucks no matter how old you are."

"Do you know what went wrong between them?" I asked.

Callie turned away, not wanting to watch the fight as it wound down. "No," she sighed. "He's never talked about it. I gathered from Mrs. B that it was more of a fling than anything."

"Shh, they're coming out now."

The two of them emerged from the room and Callie and I bent down over the locker, acting as if we'd been examining it the whole time.

"Ready to proceed, Lieutenant Collier?" she asked.

Toby nodded. "Ready when you are."

Mrs. Beasley shot him a dirty look. I backed away slightly, not wanting to get in the middle of their spat. "You won't find anything," she said. "Like I told you, I've been here since seven and the doors were locked."

"One, two, three," said Callie, and turned the key. "Open sesame."

She swept the door of the locker open to reveal a shadowy interior. I couldn't quite see... Callie had an evidence bag in one hand. She reached in with it, feeling around with plastic-coated fingers.

And the next second, she drew out the book.

"The Aeneid," I said. "Told you."

"Good work, Evi," said Toby. He smiled at me proudly. "Now if you can figure out how the killer got it in here, through two locked doors, without Mrs. Beasley noticing... Well, I'll nominate you for Chief of Police."

"Two locked doors?" I asked.

"The key to the locker was on Quentin's ring, hanging with him," said Callie. "But these flimsy locks aren't hard to jimmy. Honestly, Mrs. Beasley, neither are the ones on the front door."

Mrs. Beasley paled.

"S-so... You think he was really in here?" Her voice was almost a squeak. Whatever beef she had with Lieutenant Collier, it seemed to fly right out the window as she realized that only a few minutes before, she'd been alone in the library with a killer.

"I'm afraid so."

Callie gave the book a cursory once-over. I told her it didn't look any different from when I'd seen it last. There were notes in Quentin's rough script throughout, faded pencil. And an inscription on the inside of the front cover, in black ink: To Quentin, with love. Annie My heart felt heavy as I suddenly remembered why we were here. A good man had died. Suddenly his dead face flashed before my eyes again, turning on the rope, in the spotlight...

"None of the writing in the book seems new," Callie was saying. "This is all Dr. Pryce's handwriting, Evi?" She flipped through some of the pages, making sure not to touch them with her bare hands.

Quentin didn't seem surprised to be up there. The star of the show. His eyes were open, and his mouth. His tongue was sticking out, rolls of neck fat, blue, strangled...

I nodded, trying to get rid of the image.

"Okay then." Callie slid the book into the evidence bag and sealed it. "We'll drop this off at the station, have it dusted and processed by forensics starting bright and early. Mrs. Beasley, would you like an escort home?"

She was still pale, gazing off into the distance in shock. She flinched at her name, slowly coming back to herself.

"Escort? No, heavens no... I'll drive myself home. I'm fine. Really."

She smiled wanly and patted Callie's arm.

"We'll at least walk you out to your car."

Mrs. Beasley nodded. She looked suddenly old through her makeup. We followed her as she made her last rounds, flicking off the lights in the great bra.s.s chandeliers and locking her office. The library was spooky in the dark, so much gla.s.s, moonlight glinting off marble. I tried not to imagine my mother here. Alone, working late. Spilling books, tearing out their pages in some sort of manic rage. Taking out the gun. Pressing it to her gut and pulling the trigger. There was a rainstorm that night. I remember laying awake in bed, waiting for the sound of the car in the driveway, wishing that she'd come home soon.

But she never came.

Get out of my head, I thought, firmly. I ordered the memories away.

Finally we were out of the building and walking Mrs. Beasley to her car, parked along the curb in front of the coffee shop.

"Mrs. Beasley," I said, as she keyed open the door and slid into the driver's seat. Something had occurred to me to ask her.

"Yes, Evi?"

"'This living hand.' Do you recognize that phrase? Know what it's from?"

She knitted her brow, searching her memory. After a few moments she shook her head. "No. Why?"

"Nothing," I said. Callie had told me that the message written on Quentin's thumb was to remain secret. It was a detail that was not to be released to the press or the general public. "Just a weird phrase I ran across today at school. I thought it might be from a poem or something."

Mrs. Beasley shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell."

She shut the door and turned on her engine, headlights winking to life, flooding the wet street with glare. We jumped in the squad car and dropped Toby and the evidence bags off at the station on our way home. It was past midnight by the time we dragged ourselves through the door. Callie was exhausted. She'd already pulled a twelve-hour shift that day before getting called down to the dance.

I made her a cup of hot tea and curled up with her on the couch. I guess neither of us felt much like going to bed. The wind was picking up, and the rain was back. We could hear it falling softly on the roof.

Callie grabbed her little silver Macbook and nestled it on her lap. "Want to watch something on Netflix?"

"Sure."

"Law and Order?"

I shrugged, and leaned my head on her shoulder. "I don't care. Just something that's not real."

She started typing. I sat up. "Hold on," I said. "I need to check..."

I hijacked the keyboard and brought up Google. Quickly, I did a search for the phrase "this living hand."

The first result was from a website called Poem Tree. I clicked the link, and it took us to a mostly blank page with one stanza.

This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming night That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed a see here it is a I hold it towards you.

John Keats "It is from a poem," breathed Callie. Her eyes were round with excitement. "How did you know, Evi?"

"I didn't. The internet did. That's why I asked it."

