Hence he had not familiarized himself with Havermeyer's "Emergency Memorandum," nor the article written by the National Teaching League, "Preparing a Student Body for Grief or, most critically, that confidential list prepared by b.u.t.ters ent.i.tled, "Ones to Watch," which included my name, as well as the Bluebloods': "These students in particular will be affected by the recent loss. Pay close attention to their behavior and academic performance and alert myself or our newly appointed counselor, Deb Cromwell, of any abnormalities. This is a very delicate situation." "These students in particular will be affected by the recent loss. Pay close attention to their behavior and academic performance and alert myself or our newly appointed counselor, Deb Cromwell, of any abnormalities. This is a very delicate situation." (These confidential faculty doc.u.ments had been stolen, Xeroxed and illicitly trafficked among the student body. By whom, no one knew. Some said it was Maxwell Stuart, others said Dee and Dum.) (These confidential faculty doc.u.ments had been stolen, Xeroxed and illicitly trafficked among the student body. By whom, no one knew. Some said it was Maxwell Stuart, others said Dee and Dum.) "Actually," said Jessica Rothstein across the room, crossing her arms, "I think it's okay to excuse Blue today." Her kinky brown curls, which at distances greater than fifteen feet resembled one thousand wet wine corks, trembled in perfect unison.

"Is that so?" Mr. Moats spun around to face her. Mr. Moats spun around to face her. "And why is that?" "And why is that?"

"She's been through an ordeal," ordeal," said Jessica loudly, displaying the thrilling conviction of a young person who knows she's Right, the old guy in front of her (who should, in theory, have Maturity and Experience working for him) Flat-Out Wrong. said Jessica loudly, displaying the thrilling conviction of a young person who knows she's Right, the old guy in front of her (who should, in theory, have Maturity and Experience working for him) Flat-Out Wrong.

"An ordeal," repeated Moats.

"Yes. An ordeal."

"What sort of ordeal are we talking about? I'm intrigued."

Jessica made a face of exasperation. "She's had a rough week." rough week." She was desperately glancing around the room now wishing someone else would take over. Jessica preferred to be Captain of this rescue, making the phone call, giving the order. Jessica had no desire to be the Private who flew the HH-43F helicopter from Bin Ty Ho Airbase, emergency-landed in enemy territory, crawled through rice paddies, waterholes, elephant gra.s.s and landmines with over seventy pounds of ammo and C-rations tied to her, carrying the wounded solider seven miles and spending the night on the mosquitoed bank of the Cay Ni River before boarding a rescue bird coming at 0500 hours. She was desperately glancing around the room now wishing someone else would take over. Jessica preferred to be Captain of this rescue, making the phone call, giving the order. Jessica had no desire to be the Private who flew the HH-43F helicopter from Bin Ty Ho Airbase, emergency-landed in enemy territory, crawled through rice paddies, waterholes, elephant gra.s.s and landmines with over seventy pounds of ammo and C-rations tied to her, carrying the wounded solider seven miles and spending the night on the mosquitoed bank of the Cay Ni River before boarding a rescue bird coming at 0500 hours.

"Miss Rothstein enjoys beating around the bush," said Moats.

"I'm just saying she's had a hard time, okay? That's all."

"Well, life isn't a cakewalk, is it?!" asked Moats. "Eighty-nine percent of the world's most valuable art was created by men living in rat-infested flats. You think Velazquez wore Adidas? asked Moats. "Eighty-nine percent of the world's most valuable art was created by men living in rat-infested flats. You think Velazquez wore Adidas? You think he enjoyed the luxuries ofcentral heating and twenty-four-hour pizza delivery?!" You think he enjoyed the luxuries ofcentral heating and twenty-four-hour pizza delivery?!"

