We have reached the location described by those final coordinates. Reached them over a tirade of protests from Jesse, and perhaps the closest thing we’ve ever had to an argument. Now we stand on the sidewalk, looking at a massive brown brick building, with every window boarded up. Even the name has been taken down, but it’s a pointless effort. For almost a hundred years those letters hung on the brick, and once they were removed, the impressions remain in dark brick, unbleached by a century of sunlight.

North Hampton High.

“I thought they were going to tear it down,” I say.

“Every year, the city council promises it, and every year, there are excuses. They closed it, and they seem to think that’s enough.”

It’s not enough. It’s like taking those letters off the front. We still see the ghosts.

These are the secondary coordinates my “source” provided, proving I’m not here for a tip on the fire. The coffee shop was a decoy to get me close enough that I wouldn’t be able to resist. Get me close. Get me curious. Lower my defenses and yes, perhaps then I would stand on this spot, see the setting of my nightmares and consider going in.

No, not consider. I am going in.

And Jesse is furious.

He says I’m punishing myself. A dare has been offered that I cannot refuse. He’s right. It’s like those video clips. Even when I knew what they were, I had to watch. To refuse seemed to deny my brother’s crime, deny the victims their due.

I haven’t told Jesse about the video clips. That really wouldn’t help.

He’s furious. Yet he’s here, beside me, as he seethes. Our argument ended with me asking him to watch my back, and admitting that if he refuses, I will not do this. But I want to. I need to see where this is leading.

It’s more than guilt and self-punishment. It’s even more than standing up to a bully. I have been lured here, and either the destination is the message—in which case, it’s been delivered—or my tormenter is inside, waiting for me. This may be my only chance to confront that person, which is why Jesse has stayed.

He isn’t happy about it, but he knows I’m making the choice I need to make, and he won’t stop me, even if all that would take is to walk away and say “I won’t help.”

Jesse is not the boy I remember. Too much has happened for that. But there is good in the changes, too. He stands firmer, more resolute. My old Jesse might have let me do this, but only because he’d be afraid to refuse, unsure of his own opinions. This Jesse tells me I’m making a mistake, and then stands by my side while I make it.

Going in might be pointless. This front entrance could be both the destination and the message. Remember what happened here. Remember those who died. Remember what your brother did.

Yet the exact coordinates lie within. And the front door is open.

Jesse leaves me here. He can watch my back better if he isn’t right beside me. He’s found another way into the school, and he’ll use that.

I step up to the front door. The street is empty, and while I know people live in the surrounding houses, the neighborhood feels as abandoned as the school.

I’ve already checked the front door, and I know it’s open, the lock forced. I could read that as an obvious trap, but it’s an empty building—I suspect kids have been sneaking in here for years.

I pull open the heavy door and—

I look down the cavernous, dimly lit hall. “God, this place is old.”

Luka smiles. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is. It stinks.”

“It’s called character, Skye.”

“No, it’s called mold.”

He shakes his head. “Go find a seat. Auditorium’s right down the hall. I need to get to costuming.” Before I go, he says, “If you’re lucky this place will be shut down before you go here.”

Tears prickle my eyes. You were right, Luka. But I’m not lucky. Not one little bit.

The smell brings every memory rushing back, from that first time I came to watch Luka in a play to the last time, on a school trip, seeing him down the hall as he hurries to class, and he waves at me, and I pretend not to notice, like I’m way too cool for that, and he jogs over to give me a hug, properly humiliating me for ignoring him, and Jesse laughs and—

I can’t do this. Barely two steps past the doorway, and I’m ready to flee. Then I look up and see…

I see what seems like trash blocking the hall. There’s only a bit of light coming in through boarded-up windows, and so all I can tell is that stuff has been piled in the corridor. As I walk closer, I see a stuffed animal. A worn bear. I slow. If someone is squatting here with a child, I shouldn’t go farther. Shouldn’t intrude.

