her head. “You regret getting into Harvard? Why? Because you got something your friend wanted? You think you owe her?”
I squirm under her gaze. Have to remind myself she is a police detective, not my friend. She doesn’t know me. She suspects me.
When it becomes clear I don’t plan on responding, she moves on. “What about Mr. Tipton? He’s kind of cute, huh?”
“Isn’t he a bit young for you?” I quip.
“How old do you think I am?”
I shrug. This is dangerous territory. “Older than he is, for sure.”
“Is he too old for you?”
“Ew. Yes. I’m not an idiot. Twentysomething dudes who hit on teenagers are gross.”
“Right answer.” She nods approvingly.
I very strongly wish to end this conversation, so I turn and make my way up the brick stairs and into Austen. The detective follows me into the lobby and hands me her card.
“Call me if you think of anything. Or text. I’m hip like that.”
I barely suppress a groan. She’s kind of embarrassing. I shove the card into my coat pocket with my gloves.
“Detective Cataldo, what a pleasure.” Headmistress Fitzgerald’s tone indicates otherwise. But she’s appeared for a reason. Fitzgerald casts an appraising eye on me, and I take my cue to scoot back. I linger just out of Fitzgerald’s eyeline, pretend to check something very important on my phone.
“We’re going to need you to return Emma Russo’s cell phone and laptop to our office within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Excuse me? Those items are logged into evidence, and my team—”
“Your team is a two-bit country outfit, which I hear hasn’t been able to crack a simple laptop password. The board has called in a favor with the FBI. The Russos are in agreement. We need the devices back so the FBI can take over.”
“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