They walked through the halls toward the main office just as class broke, spilling hundreds of tartan-clad girls into the corridors. The noise was deafening. Jessica had already been five eight and had weighed 125 in ninth grade—a stat she mercifully maintained to this day, give or take 5 pounds, mostly give. Back then she had been taller than 90 percent of her classmates. Now it seemed that half the girls were her height or taller.

They followed a group of three girls down the corridor to the principal’s office. As Jessica watched them, she sanded away the years. A dozen years earlier, the girl on the left, the one making a point a little too loudly, would have been Tina Mannarino. Tina was the first to get a French manicure, the first to sneak a pint of peach schnapps into a Christmas assembly. The stout one next to her, the one who rolled the top of her skirt to challenge the rule of hems being an inch from the floor when kneeling, would have been Judy Babcock. Last count, Judy, who was now Judy Pressman, had four daughters. So much for short skirts. Jessica would have been the girl on the right: a little too tall, too angular and thin, always listening, looking, observing, calculating, scared of everything, never showing it. Five parts attitude, one part steel.

The girls now carried MP3 players instead of Sony Walkmans. They listened to Christina Aguilera and 50 Cent instead of Bryan Adams and Boyz II Men. They mooned over Ashton Kutcher instead of Tom Cruise.

Okay, they probably still mooned over Tom Cruise.

Everything changes.

But nothing ever does.

In the principal’s office Jessica noted that not much had changed,

either. The walls were still a bland, eggshell enamel, the air was still fragrant with a mixture of lavender and lemon Pledge.

They met the principal, Sister Veronique, a bird-like woman in her sixties, with quick blue eyes and even quicker movements. When Jessica had attended the school, the principal had been Sister Isolde. Sister Veronique might have been the older nun’s twin—sturdy, pale, with a low center of gravity. She moved with the surety of purpose that can only come from years of chasing down and disciplining young girls.

They introduced themselves and took seats in front of her desk. “How can I help you?” Sister Veronique asked.

“I’m afraid we may have some troubling news about one of your students,” Byrne said.

Sister Veronique had grown up in the age of Vatican I. In those days the notion of trouble at a Catholic high school usually meant petty larceny, smoking, and drinking, maybe the occasional pregnancy. Now it was pointless to speculate.

Byrne handed her the Polaroid close-up of the girl’s face.

Sister Veronique glanced at the picture, then quickly averted her eyes and crossed herself.

“Do you recognize her?” Byrne asked.

Sister Veronique forced herself to look again at the photograph. “No. I’m afraid I don’t know her. But we have more than a thousand students. About three hundred are new this term.”

She took a moment, then leaned over and pressed a button on the intercom on her desk. “Would you ask Dr. Parkhurst to step into my office?”

Sister Veronique was clearly shaken. Her voice trembled slightly. “Is she...?”

“Yes,” Byrne said. “She’s dead.”

Sister Veronique crossed herself again. “How did she...who would...why?” she managed.

“It’s early in the investigation, Sister.”

Jessica glanced around the office, which was pretty much as she remembered it. She felt the worn arms of the chair in which she sat, wondering how many girls had nervously perched in this chair over the past dozen years.

After a few moments, a man walked into the office.

“This is Dr. Brian Parkhurst,” Sister Veronique said. “He is our head guidance counselor.”

Brian Parkhurst was in his early thirties, a tall, slender man with fine features, close-cropped reddish gold hair, and the faint remnants of a faceful of childhood freckles. Conservatively dressed in a deep gray tweed sport coat, button-down blue oxford shirt, and shiny kilty-andtassel loafers, he wore no wedding ring.

“These people are with the police,” Sister Veronique said.

“My name is Detective Byrne,” Byrne said. “This is my partner, Detective Balzano.”

Handshakes all around.

“How can I help you?” Parkhurst asked.

“You’re the guidance counselor here?”

“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “I’m also the school psychiatrist.”

“You’re an MD?”

“Yes.”

Byrne showed him the Polaroid.

“My God,” he said, the color draining from his face.

“Do you know her?” Byrne asked.

“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “It’s Tessa Wells.”

“We’re going to need to contact her family,” Byrne said.

“Of course.” Sister Veronique took another moment to compose herself, before turning to her computer and tapping a few keys. In a moment, Tessa Wells’s school records appeared on the screen, along with her personal data. Sister Veronique regarded the screen as if it were an obituary, then hit a key and started the laser printer in the corner of the room.

“When was the last time you saw her?” Byrne asked Brian Parkhurst.

Parkhurst paused. “I believe it was Thursday.”

“Thursday of last week?”

“Yes,” Parkhurst said. “She stopped by the office to discuss college applications.”

“What can you tell us about her, Dr. Parkhurst?”

Brian Parkhurst took a moment to organize his thoughts. “Well, she was very bright. A little on the quiet side.”

“A good student?”

“Very,” Parkhurst said. “Carried a 3.8 average if I’m not mistaken.”

“Was she in school Friday?”

Sister Veronique tapped a few keys. “No.”

“What time do classes start?”

“Seven fifty,” Parkhurst said.

“And what time do you let out?”

“Generally around two forty-five,” Sister Veronique said. “But intramural and extracurricular activities can sometimes keep students here until five and six o’clock.”

“Was she a member of any clubs?”

Sister Veronique tapped a few more keys. “She’s a member of the Baroque Ensemble. They’re a small classical chamber group. But they only meet every two weeks. There were no rehearsals last week.” “Do they meet here on campus?”

“Yes,” Sister Veronique said.