"No one's talking about Velazquez," said Tim "Raging" Waters, slumped on the stool at the center of the Life Drawing Circle. "We're talking about Hannah Schneider and how Blue was with her when she died" died"

Usually no one, including myself, paid any attention to Raging, so typical his sullen voice and the b.u.mper stickers all over the trunk of his car, 1 LOVE PAIN, BLOOD TASTES GOOD and the words scrawled in black permanent marker all over his backpack, RAGE, ANARCHY, GO F*CK YOURSELF. Whiffs of cigarette smoke followed in his wake like a Just-Married convertible trailing cans. But he said her name, and it floated out into the center of the room like an empty rowboat and-I don't know why-in that moment, I think I would've run away with that pale angry kid if he'd asked me to. I loved him desperately, an agonizing, overwhelming love, for three, maybe four seconds. (That was how things were after Hannah died. You didn't notice someone and when you did you adored adored him/her, wanted to have his/her offspring, until the moment pa.s.sed as abruptly as it had come.) him/her, wanted to have his/her offspring, until the moment pa.s.sed as abruptly as it had come.) Mr. Moats didn't move. He raised a hand to his green plaid vest and kept it pressed there, as if he was going to be sick, or else he was trying to remember words to a song he once knew.

"I see," he said. Gently, he returned my sad Strathmore pad to my easel. "Resume your drawings!" He stood next to me. When I started drawing again, beginning with Raging's leather shoe in the middle of the page (a brown shoe, on the side of which a word was scrawled, Mayhem), Mayhem), Mr. Moats, oddly enough, bent down next to me so his head was inches from the white paper. I sort of glanced over at him, reluctantly, because like the sun, it was never a good idea to stare directly into a teacher's face. Inevitably, you noticed things you wished you hadn't-sleep, moles, hairs, wrinkles, some calloused or discolored patch of skin. You were aware there was a sour, vinegary truth to these physical details, but you didn't want to know what it was, not yet, because it'd directly affect one's ability to pay attention in cla.s.s, to take notes on the many stages of club mosses reproduction, or the exact year and month of the Battle of Gettysburg (July 1863). Mr. Moats, oddly enough, bent down next to me so his head was inches from the white paper. I sort of glanced over at him, reluctantly, because like the sun, it was never a good idea to stare directly into a teacher's face. Inevitably, you noticed things you wished you hadn't-sleep, moles, hairs, wrinkles, some calloused or discolored patch of skin. You were aware there was a sour, vinegary truth to these physical details, but you didn't want to know what it was, not yet, because it'd directly affect one's ability to pay attention in cla.s.s, to take notes on the many stages of club mosses reproduction, or the exact year and month of the Battle of Gettysburg (July 1863).

Moats didn't say anything. His eyes traveled all over my blank paper stopping on Raging down in the corner with his leg over his face, and I watched him, spellbound by his craggy profile, a profile that bore a striking resemblance to the south-eastern coast of England. And then he closed his eyes, and I could see how upset he was, and I started to wonder if perhaps he'd loved Hannah. I was aware too how strange adults were, how their lives were vaster than they wanted anyone to realize, that they actually stretched on and on like deserts, dry and desolate, with an unpredictable, shifting sea of dunes.

"Maybe I should start over on another piece of paper," I said. I wanted him to say something. If he said something, it meant he might bear extreme heat, freezing temperatures at night, the odd sandstorm, but otherwise be all right.

He nodded and stood up again. "Continue."

That day after school, I went to Hannah's cla.s.sroom. I'd hoped n.o.body would be there, but when I walked into Loomis, I saw two freshman girls taping things-it looked like Get Well Soon cards-to Hannah's door. On the floor to their right was a giant picture of Hannah, as well as a pile of flowers- carnations for the most part, in pinks, whites and reds. Peron had mentioned them on the intercom during Afternoon Announcements: "The outpouring of flowers and cards shows us that, despite our different backgrounds we can band together and support each other, not as students, parents, teachers and administrators, but as human beings. Hannah would be overwhelmed with joy." Immediately, I wanted to leave, but the girls had seen me so I had no choice but to continue down the hall.

"Wish we could light the candles."

"Let me me do it. You're going to ruin the whole design, Kara- " do it. You're going to ruin the whole design, Kara- "

"Maybe we should light them anyway. For her her sake, you know?" sake, you know?"

"We can't. can't. Didn't you listen to Ms. Brewster? It's a fire hazard." Didn't you listen to Ms. Brewster? It's a fire hazard."

