I feel sick the entire way to school.

Not just nervous. No, this is way beyond nervous. Every few steps I have to pause and tell myself to stop being ridiculous, to stop looking scared, and to stop feeling like I’m about to throw up. I keep looking around, waiting for a cop car to whiz past on its way to the school or pull up behind me with its lights and sirens blaring. I watch the faces of the kids who walk along the street with me. They all look away—they know not to mess with me—but they don’t look sad. No one is crying or looking more scared than usual.

That almost makes my stomach feel worse. It might be calm out here, but I bet anything that the school will be in full panic mode.

Except … when I get to school, it doesn’t seem any different from before. There are kids milling about out front and talking and even laughing. Don’t they know that Rachel is missing? That she might be dead? There is a murderer walking among them right now.

(But it was an accident. It was an accident.)

No one looks at me twice when I make my way up to the big double doors. No one whispers secrets behind my back. They just move out of my way like they always do.

Everything feels completely normal, and that feels completely wrong. Should I slam someone against their locker? Should I knock the homework out of that kid’s hands? I don’t want to look suspicious, but I don’t want to draw attention to myself, either.

I settle on glaring at anyone who looks at me, making them avert their eyes or run away.

It’s hard to keep my angry composure. I can’t stop thinking about how much trouble I’m in.

At the very least, there should be signs posted about a missing girl. Right?

A wave of nausea crashes within me and I stumble, grabbing on to the door to stay upright. Maybe I should go home. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea. Even if it means facing the inevitable questions and wrath of my mother, it has to be better than this.

I’m going to crack. I know it.

Someone walks into me. A girl the grade below me.

“Sorry!” she squeaks. She flinches when I look at her. Expects me to scream and yell, and I know I’ve screamed at her before.

“It’s fine,” I manage.

Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn’t say anything about my strange behavior, just turns and scurries off.

Pull yourself together, Samantha. You have to be mean. You can’t look suspicious.

I can do this.

I don’t have a choice.

No one else seems to care about my presence as I walk down the hall. There’s no commotion in here, no panic or tears. Kids wander and laugh just like they did outside. There aren’t any cops questioning kids on when they last saw Rachel or who she was with. No newspaper reporters interviewing teachers or students to learn more about her story.

It’s just a normal Thursday.

Everyone seems bubblier and louder now that it’s almost the weekend. Everyone seems happy and completely unaware of the monster in their midst.

Once again, the normalcy makes me feel worse. Because the news will drop soon that Rachel is either missing or dead. I don’t want to spend all day on edge waiting for it to happen. I almost want to run down the hallway screaming at the top of my lungs, “Don’t you all realize she’s gone? Why don’t you seem to care? Rachel is missing! Rachel is dead!”

I don’t do that, though. Even if the idea does take over my thoughts as I near my locker. Even if I’m equally torn between running home or running down the halls screaming. I may be freaking out, but I haven’t gone crazy. Not yet.

My heart somewhere in my throat, I begin to gather my things. Already, the daily routine feels off—this is when I should be trying to find Rachel and demanding she give me my homework and lunch money. The thought makes me feel bad, and that’s dangerous.

I can’t. Feel. Guilty.

Otherwise I will be found out for sure.

When I slam my locker shut, I catch sight of someone passing around the corner and nearly gasp.

It can’t be.

Long black hair. That familiar blue polka-dot top.

No way.

My blood goes cold as I slowly walk toward the hall. Everything else in the school seems muted, conversation and laughter dulled down to the low sound of rushing water.

I turn the corner.

There, by her locker as usual, is Rachel.