I can’t really just leave the dining table halfway through the meal without at least giving a good excuse. Or can I? Would it look really suspicious? The thought of stealing into a teacher’s office turns my hands to ice. I’m about to fake food poisoning when Beth’s phone goes off. She checks it and straightens up, her shoulders going rigid.
“I gotta bounce.”
Sam and Grace groan. “Seriously?” Sam says.
“Sorry, work calls,” Beth says.
This is my chance. I stand up as well. “I’m going too.”
As we leave the dining hall, I worry that Beth’s going to ask me why I’m skipping out on the meal too, but it seems she’s got other things on her mind. I’ve never seen her this quiet. But when I ask her what’s bothering her, she says, “Just some logistical issue on my site.”
We both hurry back to the dorms, and Beth shouts a quick “Bye!” before slamming the door to her room. A second later, I hear the click of the lock on her door. I go back to my own room and pace around, trying to sort out my chaotic plan.
I’m going to do it. I won’t get another chance like this. I mean, yes, technically, I am aware that Mr. Werner probably leaves his office every night, but tonight I am 100 percent sure he’s not going to be there, so this is it. Do or die.
I change into black pants and a black top, decide it looks way too suspicious, and change into a navy-blue top. I grab a handful of bobby pins and stick them in my hair. Let’s hope Mr. Werner has flimsy locks in his office that I can pry open with the help of a bobby pin.
As I make my way to Collings Building, I have to keep reminding myself to walk normally instead of like someone’s who’s about to break into a teacher’s office. My body has completely forgotten how to move like a human. Every step feels wrong, the way my arms swing feels weird, and it feels like there’s a neon flashing sign on my head that says GUILTY. Somehow, I manage to make it across the quad without running into anyone. The front door to Collings is locked. Of course it’s locked. Why wouldn’t it be? I go around to the side, where there’s an entrance for the janitors, and yes! The side door opens smoothly.
Once inside, the enormity of what I’m doing catches up in a sudden swoop. Maybe it’s the emptiness of the place. In the daytime, the hallways are always bustling with students getting to class. Now, it’s half dark, with only a few of the lights on, but more than that, it’s the silence that gets to me. Every step I take is thunderous, the sound bouncing off the walls. I swallow, and I swear the gulp is audible from the other end of the hallway.
I tiptoe as quietly as I can—which isn’t very—toward the stairs. Teachers’ offices are on the fourth floor. Just as I round the corner on the third floor, I hear footsteps. I slink back down the stairs and hide behind a corner. The footsteps come closer, then stop some distance away. Keys jingle. A door is opened. The footsteps recede. I chance a peek in time to see the janitor pushing his cleaning cart into a classroom. I keep going.
Fourth floor. It seems more menacing than the other floors, somehow. Maybe because in Chinese culture, the number four is the unluckiest number. Guess which office is Mr. Werner’s? 404. Everything about the man is a bad omen.
I creep forward, realize that slinking toward his office while keeping my entire back to the wall looks suspicious as hell, and decide to just walk normally. If the janitor or anyone else finds me here, I can tell them I’m turning in a paper, slipping it under a teacher’s door. Except I don’t have any papers with me. I rip a couple announcements off the nearest bulletin board.
Here it is, 404. Mr. James Werner. I try the doorknob, expecting it to be locked, but to my surprise, it turns easily. That’s strange. Someone who’s involved in the kind of shady shit that Mr. Werner is should be more paranoid, right? Maybe he just forgot to lock it today? Okay, never mind, I’m not one to question such good luck.
I slide inside and, keeping my eyes on the door, gently push it shut. My breath releases with a whoosh and I lean my forehead against the door, shutting my eyes.
God, it feels wrong to be in here. My stomach does that alien-gut-twist thing again. It’s the smell. Mr. Werner’s cologne hangs heavy in the dead air, reminding me that this is his space and I’m not supposed to be here.
Okay, never mind that. Focus. I need to get moving. But before I even turn around to look at the office, I hear footsteps from the hallway. My heart jerks painfully. Calm down, it’s probably the janitor. He’ll walk past this door, I’m sure of it. But whoever it is doesn’t walk past Mr. Werner’s door. They stop right outside. There’s a pause, during which my mind screeches at a million miles an hour. Then the doorknob starts to turn.
There’s no time for me to hide before the door swings open. Light floods the office, blinding me for a second, and when my eyes adjust, I find myself face-to-face with Stacey.
“What the hell?” I blurt out.
“Shut up,” Stacey hisses as she shuts the door. “Do you want the whole school to know we’re here?”
“What the hell are you doing here?” I whisper.
“None of your business. What are you doing here?” she snaps.
I gape at her for a second too long. She shoulders past me with a sigh and says, “Just stay out of my way, okay?” She takes a few steps into the deep gloom of the office and stops with a gasp.
“What is it?” I hurry over, and that’s when I see it. Shoes. Attached to someone’s legs. Lying on the floor, the rest of their body hidden behind Mr. Werner’s desk. My chest seizes. I feel as though I’m having a heart attack. But somehow, I keep walking, as though whoever is behind Mr. Werner’s desk is calling out to me.
“What are you doing? Stop, Lia!” Stacey hisses at me, her voice cracking with fear, but I can’t. My feet are moving on their own accord.
Another step, and another. I understand now, why people say “my heart was in my throat.” It genuinely feels as though my heart is lodged in my neck, like I’m being slowly strangled from the inside. And when I finally reach the other side of the desk and I see the small, limp shape, the face shining sickly pale from moonlight streaming through the window, I think I might faint.
It’s Sophie Tanaka, the girl I’d seen my first day here, the one who had punched Mr. Werner in the face, the girl I’d replaced. And from the way her eyes lie open, staring unblinking at the ceiling, one thing becomes excruciatingly clear.
Sophie is dead.