The taller, pale girl was taping a large card to the door, which sported a giant gold sun and read, "A star has dimmed . . ." The other girl, bowlegged, with black hair, was holding an even larger card, this one handmade with crude orange lettering: TREASURED MEMORIES. There were at least fifty more cards propped up on the floor around the flowers. I bent down so I could read a few.

"Rest in peace. Love, the Friggs," wrote the Friggs. "C U N HEV N," wrote Anonymous. "In this world of bitter religious hatred and unmitigated violence against our fellow man, you were a shining star," wrote Rachid Foxglove. "We'll miss you," wrote Amy Hempshaw and Bill Chews. "I hope you're reincarnated as a mammal and our paths cross again, sooner rather than later because when I go to med school I doubt I'll have a life," wrote Lin Xe-Pen. Some cards were introspective ("Why did it happen?") or harmlessly irreverent ("It'd be cool if you could send me a sign that indicates there's a discernible afterlife, that it's not just eternity in a box because if that's what it is, I'd rather not go through with it."). Others were filled with remarks suitable for Post-its, for shouts out of unrolled windows of cars driving away ("You were an awesome teacher!!!").

"Would you be interested in signing the Condolence Card?" the black-haired girl asked me.

"Sure," I said.

The inside of the Condolence Card was graffitied with student signatures and read: "We find peace and comfort knowing you are now in a Perfect Place." I hesitated signing, but the girl was watching me so I squeezed my name between Charlie Lin and Millicent Newman.

"Thank you very much," said the girl, as if I'd just given her enough change to buy a soft drink. She taped the card to the door.

I walked outside again and stood in the shade of a pine tree in front of the building until I saw them leave, and then returned inside. Someone (the black-haired girl, self-appointed Executor of the H. Schneider Memorial) had placed a plastic green tarp beneath the flowers (all stems pointing in the same direction), as well as a clipboard next to the door that read, "Sign here and pledge a special amount to raise money for the Hannah Schneider Hummingbird Garden. (Minimum donation $5.)"

To be honest, I wasn't especially thrilled with all the grief. It felt artificial, as if they'd taken her away somehow, stolen her, replaced her with this frightening smiling stranger whose giant color faculty photo was laminated and propped up on the floor by a squat unlit candle. It didn't look like her; school photographers, armed with watery lighting and smeary neutral backgrounds, cheerfully leveled everyone's uniqueness, made them look the same. No, the real Hannah, the cinematic one who sometimes got a little too drunk with her bra straps showing, she was being held against her will by all these limp carnations, wobbly signatures, humid sentiments of "Missing U."

I heard a door slam, the stark punctuation of a woman's shoes. Someone pulled open the door at the end of the hall, letting it slam. For one mad moment, I thought it was Hannah; the slim person walking toward me was wearing all black-a black skirt and short-sleeved shirt, black heels -exactly what she wore the first time I saw her, all those months ago in Fat Kat Foods.

But it was Jade.

She looked pale, gutter-thin, her blond hair slicked back in a ponytail. As she pa.s.sed under the fluorescent lights the top of her head flashed a whitish green. Shadows swam through her face as she walked, staring at the floor. When she finally noticed me, I knew she wanted to turn back, but didn't let herself. Jade hated all retreats, U-turns, backpedaling, and second thoughts.

"I don't have to see you if I don't want to," she said as she stopped in front of the flowers and cards. She leaned down and inspected them, a pleasant, relaxed smile on her face as if she were peering in at cases of expensive watches. After a minute, she turned around and stared at me.

"You planning to stand there all day like a moron?"

"Well, I- " I began.

"Because I'm not going to sit here and lug it out of you." She put a hand on her hip. "I a.s.sumed because you've called me like some lunatic stalker for the past week you had something decent to say."

"I do."

"What?"

"I don't understand why everyone's angry at me. I didn't do anything."

Her eyes widened in shock. "How can you not understand what you did?" did?" "What did I do?" She crossed her arms. "If you don't know, Retch, I'm not going to tell "What did I do?" She crossed her arms. "If you don't know, Retch, I'm not going to tell you." She turned and leaned down to inspect the cards again. A minute later, she said: "I mean, you disappeared on purpose purpose and made her go look for you. and made her go look for you.

