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playing Candy Crush Saga and Murali is on his Associated Press news app. He told me last year that he wants to go to Northwestern for journalism, but his parents practically have his medical school picked out already.
    “Roxbury?” Kelsey’s nose twitches. “That’s really different from Wheatley.”
    “Maybe that’s the point,” Remy says, her voice quiet.
    I don’t say it, but she’s on to something. Why else would a tier one prep school hire a vice principal from the inner city unless they were trying to send a message: Wheatley is done with scandal. Wheatley means business.
    Professor Matthews, my history teacher from last year, walks down the center aisle and sits in the empty end seat next to April. He tells us he volunteered to help out with Senior Week and nudges April to put her phone away.
    Tierney has taken the stage. She doesn’t need a microphone; there are only fifty kids in the senior class. Fifty teenage bodies in the auditorium.
    Well, forty-nine. Brent still isn’t here.
    “Welcome back, everyone,” Tierney says. “You all look well rested.”
    A few polite chuckles. Remy whispers at Murali, who’s still on his phone, “Matthews is gonna yell at you.”
    “Shut up for a second,” Murali hisses back. Remy blinks at him, shocked. Murali is not the type of guy to tell a girl to shut up.
    “What’s wrong?” I whisper to him, at the same time as I see the headline of the news story he’s reading on his phone.
Dorchester home invasion victim identified as MIT graduate
    Murali scrolls down, revealing a picture of Dr. Muller.

CHAPTER
    FIVE
    “What?” It spills out of me, loudly enough for Matthews to turn his head. Cole looks over Murali’s shoulder, at the screen of his phone.
    “Holy shit,” he says.
    “Gentlemen,” Matthews hisses.
    My pulse races. Murali slips his phone into his pocket, frowning. Matthews seems mollified. I pinch the inside of my wrist, hard. There’s no way this is real life. There’s no way Dr. Muller is dead. I just saw him two weeks ago.
    He texted me three days ago.
    But of course, I can’t tell anyone that.
    When Matthews isn’t looking, I get out my phone. I search “Rowan Muller” and click on the first news article. It’s dated yesterday.
The family of Rowan Muller, PhD, arrived at the South African Embassy in Boston, Massachusetts, this evening to identify their son’s body. Muller, 29, missed his flight from Boston’s Logan Airport to Cape Town last Monday. Police visited his apartment in Dorchester and found Muller dead of a single gunshot wound.
    “What’s it say?” Cole leans over Murali.
    “Mr. Redmond and Miss Dowling.” Matthews whispers so loudly that people in the row in front of us turn around. Fucking Cole. I put my phone away and try to focus on Tierney. My cheeks heat when I see that she’s paused, and staring straight at my row.
    “This week, I implore your help in setting an excellent example for the incoming freshman class. In light of recent events, Wheatley’s reputation has suffered. But not its morale.” She clears her throat. “That’s why you may notice several changes around campus this year.”
    Yeah , I think. Like a disturbing trend involving teachers going missing.
     
     
    As soon as we get back to the dorm, I turn on the local news. April and Kelsey crowd into our room, since they didn’t hook up their television yet. On screen, police officers tape off the area outside an apartment complex.
    “This is so horrible,” Kelsey says. “I didn’t have him, but everyone says he was the nicest—”
    I don’t have it in me to tell her to shut up, so I raise the volume on the television to the maximum.
    “… an apparent home invasion gone wrong. Several personal items were stolen from Muller’s home, including a laptop and the victim’s phone.”
    A photo of Dr. Muller with his family in South Africa flashes across the screen. Remy, Kelsey, and April are still talking. I resist the urge to choke them all.