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Shut up. You don’t know what this means.
    “Anyone with information is asked to call 1-555-CRIME.”
    And then the anchor is onto the construction delays in the Back Bay.
    “So horrible,” Kelsey repeats. The girls shake their heads reverently.
    “That’s why they call it Deathchester, I guess.”
    Remy jabs April in the ribs.
    I can’t take much more of this. I grab my cell phone and find a quiet nook in the hallway on the floor above us. I call the number from the new spot and get an automated message assuring me that my call will remain anonymous. I swallow away the sour taste in my mouth.
    A bored voice cuts off the hold music. “Mass Crime stoppers.”
    “I think … I think I have information about a murder case,” I say. “Rowan Muller. I saw him, two-ish weeks ago, and he told me—”
    “Hold on, hold on,” the man says, as if I should know how this works. “I’ll transfer you to the officer assigned to the case.”
    A click. More elevator music accompanied by a recording about how together, we can stop crime. My eyelids are drooping before a woman picks up the phone.
    “Officer Gonnelly.”
    I try to launch into my story, but she cuts me off with a stream of generic questions. How long did I know Dr. Muller? When did I last see him? Did anything seem suspicious when I last saw him?
    “That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I say. “He was looking for his girlfriend. They were both teachers at the Wheatley School. She disappeared last May.”
    A pause. “So Rowan Muller was dating another teacher. Can anyone confirm this?”
    I pull my knees up to my chest. “I don’t know—they didn’t tell anyone, I don’t think. They were both new, and wouldn’t want to get in trouble—”
    “Got it.” Officer Gonnelly is gruff. No doubt, if I were there in person, she’d be the type of cop who wouldn’t stop scribbling notes long enough to look me in the eye. “Does this girlfriend have a name?”
    This girlfriend. Like I’m making it up. Officer Gonnelly is definitely not going to like my response. “That’s the problem. She went by Jessica Cross at the school, but Dr. Muller said that wasn’t her real name. She stole the identity of some woman who died years ago.”
    Another loaded pause. I picture Gonnelly waving over her partner, covering the mouthpiece of the phone and whispering, Come listen to this crap. “So Mr. Muller was seeing another teacher. Can anyone else confirm the stolen identity story?”
    “No, but he texted me before he went missing. He gave me the name Natalie Barnes. Just look up Jessica Cross from Acworth, Georgia, and get Ms. Cross’s personnel file from Wheatley—”
    “Thanks, honey. We’ll look into it.”
    My toes curl. Once someone drops a honey bomb on you, it’s pretty much a given they’re not going to take anything you say seriously.
    “Wait,” I say. “I know it sounds crazy, but I swear I’m not making it up.”
    “We’ll call you if anything comes of your tip. What’s the best number to reach you at?”
    I clench my jaw and give her my cell.
    If the BPD won’t find Natalie Barnes, then I will.
     
     
    By lunchtime, we all have an email from Dean Tierney in our in-boxes.
Faculty, staff, and students,
I regret to inform you that Dr. Rowan Muller, a former teacher at Wheatley, has died in tragic circumstances.
Although Dr. Muller was not with us for very long, he was well liked among faculty and students. Anyone wishing to pay their respects may note that Muller’s colleagues at Massachusetts Institute of Technology are holding a small memorial service this Thursday at ten in the morning.
    “Do you think they’ll let us out of orientation if we want to go?” Murali’s upper lip quivers for a millisecond. He catches me staring at him and turns his head.
    “I doubt it.” Cole spears the hard-boiled egg on top of his spinach salad. For some reason, it only reminds me that Brent still isn’t here. Brent is the only one who would listen