Like some weird game or something. No, don't even try try to say you went to the bathroom because we found that roll of toilet paper still in Hannah's backpack, okay? And then you-well, we don't know what you did. But Hannah went from laughing with us without a care in the world to hanging from a tree. Dead. You did something." to say you went to the bathroom because we found that roll of toilet paper still in Hannah's backpack, okay? And then you-well, we don't know what you did. But Hannah went from laughing with us without a care in the world to hanging from a tree. Dead. You did something."

"She signaled for me to get up and disappear into the woods. It was her idea."

Jade made a face. "When was this?"

"Around the campfire."

"Not true. I was there. I don't remember her-"

"No one saw her but me."

"That's convenient." convenient."

"I left. She came and found me. We walked into the woods for ten minutes, then she stopped and said she had to tell me something. A secret." "Ooo, what was the secret? secret? That she sees dead people?" "She never told me." "Oh, That she sees dead people?" "She never told me." "Oh, G.o.d." G.o.d." "Someone followed us. I didn't see him clearly but I think he was wearing gla.s.ses, and then-this is the part I can't figure out-she went after him. She told me to stay where I was. And that's the last time I saw her." (It was a white lie, of course, but I'd decided to remove the fact I'd seen Hannah dead from my history. It was an appendix, a functionless organ that could become infected and thus it could be surgically removed without upsetting any other part of the past.) "Someone followed us. I didn't see him clearly but I think he was wearing gla.s.ses, and then-this is the part I can't figure out-she went after him. She told me to stay where I was. And that's the last time I saw her." (It was a white lie, of course, but I'd decided to remove the fact I'd seen Hannah dead from my history. It was an appendix, a functionless organ that could become infected and thus it could be surgically removed without upsetting any other part of the past.) Jade stared at me, skeptical. "I don't believe you." "It's the truth. Remember the cigarette b.u.t.t Lu found? Someone had been there."

She looked at me, eyes wide, and then shook her head. "I think you have a serious problem." She allowed her bag to fall to the floor, on its side. It belched up two books, The Norton Anthology of Poetry The Norton Anthology of Poetry (Ferguson, Salter, Stallworthy, 1996 ed.) and (Ferguson, Salter, Stallworthy, 1996 ed.) and How to Write a Poem How to Write a Poem (Fifer, 2001). "You're desperate. And completely sad and embarra.s.sing. Whatever your lame excuses are, no one gives a s.h.i.t. It's over." (Fifer, 2001). "You're desperate. And completely sad and embarra.s.sing. Whatever your lame excuses are, no one gives a s.h.i.t. It's over."

She was waiting for me to protest, fall to my knees, moan, but I couldn't. I sensed the impossibility of it. I remembered what Dad said once, that some people have all of life's answers worked out the day they're born and there's no use trying to teach them anything new. "They're closed for business even though, somewhat confusingly, their doors open at eleven, Monday through Friday," Dad said. And the trying to change what they think, the attempt to explain, the hope they'll come to see your side of things, it was exhausting, because it never made a dent and afterward you only ached unbearably. It was like being a Prisoner in a Maximum-Security Prison, wanting to know what a Visitor's hand felt like (see Living in Darkness, Living in Darkness, Cowell, 1967). No matter how desperately you wanted to know, pressing your dumb palm against the gla.s.s right where the visitor's hand was pressed on the opposite side, you never would know that feeling, not until they set you free. Cowell, 1967). No matter how desperately you wanted to know, pressing your dumb palm against the gla.s.s right where the visitor's hand was pressed on the opposite side, you never would know that feeling, not until they set you free.

