"A beloved professor at the University of Colorado for over thirty years. Even after he retired, he couldn't stop teaching. Which is why, when I needed a Latin instructor this summer and couldn't find one, he jumped at the chance..."

As I blinked away sudden tears, I noticed Arbor in the crowd. He was still. Just like always, the hub in the center of a wheel of fidgeting, whispering kids.

There was something he'd told me, last night. Something weird. What had he said?

Do you have a good memory?

"Quentin Pryce was a mentor to generations of students."

I let Princ.i.p.al Davis's words drift over me, unheard, as I reached back into my mind and tried to remember.

Your name's much better. Evangeline. s.e.xy. The first time we met. In Latin, after I'd heard about him from Britta. I was attracted to him immediately. And immediately suspicious. Something about him told me he was dangerous. False.

"He was a guide. A friend, even. But above all, a teacher..."

Most deaths are accidental. Our presentation, when he'd strayed from the outline and looked daggers at me. Like he was throwing the words at a target. Trying to make them stick.

Others are not so lucky.

G.o.d, he's been giving me clues. He can't talk about the murders openly, for some reason. He's been trying to clue me in. How long has this been going on? I reached back in my memory, back to the day he took me to Denver. To see Dido.

Some say it wasn't suicide, you know.

My breath caught in my throat. Oh, Jesus. Mom.

Most deaths are accidental. Others are not so lucky. Some say it wasn't suicide, you know.

I turned to look at him through the crowd, and caught his eye. I was beginning to understand, but I couldn't quite fit all the pieces together. He saw me. He saw what was happening. As Princ.i.p.al Davis finished up his speech, Arbor pushed through the crowd, politely, and approached the podium. I saw him speak quietly with Princ.i.p.al Davis.

"Now we have a few words from one of Dr. Pryce's students. If any other student wishes to come up and say something about Dr. Pryce, you are most welcome."

He ceded the microphone to Arbor, who stepped up behind the podium and addressed us.

"My name is Arbor Vitae Damo da Rosa," he said. "I'm new this year at Peaks High. I just wanted to say that Quentin Pryce made me feel welcome. He was a wonderful teacher. I think the best thing about him a his most notable quality a was how he helped his students find their own voices. He helped me listen to myself. He helped me hear my own words."

I swear, Arbor stared straight into my eyes as he said this. Almost as though he were talking only to me. Trying to give me one last clue.

"I thank him for that." He stepped down. Someone else took the mic. There was a string of people waiting now, a long line of memories and kind thoughts.

I barely heard them. My mind was in a whirl. My mom hadn't committed suicide. It's what Arbor had been trying to tell me all along. Taking me to see the Dido statue, all those odd comments...

But through it all, a common theme. I am always lying. I am a liar.

I didn't know what to believe.

"Hear your own words." As if he'd come up beside me. Whispered it in my ear.

This whole thing was one big riddle. Always had been. The shoes, the murders, fire, the accidents. My mother.

Riddle.

Hear your own words.

Again I thought back to Denver. My own words. In a riddle.

He is the Mower for the Sower. Daily he comes, and yet only once in a lifetime.

He is Death.

The answer I'd given Bram Snepvangers. He is Death.

My name is Arbor Vitae Damo da Rosa. And then I heard Quentin, on the first day of cla.s.s. Arbor Vitae. Lovely name. The Tree of Life. It supports the heavens, grounds the earth, and with its roots reaches into the underworld, linking all three.

He is Death.

I almost fainted. The sun was so bright, flooding my eyes with a red haze. I slumped, and Ellen caught me. She walked me slowly out of the crush of bodies, over to a stone bench at the bottom of the hill.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I have to get home," I said. "Right now."

She was curious, but she didn't ask. She simply walked me to the parking lot and gave me a ride. When I stepped shakily out of her car, crunching and twisting my ankle a little on the unstable red gravel of my driveway, she said, "You're okay, right?"

"I'm not sure."

"Should I be worried?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I'm really not sure."

Ellen is such a good friend. She could have pressed me, made me feel even more uncomfortable and scared than I was already. But she didn't. She only said "Love you, girl," and backed her car down the driveway.

"Love you too."

The house was empty. Callie was still at work. I noticed the barren flowerbeds when I opened the door, and the gra.s.s that was long and uneven. The trim that needed painting. The kitchen that wasn't clean. When I was a kid I always thought I had too many ch.o.r.es a I never realized how much our mom did for us. I mean, housework plus her full-time job. Not to mention dinners and sc.r.a.ped knees and trips to the dentist.

I was just starting to understand her life. All it took was her death to get it through my thick head.

Shut up, Evi. It's not your fault. This is what those counselors in Montana had drilled into me this summer. It's not my fault she died. She was sick. So much stress. It's not my fault.

But wasn't I part of the stress? I remembered all the times I was a brat to her. All the times we'd ended up yelling at each other because something hadn't gone my way. I always blamed her.

This is crazy. That's what I told myself as I ran upstairs, threw off my coat and rummaged around in my closet, fingers sliding over dusty cardboard. You just want her depression not to be true. The suicide not to have happened. You want her to have been murdered instead, just so that you can absolve yourself. Selfish.

I felt my heart breaking as I lifted the lid, and searched frantically for the envelope in between the piles of junk. Bazooka Joe wrappers, plastic dinosaurs, construction paper stars. There, in the corner. It was creased and wrinkled from the last time I'd looked at it.

