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to me about Dr. Muller—that this isn’t some random murder.
    And then I realize that I’m thinking of the old Brent—the one who helped me find Isabella’s killer. The new Brent is the one who called me crazy for even thinking I could find Matt Weaver—and then pulling farther away from me when I did.
    We all start our walk to the quad, where we’re breaking into groups of four to start “orientation leader training.” (Read: Get a stupid T-shirt and do trust falls.) It’s a picturesque late summer day—it’s early enough that it’s balmy, even though it’ll be hot as Satan’s balls by the afternoon. The flowers lining the walkways are in full bloom, and the whole scene looks like it was torn out of a brochure for the Ivy Leagues. The occasional shout and high-pitched giggle from the quad punctuate the calm.
    It’s eerie as hell. After Isabella was murdered, the quiet was different. It was a loaded silence—as if everyone was afraid to talk. Now that a teacher we barely knew has been killed, it’s as if the quiet stems from the fact that we have nothing to say.
    Damn shame the physics teacher got shot in the head. Wonder if they’ll have potato salad at the welcome barbecue?
    Campus is swarming with families, their attention focused on freshmen who look mortified to be breathing the same air as their parents. A woman in a pantsuit holding a map in front of her face steps sideways into me on the quad path. She doesn’t apologize. I almost spit a snotty remark at her—then I see the mortified girl standing to the side of her.
    “Mama.” Her deep brown eyes are wide. Her mother ignores her and loudly wonders where the freshman dorms are.
    “I’m so sorry,” the girl says to me. She’s pretty, with bronze skin and a thick black braid that reaches almost down to her waist. I soften a bit.
    “It’s okay.” I smile at her. She flushes. “If you’re looking for the dorms, just pick a path and go straight.”
    There’s chaos on the quad; apparently our first task for the day is picking up orientation leader T-shirts before we meet up with our groups. I wait for small shirts with April and Kelsey as Remy trots off to the extra-small line. Someone taps my shoulder, and I turn around to face Brent. He’s wearing half a smile, and a Black Keys concert T-shirt with his aviator sunglasses hanging from the collar.
    “Brent!” Kelsey and April shriek. He gives them both a one-armed hug. Steps back instead of reaching for me. With his thumb, he scratches the outermost point of his eyebrow. It’s his nervous tic.
    I wonder what mine is. Whether I’m doing it right now, and if Brent notices.
    “Hey, ladies.”
    April and Kels start asking him a million questions about England, but they all fall short of my ears. I know it’s selfish to want him to myself right now. Brent was their friend first, and now that I’m not his girlfriend, I’d better get used to being just one of the girls.
    We take a collective step forward as the group in front of us moves away, shirts in hand. Brent’s voice is in my ear.
    “You’re back.”
    “I am,” I say.
    “You could have texted me or something.” His voice is light. Not accusing. And he doesn’t seem all that surprised to see me. Remy must have told him already.
    “I had my phone taken away,” I say. “But I’ll be sure to tell you next time I’m expelled then sent back here against my will.”
    Brent lowers his voice. “This isn’t easy for me either.”
    “What? Seeing me?”
    His lips part, but nothing comes out.
    We don’t talk as we get our T-shirts and break away to find our groups. The sad thing is, I’m not even offended that he basically admitted he was dreading seeing me.
    I wish the worst thing that could have happened this week was realizing I would have to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner with my ex-boyfriend. Dr. Muller’s murder eclipses all of my BS problems.
    His murder is a reminder that what happened last year isn’t over.
    I make