MARGOT HAD BEEN DEBATING WHETHER OR NOT TO ASK FOR help in finding the identity of the faceless girl in the photo. Though it appeared to have no bearing on Ronny’s murder, the timing was suspect. The first envelope arrived the day Ronny’s death was announced, and though logic suggested this was simply a coincidence, Margot could not dismiss a connection out of hand. If the envelopes were somehow connected to Ronny’s murder, she needed to find out.
She’d spent a significant amount of time trying to figure out who had taken the photo, exhausting all of her own resources, which despite her access to high-grade equipment, were relatively meager. She didn’t have the kind of freedom that would allow her to drive all over town, employing photo experts who might be able to sharpen the contrast or lighten the exposure. If she wasn’t at school, she was at home, and her leash was a short one.
But there was one person Margot knew she could trust.
She found Ed the Head at lunch outside the boys’ locker room by the health-food vending machine, selling candy bars to freshmen.
“I know they’re only a buck at the grocery store,” he said. “But you see, I’m a businessman. And as such, I have meticulously studied the supply and demand of my various products here at Bishop DuMaine, and right here, right now, this Snickers bar is worth exactly three dollars to you. But, if your mommy didn’t give you that kind of cash in your lunch box today . . .” He slipped the candy bar back into his bag. “You can wait until after school to taste the magical sugar rush that is—”
“Fine!” the freshman said. He fished three wadded-up dollar bills out of the pocket of his gym shorts and handed them over. “Anything to shut you up.”
Ed the Head smiled broadly as he exchanged the contraband for the money. “It was lovely doing business with you.”
He turned to leave and spotted Margot lurking near the water fountain. “Margot, my own true love. Did you get hauled in for questioning today?”
“Of course not,” Margot snapped, eyes darting around the courtyard to make sure they were alone. “I told you, I have no connection to DGM.”
“If you say so.” He winked. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“I need you,” Margot began.
Ed the Head leaned into her. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words?”
Margot wasn’t about to be sidetracked. She whipped the manila envelope out of her backpack and held it between them. She pulled out a single photo, handed it to Ed the Head, and pointed to the silhouette of the photographer reflected in the darkened window. “I need to know who this is.”
“Hmm.” Ed the Head scanned the photo from top to bottom. His eyes settled on Amber first, then he squinted at the figure in question. “Well, we know it’s not Amber Stevens.”
“Cute.”
“When was this taken?”
“Four years ago.”
“Interesting.” Ed the Head flipped the photo over. “No developer’s watermark. Looks like DIY photo paper, generic, the kind my mom uses to print digital photos for her scrapbooks.”
That made sense. Whoever was behind the manila envelopes had been taking great pains not to leave a paper trail, which included the use of the most generic, nondescript materials available.
“Do you have the digital version?” Ed the Head asked.
“Just this.”
“Can I keep it?”
Margot nodded. She’d already scanned a high-res copy at home.
Ed the Head contemplated the photo. “Okay,” he said at last. “I can probably figure out what kind of phone it was taken from, maybe run the hard copy through some filters and see if I can sharpen the image. Can’t promise anything, and”—he glanced up at her—“this won’t be cheap.”
“How much?”
Ed slipped the photo into his backpack. “Let’s say, a concert? Next Sunday night?”
Margot arched an eyebrow. “You want me to buy you a concert ticket?”
“No, babe. I want you to go to a concert with me.”
Margot swallowed, completely taken aback. “Like a date?”
“You can call it that if you’d like as long as you’re there.”
Ed the Head was asking her on a date? Did he really think of her that way, or was this part of some elaborate scheme? It was confusing and, odd to admit, kind of flattering.
Ed took her silence as an answer and hastily unzipped his backpack. “If you can’t afford the price tag, I’ll just give this back to you.”
Margot sighed. “Fine.”
Ed smiled broadly. “And don’t think you can weasel out of this one, Margot.”
“Then your information had better be worth it.”
As much as Bree hated the idea of following an anonymous lead left in her bag, the temptation to find out what was in the library was too much. Besides, she couldn’t shake the niggling idea that the envelopes were somehow connected to Ronny’s murder. She needed to follow the trail and see where it led, and with any luck, she could uncover a murderer.
The first chance John would have to get into the Bishop DuMaine library would be lunch, and Bree made sure she was there, staking out the reference stacks, before he arrived.
They hadn’t spoken all weekend, and John had pointedly ignored her through first-period religion, even after they returned from the police questioning. She’d half-hoped the friction between them would have eased over the weekend, but no such luck. If anything, the gap had widened.