"We don't think you're like, psychotic, or a Menendez brother," Jade said. "You probably didn't do it on purpose. But still. still. We talked it over and decided if we're honest with ourselves we can't forgive you. I mean, she's gone. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but it means the world to us. Milton, Charles We talked it over and decided if we're honest with ourselves we can't forgive you. I mean, she's gone. Maybe that doesn't mean anything to you, but it means the world to us. Milton, Charles loved loved her. Leulah and I adored her. She was our her. Leulah and I adored her. She was our sister sister-"

"That's breaking news," I interrupted. (I couldn't help myself; I was Dad's daughter and thus p.r.o.ne to blowing the whistle on Hypocrisy and Double-Talk. ) "Last I heard, you thought she was responsible for estranging you from mint chocolate chip ice cream. You were also worried she was a member of the Manson Family."

Jade looked so enraged, I wondered if she was going to fling me to the linoleum and rip out my eyes. Instead, her lips shrunk and she turned the color of gazpacho. She spoke in pointy little words: "If you're so dumb that you can't understand why we're upset beyond all possible belief, belief, I'm not having this conversation. You don't even know what we went through. Charles went out of his mind and fell off a I'm not having this conversation. You don't even know what we went through. Charles went out of his mind and fell off a cliff. cliff. Lu and Nigel were hysterical. Even Milton broke down. Lu and Nigel were hysterical. Even Milton broke down. I I was the one who hauled everyone to safety, but I'm still traumatized by the experience. We thought we were going to die, like those people in the movie when they're stuck in the Alps and forced to eat each other." was the one who hauled everyone to safety, but I'm still traumatized by the experience. We thought we were going to die, like those people in the movie when they're stuck in the Alps and forced to eat each other."

"Alive. Before it was a movie, it was a book." Before it was a movie, it was a book."

Her eyes widened. "You think this is a joke? Don't you get get it?" it?"

She waited, but I didn't didn't get it-I really didn't. get it-I really didn't.

"Whatever," she said. "Stop calling my house. It's annoying for my mother to have to talk to you and give you excuses."

She leaned down and picked up her bag, heaving it up onto her shoulder. Primly she smoothed back her hair, displaying the self-consciousness of the Ones Making an Exit; she was well aware that a great deal of Exiting had been done before her, for millions of years and millions of different reasons, and now it was her turn and she wanted to do a decent job. With a prim smile on her face, she picked up The Norton Anthology of Poetry The Norton Anthology of Poetry and and How to Write a Poem, How to Write a Poem, took great pains to tuck them neatly into her bag. She sniffed, pressed her black sweater over her waist (as if she'd just completed a first round of interviews at Whatever Corp.) and began to make her way down the hall. As she walked away, I could tell she was considering joining the elite subgroup within the Ones Making an Exit, a sect reserved for the wholly unsentimental and the completely hard-boiled: The Ones Who Never Looked Back. She decided against it, however. took great pains to tuck them neatly into her bag. She sniffed, pressed her black sweater over her waist (as if she'd just completed a first round of interviews at Whatever Corp.) and began to make her way down the hall. As she walked away, I could tell she was considering joining the elite subgroup within the Ones Making an Exit, a sect reserved for the wholly unsentimental and the completely hard-boiled: The Ones Who Never Looked Back. She decided against it, however.

"You know," she said smoothly, turning to look at me. "None of us could figure it out."

I stared back, unaccountably afraid.

"Why you? you? Why Hannah wanted to bring you into our little group. I'm not trying to be rude, but from the beginning none of us could Why Hannah wanted to bring you into our little group. I'm not trying to be rude, but from the beginning none of us could stand stand you. We called you 'pigeon.' Because that's how you acted. This grimy pigeon clucking around everyone's feet desperate for crumbs. But she you. We called you 'pigeon.' Because that's how you acted. This grimy pigeon clucking around everyone's feet desperate for crumbs. But she loved loved you. 'Blue's great. You have to give her a chance. She's had a tough life.' Yeah, you. 'Blue's great. You have to give her a chance. She's had a tough life.' Yeah, right. right. It didn't make sense. No, you have some weirdly dreamy home life with your virtuoso dad you blather on about like he's the f.u.c.king second coming. But no. Everyone said I was mean and judgmental. Well, now it's too late and she's dead." It didn't make sense. No, you have some weirdly dreamy home life with your virtuoso dad you blather on about like he's the f.u.c.king second coming. But no. Everyone said I was mean and judgmental. Well, now it's too late and she's dead."