Callie sipped her tea and let out a long sigh. "But what does it mean? The killer is talking to the police, obviously. And telling us what? That he's a poetry junkie?"

"That he's going to haunt you," I said. "Like a ghost. Never let you rest."

We sat for a moment, re-reading the words and listening to the patter of the rain against black windows. Callie shoved the computer away. "I'm a little sick to my stomach," she said. "I think I just need to sleep."

We walked upstairs together and brushed our teeth. I crawled into Callie's bed, not wanting to be by myself after everything that had happened. She didn't say a word, just let me in under the covers. It smelled different in her room. The walls were bare, and the quilt was thin. I could see the moon through rivulets of water, casting weird shadows over us.

Then in the blink of an eye, it all disappeared.

"All five, Evi."

I sat straight up in bed. The morning sun was warm, full of motes that scurried and plumed before my tired eyes.

"Five what?" I rubbed my forehead, feeling my mussed hair.

Callie was standing at her closet, coffee in hand. "Hi ho, sleepyb.u.t.t."

I yawned slowly and stretched. My body felt deliciously alive and rested after the stress of the last night. "Five what?" I asked.

Callie shrugged. "I didn't say anything." She frowned. "But all five of my work shirts are dirty. I'm just going to have to throw on the cleanest one and go in. No time to do a wash cycle."

She must have spoken out loud without realizing it.

"I thought you had today off."

Callie laughed. "Not anymore. Remember the Fourth of July?"

"No," I said, flatly.

"Right, you weren't here. Sorry. Upshot is, I'm going to be working overtime for probably the next week. At least. Murder, you know."

I nodded, head slowly coming together.

Callie took a hanger off the rack and held up the arm of one of her blue uniform shirts, sniffing gingerly under the pit. She made a face. "Maybe I can Febreeze it."

I hopped out of bed and padded down the hallway to my room to check my email. I wanted to make sure there were no weird rumors flying around about Quentin. Nothing much in my inbox, just a note from Ellen asking if I'd gotten home okay a she'd tried to call me, I guess. I checked my phone. One missed call. I hadn't even heard it. Then there were three emails from Britta. She was not so subtly plumbing me for details about the police investigation.

I wrote her back, carefully telling her nothing. I even threw a :) in for good measure.

"Ha." I pressed send.

Then I called Ellen. She picked up on the second ring.

"Evi-face," she said. "Did you hear about the memorial service yet for Dr. Pryce?"

I shook my head.

"I can tell you just woke up," said Ellen, "because you're either shaking your head or nodding right now and I can't see which."

"No," I said, cracking a smile. "I did not hear about the memorial service yet."

"The school's trying to get the word out. No funeral for a while, since the police are holding the, um, body... Anyway, they want as many students as possible to come to school at 3 o'clock. There's going to be a short service outside by the flag pole, and then they're going to lower the flag to half mast. I think they want a big crowd to show up so that the paper can get a picture for the obituary."

I frowned. "Why does that sound so wrong?"

Ellen sighed into the phone. "I know. But you should really bring your camera. The yearbook's going to want one too."

I guess she was right. It just seemed so weird, the logistics surrounding death. After a person dies, you're supposed to remember them. Just remember them... sounds easy, right? But there are memorial services to be hastily planned and pictures to be taken. Subst.i.tute teachers to be contracted.

Life goes on.

We chatted for a few minutes about the dance. Ellen hadn't gotten much chance to bask in the glory of her triumph over Amanda Petrov, and her successful maneuvering of Jim and George back together. Just as well, perhaps. I guess Amanda deserved to be called out in front of the whole student body, after that 'Important Announcement' stunt in the cafeteria. But the whole revenge thing was kind of leaving a bad taste in my mouth. I decided not to upload the footage I'd taken of her to Youtube. You're welcome, b.u.t.thead.

I told Ellen I'd see her at the memorial, and hung up. I made it down to breakfast just as Callie was running out the door. She gave me a kiss on the forehead and left, screen banging behind her on its wooden frame. I turned on some music, not wanting to be alone in the house. My thoughts slowly drifted to Arbor, like a raft adrift on the sea, and I wished he would show up at my door again. I didn't even have his number to call him. But what had he said?

My lips are crushed under the weight of ages.

I shook my head. Just couldn't think about it. My thoughts were whirling; my brain ached from theorizing. Didn't want to think about it. Anything would be better. A movie. Metal.

Actually...

I eyed my backpack. There was still math to be done, and for once I was actually in the mood to do it.

"Life goes on," I sighed. And so does homework.

Chapter Thirteen.

They say thirteen is an unlucky number. I don't know about that. Maybe it makes us see things we wouldn't otherwise. It tells us to count the number of people at a table. The number of turns in a hangman's noose.

I counted thirteen crows on the telephone line above the flagpole as we gathered, sun in our eyes, at three o'clock.

Ellen was there, and Vi. Her fingers intertwined with Luke's and they swayed together as the flag came down and Princ.i.p.al Davis spoke about Quentin's life. Apparently it had been long and full; he'd had dropped out of Harvard in his twenties to go on a trek through Nepal, climbed the foothills of Mount Everest and even wrote a book about it along the way. I made a mental note to look it up, see if there was a library copy I could check out. There were dark times, too. Quentin had fought in the Vietnam War. You'd never know it from the cheerful twinkle in his eye, but he'd crawled through the jungle on his belly. Seen atrocities. He never wrote about that part of his life...