Trying to shut out my own d.a.m.ning words, I heard Arbor's voice again. You know who you should listen to?

Mom, are you there?

I pulled the letter out of the envelope. I smoothed it on the bedspread. What are you trying to tell me?

Mothers are full of wisdom.

But it was the same letter. I read it over and over, with no new insight.

My children, Underneath this calm, motherly exterior, I've been feeling rotten, and it's just been getting worse as the years pa.s.s. Rest a.s.sured that I love you both. Don't worry about me; you two just take care of each other. Evangeline, listen to your big sister. Remember to eat healthy and get all your exercise in.

Well, that's it. The whole kit and kaboodle. Bye.

There was nothing in those words. I'd read them before, searching for meaning. What was different this time?

They never lie without a good reason.

a.s.suming that Arbor was right, and my mother was lying about her depression, what could I glean from that? What was I supposed to understand? I read it a fifth time, and a sixth. Don't worry about me. Remember to eat healthy.

It made no sense.

I left the letter on the bed and paced around my room. I knew something was there. Knew it. But my brain wasn't working. Think, Evi.

There was nothing in the words themselves. Okay. Let's say that's true. Maybe a code of some sort. I ran back to the bed and pored over the paper, feeling a strain coming on in my neck. I didn't care; I had to crack this.

What about reading the first word of every sentence? I laughed all of a sudden. It was such a Sat.u.r.day morning detective cartoon solution. Like Carmen Sandiego or something.

Underneath. Rest. Don't. Evangeline. Remember. Well. The.

Okay, so that didn't make much sense. I mean, it was almost something. I rearranged the words a couple different ways: "Evangeline, remember well. Don't rest underneath." "Remember, Evangeline, rest underneath the well."

I growled softly in frustration. Nothing. I took the first letter of every word. M C U T C M E... That wasn't anything. Then I stopped. I breathed in sharply.

The first letter of every sentence in the first paragraph spelled out a word.

M U R D E R.

"Oh my G.o.d," I gasped. "It's true."

Mom wasn't concerned about my weight. She was desperate to leave a message, any message that told the truth about her death. No wonder the letter didn't sound like her at all. MURDER. It was there, in all caps. So simple. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed before!

"I'm sorry, Mom." I whispered it to the empty room.

Then I looked at the last three sentences. They were separated from the first paragraph by a sizable margin.

Well, that's it. The whole kit and kaboodle. Bye.

Didn't seem to follow the pattern. Maybe those three sentences didn't mean anything. Maybe they were just my mom laughing at fate. Emphasizing the weirdness of the first paragraph so that we'd notice the secret message she'd left us.

Either way, I knew I had to talk to Callie.

Hands trembling, I slid my cell phone out of my purse and dialed her number. She answered after three rings. Her voice was rough. I could tell right away that something was wrong.

"Evi?" she asked.

"Something important just happened," I said. "It's about Mom."

"Sorry, Ev. Can't talk. New developments on the case, and things are moving fast."

My knees went weak and I sat down on the bed. A breeze picked up through the window and Mom's letter fluttered to my knee, almost comforting. I smoothed it as I whispered, "What? Can you tell me?"

There was silence on the other end. I think Callie must have closed herself in a bathroom or her office or something. Eventually, in a low voice, she said "That book was stolen out of evidence last night. Right through all of our security. We didn't get forensics on it. Nothing. The team didn't even know I'd brought it in; it was only thirty minutes ago when I went to check up on their progress with it that we found out what happened. It just disappeared, Evi."

My stomach hit the floor.

"They're bringing in Arbor now, to be questioned."

"He's not a murderer." Tears p.r.i.c.ked my eyes. Whatever Arbor was doing with the Aeneid a and I was pretty sure it was he who had stolen it a it wasn't malicious. He wasn't the murderer, the psychotic strangler we were looking for.

He was some sort of Grim Reaper. Angel of Death. I don't know.

But he wasn't to blame for taking the lives of Quentin or Ernest. Or our mother. He knew that someone was going to die at that dance, but not who. He thought it might be me, after all. And here I am.

"He's our only lead, Evi. We know he took the shoes. He obviously has an interest in these... artifacts. And he may well be the killer."

"He's not."

"Then come down here and talk to him. Get him to confess, tell us what he's up to. Maybe his information can at least start us in the right direction."

I sighed. "He won't talk. To me or to you."

Something about "the weight of ages." Whatever that meant.

Callie didn't say anything for a moment. She was thinking. I could almost see her squinting into the semidarkness of whatever janitor's closet (Gun cupboard? Billy club repository?) she'd hidden herself in.

"This is crazy," she began. "This plan that's about to come out of my mouth."

"Okay," I said. "I accept that."

"Look, you're sure that Arbor isn't the killer? I mean, there's no possibility at all?" Her tone was strained. Like she couldn't believe she was entertaining whatever crazy idea she'd had.

"None." I was sure. Finally, absolutely sure.

"All right," she breathed. "Then after he's questioned and released, you have to go over to his condo and seduce him."

"What?"

"You say he won't tell you anything? Fine. You'll snoop. Wearing a wire, of course. I'll be outside, ready to bust in if there's any trouble."

"I don't know..."

"You're my only play, here, Evi. And you said it yourself. This killer isn't going to stop. He's going to... What was the line from the poem?"