She saw the look on my face and did a Ha. Ha. The Ones Making an Exit had to have a The Ones Making an Exit had to have a Ha, Ha, a truncated laugh that brought to mind videogame Game Overs and typewriter dings. a truncated laugh that brought to mind videogame Game Overs and typewriter dings.

"Guess that's life's little joke," she said.

At the end of the hall, she pushed open the door and was illuminated for a second by a puddle of yellow light, and her shadow was tossed, elongated and thin, in my direction like piece of towrope, but then she stepped nimbly through the doorway, and the door slammed and I was left with the carnations. ("The only flower that, when given to someone, is only marginally superior to giving dead ones," Dad said.)

26.

The Big Sleep.

The next day, Sat.u.r.day, April 10, The Stockton Observer finally published a terse article on the coroner's findings.

LOCAL WOMAN'S HANGING DEATH RULED SUICIDE.

The death of Burns County woman, Hannah Louise Schneider, 44, was ruled a suicide by Sluder County Coroner's Bureau yesterday afternoon. Cause of death was determined to be "asphyxiation due to hanging."

"There was no evidence whatsoever of foul play," said Sluder County Coroner Joe Villaverde yesterday.

Villaverde said there was also no evidence of drugs, alcohol or other toxins in Schneider's body and the manner of death was consistent with suicide.

"I'm basing my ruling on the autopsy report as well as the evidence found by the sheriff's department and state legislators," Villaverde said.

Schneider's body was found March 28 hanging from a tree by an electrical cord in the Schull's Cove area of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. She had accompanied six local high school students on a camping trip. The six students were recovered without injury.

"This can't have happened," I said. Dad looked at me, concerned. "My dear-"

"I'm going to be sick. I can't take this anymore."

"They just might be right. One never knows with "They're not right!" I screamed. I screamed.

Dad agreed to take me to the Sluder County Sheriffs Department. It was astonishing he actually consented to my outlandish, fitfully proposed demand. I a.s.sumed he felt sorry for me, noticed how pale I looked of late, how I could barely eat, didn't sleep, how I sprinted downstairs like a Beat junkie looking for a fix to catch First News at Five, First News at Five, how I reacted to all questions, both ordinary and existential, with a five-second transatlantic delay. He was also familiar with the quotation, "When your child is seized by an idea with the zeal of a fundamentalist Bible salesman from Indiana, stand in his or her way at your own risk" (see how I reacted to all questions, both ordinary and existential, with a five-second transatlantic delay. He was also familiar with the quotation, "When your child is seized by an idea with the zeal of a fundamentalist Bible salesman from Indiana, stand in his or her way at your own risk" (see Rearing the Gifted Child, Rearing the Gifted Child, Pennebaker, 1998, Pennebaker, 1998, p. 232).

We found the address on the Internet, climbed into the Volvo and drove for forty-five minutes to the station, located west of Stockton in the tiny mountain town of Bicksville. It was a bright, chipper day, and the flat, sagging police building sat like an exhausted hitchhiker on the side of the road.

"Do you want to wait in the car?" I asked Dad.

"No, no, I'll come in." He held up D. F. Young's Narcissism and Culture Jamming the U.S.A. Narcissism and Culture Jamming the U.S.A. (1986). "I've brought some light reading." (1986). "I've brought some light reading."

"Dad?"

"Yes, sweet."

"Let me do the talking."

"Oh. By all means."

The Sluder County Sheriff's Department was a single ransacked room that resembled the Primates section of any midlevel zoo. All efforts, within budget, had been made to lead the ten or twelve captive policemen to believe they were in their natural environment (bleating phones, cinder-block walls painted taupe, dead plants with leaves like tendriled bows on birthday presents, chunky filing cabinets lined up in the back like football players, Department star patches barnacling their clay brown shirts). They were given a restricted diet (coffee, donuts) and plenty of toys to play with (swivel chairs, radio consoles, guns, a ceiling-suspended TV hiccupping the Weather Channel). And yet there remained the unmistakable whiff of artificiality to this habitat, of apathy, of everyone simply going through the motions of being a law enforcer, as struggling for survival was no longer an immediate concern. "Hey, Bill!" shouted one of the men pacing in the very back by the water cooler. He held up a magazine. "Check out the new Dakota." "Already did," said Bill, coma-staring at his blue computer screen.

