“Ms. Fitzgerald,” Cataldo begins, “it is my pleasure to educate you on FBI jurisdiction and how the agency works with local law enforcement. With being the optimal word. I am happy to collaborate with the FBI as needed, and please communicate my thanks to the board for their thoughtfulness. But this is still my investigation, and I will not surrender important evidence.”
“Certainly.” Fitzgerald offers a strained, false smile. “You misunderstand me. Claflin has access to the best IT professionals in the state. We’re simply offering to help. Plus, the Russos want their daughter’s phone back, seeing as you’ve already accessed that and had ample opportunity to make a copy of the contents. They’ll be here for the candlelight memorial tomorrow evening and have requested to pick up the items.”
“There’s a candlelight memorial?”
“Mr. St. Clair planned it, with my full support. Sunday was the only evening to do it, what with the new end of the term Monday midday.”
“Interesting. And yes, I’m well aware of all your students and faculty jetting out of here in the next forty-eight hours. And I will consider relinquishing the evidence. Since it’s a request and not a legal demand.”
“Right.”
I think I have just witnessed an epic battle. I’m not sure who won.
Fitzgerald retreats to her office, leaving Cataldo and me to awkward silence. She clears her throat, makes eye contact with me; I take a step toward the main office, eager to escape. Cathy saves me, appearing at the admin office door and calling over to me.
“Olivia, dear, is that you! We have a lost student ID, and I need you to make a new one.”
“I have to go,” I say, already moving away. “I’m the only one who knows how to work the ID software, so…bye.”
I share an awkward departing wave with the police detective, who is trying to either manipulate me or mother me. I don’t know which one is more concerning.
Now, where would I hide a phone? I’m standing in the middle of my room after work, surveying the landscape. I turn, spinning in a sloppy circle, rounding on Emma’s dresser. I’m sure the cops searched, too, but I look anyway. Rifling through each of the drawers in succession turns up nothing. If this were a spy movie, there would be a secret compartment at the back of one of the drawers, but I know it’s all dormitory standard issue.
Next I try her desk, which surely is the second place the cops also looked. The drawers are full of papers, Sharpies, thumbtacks, a stapler, neon Post-its, and an old box of Wheat Thins.
Under the mattress, under the bed, at the back of her closet—I try all those places and find nothing. I search the pockets of her coats, pull down her suitcase and check every zip pouch. I move strategically and tidy up after myself with care. It can’t look like I’ve tossed the place. Talk about making me look guilty.
I discover Emma’s Kindle in a basket by her bed, a device the police didn’t take, and for one triumphant moment I think I’ve cracked it—maybe she exchanged secret messages on this!—but no luck. I’m about to try to unscrew the heating vents because that’s always where people hide covert devices in movies, when a hunch prickles behind my rib cage. If I had a secret phone, I’d want it within easy retrieval distance. Somewhere convenient to me but unlikely for anyone else to discover.
An urgency ticks at me. The detective said it. Forty-eight hours until the semester is over and everyone leaves. Half the student body is already gone. A whole pool of suspects who will scatter across the country, possibly even the world, in a few days’ time.
If Emma had a secret boyfriend, and his information is on a secret phone, I’m running out of time to find it.
I go back to Emma’s desk and search from top to bottom again. My eyes catch on the box of Wheat Thins in her bottom drawer. A thing the cops likely wouldn’t look at twice. The box is heavy, and something inside thumps against the cardboard as I lift it. I unfold the flaps and reach my hand into the plastic bag. Bingo. I pull out Emma’s lavender-cased iPhone. Something cold grazes my knuckles as I pull the phone out, so I go back in to retrieve what turns out to be a key. I slip it into my pocket to deal with later. All my attention is on her phone.
A press to the power button does nothing. It needs a charge. Shit.
The normal spot where she charged her phone is empty, so I assume the police took her charger with them when they grabbed Emma’s laptop. I’m an Android girl; none of my cords will work. And so I embark on another top-to-bottom search of the room, going through all of Emma’s things once more. Naturally, I find a backup charger in the last place I look—the basket next to her bed. I plug in the phone, and a black-and-white battery icon appears on the screen, but I know it will be some time until it turns on. It’s going to be a wait.
My bed is calling my name, so I lie down, close my eyes for just a moment.
* * *
—
When I startle awake, the room is all shadow. My mouth is gummy with sleep, my limbs heavy and achy. Not the kind of nap that refreshes you. I feel like death.
My phone tells me I’ve lost four hours. That explains the gray cloak that has fallen over the room.
There’s a pounding on the door. That must be what woke me. I cross the room, wiping dried drool from around my mouth, sure I look a picture. When I open the door, Sierra eyes me up and down.
“You look tired.”
“I was napping. Though I think once you pass the two-hour mark, it’s just sleeping.”
“You hungry? I came to see if you want to hit up the dining hall for dinner.”
“Uh, yeah.” I realize now that I skipped lunch, and I am starving. Is it worth the awkwardness with Sierra to eat? Absolutely. “One sec.” I grab my bag, quickly unhook Emma’s phone from the charger, and drop it into my purse so Sierra doesn’t see. I want to power it up so badly. But instead I go with Sierra, making small talk about Christmas break.
“I texted Aves and Margot, and they’ll meet us there,” Sierra says as we cross the quad.
“Great.” It’s not great, and I hope Sierra missed the shade of panic in my voice as I said it. I sneak my phone out of my bag, figuring it’s safe to check that one, though my fingers whisper over the textured case of the one I really want to look at. I have a few text messages. Ethan checking in on how my exam went and reporting that he survived his. And one from Kaila. She wants to meet tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.
“Why are you texting with Kaila Montgomery?”
I catch Sierra reading over my shoulder, too nosy for her own good.
“I was curious how she was doing, so I reached out,” I try, casual as can be.