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“It could be a they or a them, you know,” I point out. “They could be non-binary.”

“True,” concurs Rio.

I love that about her—how she doesn’t make a big deal about sexuality or gender. It’s so normal for her to switch pronouns. She never blinks an eye at anyone who’s anything other than straight.

It wasn’t difficult coming out to Rio, not entirely. Coming out to anyone is always awkward. But Rio only lifted her eyes from the book she was reading, leveled me with a long stare, then said, “I think your shirt’s inside out.” It was, but that’s beside the point. In the middle of the school library, I came out to my best friend. And she didn’t flinch. Rio didn’t have one of those accidental expressions that says, “Holy shit, I need to keep calm, my friend is super-gay.”

Rio just… carried on. It’s as if her face said, “Remy Cameron is gay, and the sky is still blue.”

“Either way,” says Rio, squinting at the concrete, “they’re getting sloppy.”

I shrug my backpack higher on my shoulders, then cross my arms. I’m waiting. I know it’s coming: Detective Rio Maguire’s full synopsis.

She never disappoints. “It’s obviously done after hours, possibly at night. After any faculty has left. Someone who knows the campus inside and out, where the cameras are.”

“Definitely not a freshman,” I point out.

She squints at the handwriting. “This person loves colors, so it’s not Veronica Hanson.”

“Too goth?”

“Too everything.” Index finger tapping against her chin, she offers, “An art student, maybe?”

“Zac?”

“Notthat artsy.” She snaps another photo. “The newest pieces look rushed, as if they didn’t have time to fully realize their vision. Someone on a short schedule.” Her wavy amber hair is piled messily on top of her head, spiraling down onto her cheeks. “Maybe someone who has to catch Marta to and from school?”

I stiffen my jaw. Atlanta’s public transport bites.

“Brook?”

Unlike most of Maplewood’s students, Brook doesn’t live nearby. He’s been using his aunt’s address for school records. Luckily, he hasn’t been caught. He doesn’t have a car either. On the weekends, he borrows his mom’s minivan to take Lucy on “dates,” also known as trips to Savage Pizza and the AMC 24.

Rio says, “Not really his style. Ford Turner?”

“Lacks the intelligence to pull this off,” I say through my teeth. “And the style. Plus, he has a mode of transportation: his pickup truck.”

Of course, Ford freaking Turner owns a pickup truck. And a collection of John Deere snapbacks. I don’t know why I’m bothering to clear that jerk-face’s name, but I tack on, “He wouldn’t have to rush anything, even with long football practices,” because I want any subject involving him to die quickly.

“What about that one guy who’s obsessed with Adult Swim?”

I choke on laughter. Tiny tears catch on my eyelashes. “Magnus Olsen?”

Magnus worshipsRick and Mortyand wearsAqua Teen Hunger ForceT-shirts everywhere. He’s an art geek, especially into papier-mâché and ceramics. And his handwriting is immaculate.

“Not a chance, Rio.”

She continues to list suspects on her fingers. Juniors, seniors, Mrs. Richardson, one of Maplewood’s most loyal and loved custodians.

“No way.”

Rio says, “It’s possible,” with a bullshitting smile.

I almost call her on it, but my heart crawls up the ladder of my ribs at the same pace as Ian climbs the steps, two at a time.

He skims by us in a breathless rush. I inhale a whiff of clean sweat and bleach—chlorine.

What’s wrong with me? I should just talk to him. We practically sit together every day at lunch. Ian’s next to Brook, who is adjacent to Lucy, which, by the laws of physics, puts me in Ian’s breathing space. I mean, it’s not as if we haveassigned seats, so I could sit next to Ian. And, you know,talk to him.