Dad, with a look of unmitigated distaste, sat down in the only seat available in the front, next to a fat and faded girl wearing a tinseled halter top, no shoes, her hair so coa.r.s.ely bleached it resembled Cheetos. I made my way to the man behind the front desk flipping through a magazine and chewing a red coffee stirrer.

"I'd like to speak to your chief investigator, if he or she is available," I said.

"Huh?"

He had a flat red face, which, discounting his yellowed toothbrush mustache, recalled the bottom of a large foot. He was bald. The topmost part of his head was grease-spattered with fat freckles. The name tag under his police badge read A. BOONE.

"The person who investigated the death of Hannah Schneider," I said. "The St. Gallway teacher."

A. Boone continued to chew the coffee stirrer and stared at me. He was what Dad commonly called a "power distender," a person who seized the moment in which he/she possessed a marginal amount of power and brutally rationed it so it lasted an unreasonable amount of time.

"What's your business with Sergeant Harper?"

"There's been a grave error in judgment regarding the case," I said with authority. It was essentially the same thing Chief Inspector Ranulph Curry announced at the beginning of Chapter 79 in The Way of the Moth The Way of the Moth (Lavelle, 1911). (Lavelle, 1911).

A. Boone took my name and told me to have a seat. I sat down in Dad's chair and Dad stood next to a dying plant. With a look of faux-interest and admiration (raised eyebrow, mouth turned down) he handed me a copy of The Sheriffs Starr Bulletin, The Sheriffs Starr Bulletin, Winter, Vol. 2, Issue 1, which he detached from the bulletin board behind him, along with a small sticker of an American Eagle crying an iridescent tear (America, United We Stand). In the section of the newsletter on p. 2, "Activity Report" (between Famous/Infamous and Bet You Didn't Know . . .) I read that Sergeant Detective Fayonette Harper, for the last five months, had made the greatest number of Fall Arrests in the entire department. Detective Harper's Fall Captures included Rodolpho Debruhl, WANTED for murder; Lamont Grimsell, WANTED for robbery; Kanita Kay Davis, WANTED for welfare fraud, theft and receiving stolen property; and Miguel Rumolo Cruz, WANTED for rape and criminal deviant conduct. (In contrast, Officer Gerard c.o.xley had the lowest number of Fall Arrests: only Jeremiah Golden, WANTED for unauthorized use of a motor vehicle.) Winter, Vol. 2, Issue 1, which he detached from the bulletin board behind him, along with a small sticker of an American Eagle crying an iridescent tear (America, United We Stand). In the section of the newsletter on p. 2, "Activity Report" (between Famous/Infamous and Bet You Didn't Know . . .) I read that Sergeant Detective Fayonette Harper, for the last five months, had made the greatest number of Fall Arrests in the entire department. Detective Harper's Fall Captures included Rodolpho Debruhl, WANTED for murder; Lamont Grimsell, WANTED for robbery; Kanita Kay Davis, WANTED for welfare fraud, theft and receiving stolen property; and Miguel Rumolo Cruz, WANTED for rape and criminal deviant conduct. (In contrast, Officer Gerard c.o.xley had the lowest number of Fall Arrests: only Jeremiah Golden, WANTED for unauthorized use of a motor vehicle.) Additionally, Sergeant Harper was featured in the black-and-white team photo of the Sluder County Sheriff's Dept. Baseball League on p. 4. She was standing on the right, at the very end, a woman with a sizable crooked nose, and all other features crowded around it as if trying to keep warm on her arctic white face.

Twenty-five, maybe thirty minutes later, I was sitting next to her.

"There's a mistake with the coroner's report," I announced with great conviction, clearing my throat. "The suicide ruling is wrong. You see, I was the person with Hannah Schneider before she walked into the woods. I know she wasn't going to go kill herself. She told me she was coming back. And she wasn't lying."