business arrangement, he actually cared about her. No one at Bishop DuMaine cared about her, and Ed’s moment of kindness touched her so deeply she wasn’t even tempted to correct his misuse of the Hamlet quote.
“Right.” Ed the Head straightened up, his old self again. “Watch your back. That’s all I’m saying. Because if anything happens to you, my earning potential at this school is going to take a serious nosedive. Speaking of, I’ve got new odds on the murder investigation. Three to one they never find out who did it. You in?”
“Am I ever?”
“Touché, mon frère . I am considerably”—he snapped and gave Margot two finger pistols—“out of here.”
Margot pressed her head against the open door of her locker and closed her eyes. She’d been careless to let Ed the Head have a glimpse into her association with DGM. Unless he was significantly stupider than she gave him credit for, Ed didn’t buy her proclamations of innocence for a nanosecond. While he couldn’t know she was directly involved, Ed believed she had some connection to DGM. She just prayed he’d keep that hypothesis to himself.
It was so unlike her to trust anyone with anything. But she’d needed his help to dig up dirt on Amber Stevens, and she’d been blinded by hatred where that goal was concerned.
Margot sighed. There was nothing she could do about it now. The best way to protect herself was to find out who actually killed Ronny before the police and Father Uberti uncovered the truth about DGM. She pulled her calculus textbook out of her locker, grunting with the weight of the college-level tome, and froze.
A large manila envelope tumbled to the ground.
She stared down at the yellowish brown envelope on the tile floor. A white address label had been printed with her name, centered on the front. The print-and-peel label was the standard one inch by two and five-eighths, thirty to a sheet. The font was Times New Roman, also standard, and the envelope appeared to be the generic brand sold in every office supply store.
Margot gingerly picked up the envelope, handling it with care as if it were made of porcelain, and examined the back side. It had been sealed with a single piece of tape, meticulously positioned dead center on the flap.
Who would go through the trouble of leaving this envelope in her locker? And why?
There was only one way to know. Margot forced her finger under the flap and broke the seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Margot clenched her jaw so fiercely she thought she might crack a tooth. It had been years since she’d laid eyes on that photo, years since the humiliating image of her twelve-year-old self had made life no longer worth living. And yet she remembered every nuance of the image, because she had seen it every single day of her life for the last four years, burned into her memory. Eyes open or closed, she saw that image, like the single dot of light branded into your retina after looking directly at the sun.
It had been taken from outside her house four years ago, long after sunset, when the light from her bedroom window cast an orangey glow on the large sycamore tree. Her bedroom, less austere and more childlike, her stuffed animals and toy shelves not yet replaced by bookcases packed to the brim with academic texts. Her bedspread of bright flowers instead of plain gray, and the walls covered with teen idol photos instead of framed certificates of merit.
Even the girl in the photo was a different Margot. She stood in the middle of her room, dressed only in a training bra and panties. A roll of fat blossomed from either side of her belly button, her lumpy thighs looked like overstuffed sausages, and her bubble butt was so enormous and out of place, it looked as if it was artificially enhanced.
Twelve-year-old Margot held something in her hand, a roll of plastic wrap, which she was twisting around her midsection.
That photo had made Margot the laughingstock of junior high. It had almost killed
“Right.” Ed the Head straightened up, his old self again. “Watch your back. That’s all I’m saying. Because if anything happens to you, my earning potential at this school is going to take a serious nosedive. Speaking of, I’ve got new odds on the murder investigation. Three to one they never find out who did it. You in?”
“Am I ever?”
“Touché, mon frère . I am considerably”—he snapped and gave Margot two finger pistols—“out of here.”
Margot pressed her head against the open door of her locker and closed her eyes. She’d been careless to let Ed the Head have a glimpse into her association with DGM. Unless he was significantly stupider than she gave him credit for, Ed didn’t buy her proclamations of innocence for a nanosecond. While he couldn’t know she was directly involved, Ed believed she had some connection to DGM. She just prayed he’d keep that hypothesis to himself.
It was so unlike her to trust anyone with anything. But she’d needed his help to dig up dirt on Amber Stevens, and she’d been blinded by hatred where that goal was concerned.
Margot sighed. There was nothing she could do about it now. The best way to protect herself was to find out who actually killed Ronny before the police and Father Uberti uncovered the truth about DGM. She pulled her calculus textbook out of her locker, grunting with the weight of the college-level tome, and froze.
A large manila envelope tumbled to the ground.
She stared down at the yellowish brown envelope on the tile floor. A white address label had been printed with her name, centered on the front. The print-and-peel label was the standard one inch by two and five-eighths, thirty to a sheet. The font was Times New Roman, also standard, and the envelope appeared to be the generic brand sold in every office supply store.
Margot gingerly picked up the envelope, handling it with care as if it were made of porcelain, and examined the back side. It had been sealed with a single piece of tape, meticulously positioned dead center on the flap.
Who would go through the trouble of leaving this envelope in her locker? And why?
There was only one way to know. Margot forced her finger under the flap and broke the seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Margot clenched her jaw so fiercely she thought she might crack a tooth. It had been years since she’d laid eyes on that photo, years since the humiliating image of her twelve-year-old self had made life no longer worth living. And yet she remembered every nuance of the image, because she had seen it every single day of her life for the last four years, burned into her memory. Eyes open or closed, she saw that image, like the single dot of light branded into your retina after looking directly at the sun.
It had been taken from outside her house four years ago, long after sunset, when the light from her bedroom window cast an orangey glow on the large sycamore tree. Her bedroom, less austere and more childlike, her stuffed animals and toy shelves not yet replaced by bookcases packed to the brim with academic texts. Her bedspread of bright flowers instead of plain gray, and the walls covered with teen idol photos instead of framed certificates of merit.
Even the girl in the photo was a different Margot. She stood in the middle of her room, dressed only in a training bra and panties. A roll of fat blossomed from either side of her belly button, her lumpy thighs looked like overstuffed sausages, and her bubble butt was so enormous and out of place, it looked as if it was artificially enhanced.
Twelve-year-old Margot held something in her hand, a roll of plastic wrap, which she was twisting around her midsection.
That photo had made Margot the laughingstock of junior high. It had almost killed
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