Nightfall (Devil's Night #4) - Penelope Douglas Page 0,24

spinning around and heading for the locker room.

After changing back into my school clothes, I hung my band uniform back up, stored my instrument in my locker, and started to close the door, stopping when I spotted the granola bar.

I twisted my lips to the side, slipping it off the red ribbon around Godzilla’s foot and checking it for holes like I used to do with Halloween candy.

It looked safe.

My stomach hollowed, and suddenly, I was hungry again.

I stuffed it into the center pocket of my black hoodie. I’ll throw it away in the gym.

Slamming the locker door shut, I started walking but looked down and saw the crumpled ticket on the floor.

Crouching down, I picked it up and looked at it again. Must’ve fallen out of my uniform.

For a moment, I was tempted. I wanted to be that girl. The one with a lock-in and cute boys and music and friends to look forward to.

The longing coursed through me and eventually out, and I stuffed it into my hoodie pocket, as well. I’d throw that away with the granola bar, too. Definitely before Martin saw it.

I hurried back to the gym.

“Okay, one!” Bentley Foster called out. “Two…three!”

An hour later, the gym was clean of soda cups and popcorn boxes, the bleachers stored, the hoops raised, and the floors quickly swept. Two of us each picked up the ends of several mats, and on the count of three, pulled them open, spreading the hardwood basketball court with a cushion for sleeping bags and blankets.

In no time, the floor was covered in blue wrestling mats, and my stomach ached at the smell of burgers and nachos wafting in from the kitchen.

I checked the clock in the wall. After eight.

Looking over, I caught the director’s eyes. “Are we good?” I asked her.

“You walking?”

I nodded.

“Then go on and go,” she told me. “Have a good weekend. Be safe.”

“Thanks.” I backed away as they rolled the coolers full of soda and juice out. “You, too.”

I jogged toward the locker room door to collect my uniform and backpack when I heard her behind me, “Open the doors!” she called to someone.

Students had no doubt gathered outside, having packed and stored their sleeping bags in their cars since this morning, probably leaving after the game to eat before they came right back here for the lock-in.

I pushed through the locker room door as the main entrances swung open, letting in the crowd.

“Scott!” Baum shouted.

I stopped, turning around.

She still stood where I left her, muttering into a walkie talkie and then turning her attention back to me. “Coach Dorn is up in her classroom,” she said. “She wants to see you before you leave.”

I hesitated a moment and then sighed. “Okay,” I called out and spun back around, pushing through the door with a hard shove.

I needed to get out of here. It was dark, I was starving, and they didn’t really lock the doors during a lock-in, right? I mean, I was pretty sure that was illegal, but now I didn’t know.

Skipping the stop at my locker, I exited the locker room, swung open the door, and stepped into the hallway, slipping through the students who were trying to get into the gym. I turned left and jogged up the darkened stairs, their footsteps and chatter fading the farther up I climbed.

Mrs. Dorn was not only the swim coach, but she also taught biology on the third floor. I took biology two years ago, though. What did she want?

Was this about me quitting swimming?

Fear cooled my blood. She knew something didn’t sit right about why I’d quit. I could see it on her face.

Reaching the top floor, I grabbed the door handle and pulled it open, entering the silent third floor and looking around.

No lights shone except for the lanterns that glowed outside, and tiny droplets of rain spattered the windows that peered into the courtyard below.

Great. Now I was going to get soaked walking home.

The door closed behind me, and suddenly, the lock-in was miles away.

“Coach?” I called out, walking down the hall toward her classroom.

Heading up to the door, I stopped and peered inside. Stools sat upside down on top of the long, black worktables, and I looked to the teacher’s desk, seeing her computer off, her chair pushed in, and the classroom pitch black.

“Coach?” I said louder this time. “It’s Emory Scott.”

Stepping back into the hallway, I turned, looking around. “Hello?”

But there was no answer.

I dug in my heels, charging down the hall