Then I notice the flowers. Daisies. Real ones, with a vase and water. There are other flowers, too, some starting to wilt, but none dead. More flowers. More stuffed animals. A baseball helmet beside a picture frame. A football jersey off to the far side, hung up as if on display. A North Hampton High jersey, with the number 63, and a name I can’t quite read until I move closer and—

Mandal.

I stagger back as if slapped. I stare at the jersey, still streaked with dirt, as if Jamil had just come off the field and thrown it aside and…

This is a memorial. Like the ones people put at the roadside where a child has died, but this one…This one is massive. It’s been divided into quarters. Jamil’s jersey marks his place, and it’s surrounded by things left for him, objects that reminded people of him. There are other jerseys, folded neatly, from other players, as if his teammates left theirs in memory. There are photos in cheap frames. Jamil and his teammates, Jamil and his friends, Jamil and a girl, and as I bend in front of that last photo, I remember her.

“She’s nice,” I say to Jesse as Jamil leaves with her.

Jesse chuckles. “You seem shocked.”

“Uh, yes…”

“Yeah, me too. Weird thing is, he really seems to like her.”

“Pretty sure you should like the girls you date.”

“You know what I mean. He usually picks the ones who hang all over him, make him feel good, put up with his crap. Peyton doesn’t. Last week, I heard her call him out on something, tell him he’d been a jerk, and he actually agreed. Even apologized.”

There’s a note below the photo. A note from Peyton. Five words.

I miss you so much.

I stand quickly and turn my attention to the other memorials.

There are photos of Nella Landry with her little brother and sister. With friends. With family. There are awards, too, for her community service, her advocacy work. Copies of letters from politicians and activists, names I recognize, praising her accomplishments and offering condolences on the “violent end” to such a “bright future.”

Leanna Tsosie grins at me from photos shot on a trip to Paris, with classmates and friends. An even bigger grin as she holds up a scholarship offer, and yet those smiles are nothing compared to those of her parents, standing beside her. Two old science fair projects have been left, first-place ribbons still attached. And books. Her favorite ones, dog-eared and piled. I’ve read those books. All of them, and I look at Leanna’s memorial, and I wish I’d known her as I realize how much we had in common. Then I think of her under that desk, texting her mother.

I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry.

For Brandon, there is art—sketches and portraits of his family. One is framed—including a drawing of his sleeping infant son. There are photos, too, of him with friends and family, and with his girlfriend and baby. People have added newer ones of his son, from baby to toddler to preschooler. In the last photo, his son celebrates his fourth birthday, blowing out candles, his mother beside him, her hand stroking his hair, a sad smile on her face, a distant look in her eyes.

I kneel by the flowers and touch a petal. Someone brings these. Every week someone must bring these. Three years have passed and still they come and lay fresh flowers. And notes, so many notes, some rolled or sealed, as if meant for the dead. Words left unsaid. No matter how many people have been through here—looking for a place to sleep or smoke up or make out—no one has opened those notes. They have respected the dead and the living, and left them alone.

I want to leave my own note. Tear out a sheet of paper and write four times, “I am so sorry.” Roll them up. Lay one in each quarter. But that feels self-indulgent and wrongheaded. These were left by the grieving, and my pain has no place here.

I straighten and look around. My phone vibrates.

Jesse: ok?

I force my finger to the emojis and poise it over the thumbs-up. But I can’t do it. Just can’t. I reply with OK. Then I take a deep breath and continue down the hall.

As the hall gets darker, I use my flashlight app. When I spot something written on the wall, I nod. There will be more memorials. I need to be prepared for that.

I continue down the hall, and I want to ignore that writing, but that feels like ignoring this summons.

This is what the shooters did, damn it, and you will stop and look.

You will respect the dead.

So I glance at the wall and see the words: Rot in hell, you sick son of a bitch.

Below that, written in marker, there is an arrow. An arrow pointing to the floor with RIH. Luka Gilchrist.

I look down…

Blood. There is blood on the floor.

I stumble back so fast I fall, and then I’m on the floor, staring at a wash of dark red, as if someone made a haphazard attempt to clean up…

To clean up…

I squeeze my eyes shut. Fake. This must be fake.

Then I lift my gaze…and see the boys’ bathroom.