And now here she was stalking him. What was wrong with her?
It’s for his own good. That’s what she kept telling herself. Someone was leading John down the primrose path, and though the who and why escaped her, Bree felt the overwhelming urge to protect him, especially with a murder rap hanging in the balance.
John had already figured out the meaning behind the DGM acronym. How long before he discovered their identities as well? If the police tried to pin Ronny’s murder on John, would he give up what he knew about DGM? Would he, unwittingly, put Bree in danger?
And would she let him take the fall if he didn’t?
A desk bell rang, a silvery ding that pierced the silence, and the librarian shuffled out of her office. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for yearbooks,” John said.
“Any volumes in particular?”
“The last two.”
There’s a photo of DGM if you know where to look. Check the school library.
Two years. DGM had started two years ago.
A loud thud signaled that the librarian had deposited the requested materials on the circulation desk.
Bree keenly remembered the day freshman year when she, Olivia, Margot, and Kitty had all been assigned to a group project in religion class where Don’t Get Mad had been born. She was pretty sure no one else at Bishop DuMaine even remembered that project, let alone connected the dots between the four of them, but was it possible that a photo of them together existed? Could the anonymous tipster be right?
“Find what you’re looking for?” the librarian asked impatiently, clearly ready to get back to her work.
“Not really,” he said absently. “You don’t happen to have copies of the DuMaine Dispatch in the library, do you?”
The librarian sighed. “Of course. We keep hard copies going back several years; the rest are scanned and archived in the database.” She pointed to a filing cabinet near the magazine rack. “Knock yourself out.”
The library fell silent once more except for the sound of Bree’s heart thundering in her ears. She’d never been particularly religious, but at that moment she prayed that John wouldn’t find what he was looking for, and that he’d give up the wild DGM goose chase for good.
As if in answer to her futile prayers, John suddenly gasped. Bree peeked around the bookshelf and watched as he fished his cell phone out of the pocket of his black jeans and took a photo of an issue of the DuMaine Dispatch spread out across the top of the cabinet. He quickly stuffed the issue back into the file, closed the drawer, and started to walk away.
He seemed energized, excited about something; then he suddenly paused midstep. He hung there a moment and appeared to be having some sort of conversation with himself, then swung around and returned to the file cabinet. He pulled out an issue of the Dispatch and cast a furtive look at the librarian, who had retreated to a back office; then, without a second thought, John ripped a section of the page clean away and shoved it into his notebook.
It took every ounce of self-control for Bree to keep still until the library door clicked shut behind John before she sprinted to the file cabinet.
Back issues of the DuMaine Dispatch hung in file folders, labeled by date. Bree’s eyes were immediately drawn to one issue, which sat askew, sticking up from the overstuffed drawer. She flipped through, and it fell open to a page where the lower half had been hastily torn away.
Bree scanned the vandalized page, looking for some hint as to what John had removed. The top half was still intact, and it appeared to be an article on community outreach programs at Bishop DuMaine. Bree’s breath came in quick gasps. The project in religion class that had brought DGM together? Community outreach. Shit, shit, shit. Could there possibly be some mention of their names in that article? Some hint of the carefully protected secret of their connection to one another?
She turned to the front and checked the date—spring semester of her freshman year at Bishop DuMaine.
Bree was at the circulation desk in an instant. “Excuse me?” she said impatiently, tapping the bell several times in an erratic tattoo. “I need some help.”
The librarian slowly appeared at the office door. “Yes?” she said, making no attempt to mask her annoyance.
“I was wondering, do you have any additional copies of the DuMaine Dispatch? Other than what’s in the file cabinet?”
“Why is everyone so interested in the school paper today?” the librarian muttered. She shook her head. “We archive issues after ten years. Only hard copies of the newer issues are in the file cabinet.”
“Oh.” Crap. She needed to know what was in the photo John had ripped out of the paper. “What about online?”
“Well, of course,” she said, as if stating the obvious. “All the recent issues are online. This isn’t the nineties.” Without waiting for another question, she disappeared back into her office.
Bree sheepishly retreated to a table and pulled up the school website on her tablet. It took several minutes before she could find the correct issue, then agonizing moments as each page loaded with such painful slowness Bree felt like she was being punished. She bounced her foot under the table, silently cursing her cell network. Hurry up and load!
Finally, she was able to scroll through to the article. The photo was tiny—all she could make out were students grouped around tables. But when she zoomed in, her stomach dropped. There, sitting at a table together, were the soon-to-be members of Don’t Get Mad: Kitty, Margot, Olivia, and Bree.
