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Collins yelled. Matt Hill did as he’d asked, and Rihanna was silenced mid-lyric. The entire room fell quiet, and clearly sensing that something big was happening, the kids from outside drifted in to watch as well.
    On-screen, the chief cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone. “The autopsy report on Nolan Hotchkiss is in,” he said. A flashbulb popped. A microphone moved closer to his face. “While we are not able to reveal the details at this point, evidence of foul play was found, and we no longer believe his death to have been caused by an accidental overdose.”
    â€œWhat the . . . ?” someone breathed.
    â€œIntense,” said Nyssa, her face pale. She had sidled up to Julie without her noticing. And Julie watched as Claire Coldwell clutched Blake’s hand, tears streaming down her face. Across the room, Mackenzie’s eyes fluttered rapidly behind her glasses. Caitlin and Ava exchanged horrified glances. Alex glared at the TV screen, looking dazed.
    Julie sat down hard on the edge of the couch, her heart seizing in her chest. No , she thought. This can’t be happening . She thought about the conversation in the film classroom. All those people around them. All those listening ears.
    The officer cleared his throat, staring stonily out at the crowd of reporters for a beat. When he spoke again, it was in a matter-of-fact voice, calm and deliberate. “We’re investigating all leads.” He paused for a moment, glancing at his notes. “At this time, we’re treating this as a homicide investigation. Someone—or someones —killed Nolan Hotchkiss. And we won’t rest until we find them.”

CHAPTER SIX
    IT WAS SUNDAY MORNING, AND the Beacon Heights Episcopal Church was filled to capacity for Nolan Hotchkiss’s funeral. Parker stood at the back, tugging at the black wool slacks she’d borrowed from Julie. The air was warm and pungent, the waxy smell of candles mixing with expensive perfumes. High overhead, the gilded ceilings and ornate columns gleamed in the murky light. In front of the altar sat a glossy wooden coffin, heaped with lilies, roses, and hydrangea blossoms. The funeral was closed-casket. Parker couldn’t help but wonder if that was because the marker hadn’t washed off Nolan’s skin.
    Now you’re as scarred as I am , she couldn’t help thinking, and then hated herself for her bitterness.
    The pews were packed with kids, some sitting with their parents, others clustered with their friends. Everyone in school had turned up, especially now that the news had come out that Nolan had been murdered. All sorts of theories swirled. That Nolan had gotten in too deep with a bunch of drug dealers, and they’d offed him while people were partying downstairs. That Nolan had stolen a Mafia don’s girlfriend, and mobsters had crept through the window. That one of Mr. Hotchkiss’s disgruntled employees had finally gotten his revenge.
    Parker herself didn’t know what to think. She knew who’d drawn on Nolan, but as for who killed him . . . It hadn’t been her and the film studies girls. It couldn’t have been.
    Right?
    In the front row, Mrs. Hotchkiss gave a loud and anguished wail. Then Parker felt someone’s hand on her arm and turned. It was Julie. “Come on,” she whispered. “This is almost over. And we need to talk.”
    She tripped over her feet as Julie pulled her out to the lawn and around the corner to the parking lot, which was deserted. The flagstones were silver from the rain. A wet chill hung on the air.
    Ava, Mackenzie, and Caitlin were already waiting by an alcove lush with myrtle bushes and sedge grass. A weather-beaten statue of Saint Francis stood in the center, a bird feeder full of seeds in the palm of his hands.
    Julie unfolded her green-and-pink plaid umbrella, and she and Parker huddled beneath it. “Hey,” they mumbled to the girls as they