Page 23 of Our Daughter's Bones

The door of the locker had a mirror and a picture of Erica and Abby. They had clicked it in the washroom in cheerleading outfits. “Were they on the team?” she asked Justin.

He checked his notebook. “Abby wasn’t. But Erica was, from what I remember on the news. The cheerleading team performed a routine and named it after her to honor her.”

“Maybe this was from when they both tried out for the squad.”

Abby and Erica stood in front of the mirror. Abby was holding the camera while Erica waved her pink pom-pom in the air.

Mackenzie checked the pocket of the sweatshirt. She rummaged through the case of stationery and flipped through the pages of every textbook. Justin followed suit and double-checked. She inspected the back of the mirror and the back of the picture. When she removed the picture, her eyes caught something.

The number 916 was scratched into the door of the locker. It could have been written by Abby, it could have been there for years. Mackenzie mentally filed it and put the picture back. “No immediate clues. We’ll need to go through the diary.”

“Hopefully Dr. Coleman will provide some useful information.”

“Let’s hope so. I’ll go and talk to him. Why don’t you find Principal Burley and get her to lock this again? Also,” she took out one of Abby’s exercise books, “keep this. Get Forensics to do a handwriting match with the contents of the checkbook. There was an incomplete check in there. Maybe they can use that as a reference.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Eleven

Mackenzie followed the directions Burley gave her. She wondered if all high schools looked the same. Growing up, she had always believed that she would attend Lakemore High. It was a public school, but it was prestigious. Even the rich kids went there. It received more funding than any other school in the county, which had nothing to do with student performance.

It was about the Lakemore Sharks—the crown jewel of a dwindling town.

She saw a girl putting books in her locker. Her forehead was crumpled; her nose scrunched up. It was then Mackenzie noticed that her thumb was bleeding. The girl took out a bandage from her purse and started nursing her wound.

Suddenly, Mackenzie was fifteen years old and back in New York. She had tripped and fallen while running track. Her knees were scraped. Blood and sand covered her skin. It didn’t hurt—it only burned. But Mackenzie’s heart galloped. Cold sweat broke out on her skin. She ran into the washroom. Luckily, it was empty. All she did was stare at the reflection of her bleeding knees. All she saw was blood. It was as red as her father’s.

So much blood.

“Excuse me?” A blonde man snapped her out of her thoughts. He was short and spectacled. Dressed in a sweater vest, he looked like he belonged behind a computer. “I realized you have been standing in front of my door for some time.”

“Oh!” Mackenzie shook her head. She looked for the girl, but she was gone. She glanced at the door. “Right. Dr. Coleman, I was looking for you actually. I’m Detective Price.”

He raised his eyebrows at her badge. “Please, come inside. How can I help you?”

“Interesting image.” She pointed at an abstract painting on his office wall, next to a mental health poster.

“Yes. That’s one from the inkblot test. You should take it sometime. Very interesting.”

She sat on the only spare chair in the room. “I’m investigating Abby Correia’s disappearance.”

“Joanne told me this morning the police would be here again today.”

“She mentioned you had seen Abby a couple of times.”

He twirled a pen between his fingers as he spoke. “I did. You must have heard how close Erica and Abby were. After Joanne found her crying in the bathroom, she convinced her to see me.”

Mackenzie’s eyes moved to the framed psychotherapy degree certificate behind him. “The students are fortunate to have someone as qualified as yourself to talk to. Although it seems a less lucrative path for a doctor to take, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Coleman dipped his head, conceding the point. “I split my time between the school and private practice. Teenage mental health has never been a more pressing issue for society, and adolescent psychology has always been an interest of mine.”

“How many times did you meet Abby?”

“Around five or six.”

“Were the meetings only at school or did you meet her outside?”

He frowned. “Only at school. I-I wouldn’t meet students off-campus.”