Timeless.
A short time later, as they walked through the halls to the library where they’d be conducting the interviews, Stephanie noticed the pictures on the walls of other girls, other classes, other years. There was a strange uniformity to it all even though time and hairstyles had changed. And habits. The nuns in the old pictures wore the scary-looking penguin costumes, their faces the only part of their bodies revealed, other than their hands, which always seemed to be folded as if in prayer.
It was clear within ten minutes of interviewing the girls that Janice Wycoff hadn’t been as clued in to Morgan’s life as she thought.
Several of the girls on the list denied being friends with Morgan at all.
“We had, like, one class together,” one of the girls said, twirling a strand of straight brown hair around her finger. She looked at them with vapid eyes.
“What class?” Stephanie said.
“Religion. But we talked maybe once.”
“What was that about?”
The girl shrugged with one shoulder as if she couldn’t be bothered to raise both. “I don’t know. I think it was something about there being no women priests. Something like that. Just how stupid it was, just bullshit—”
She covered her mouth, eyes widening with the first real interest they’d seen and an angry flush covered her pimply face. “Sorry.”
Of the girls who conceded that yes, they had in fact been her friend, only one of them had anything of any significance to say.
She was short and dumpy, the boxy uniform skirt and kneesocks further shortening her body. Heather Lester, according to the list. She looked at them with suspicion, one pudgy hand fiddling with the strap of her messenger bag.
“Hey, Heather, come have a seat,” Oz said, doing the whole fraternal thing, just one of the guys. He grinned, pointing to the chair at the table across from them, but while Heather took a seat, she didn’t return his greeting or his smile. She had a pretty face, Stephanie thought, and then wondered how many times the girl might have heard that. Her features were small and even, her eyes round and outlined in heavy black liner. Her mouth was clearly and carefully outlined in a deep red shade of lipstick. Along with her short dark hair, which was pulled into little knots—sort of mini-ponytails—on either side of her head, it gave her the appearance of a child playing dress-up. Small silver earrings in a geometric shape hung from her ears. Around her short neck was another shape hanging from a leather cord.
“Morgan was fed up with the hypocrisy of this hellhole,” she said. “All the rah-rah for St. Ursula’s, one big happy family.”
“It isn’t one big happy family?” Oz said casually.
The girl rolled her eyes. “Hardly. All that school spirit is such shit.”
Unlike the other student, she didn’t seem concerned that she’d cursed. “Morgan was one of the few real people here.”
Her eyes unexpectedly teared up, softening her harsh assessment of her fellow students.
“We’ve heard that Morgan believed in Wicca,” Stephanie said. “Do you?”
The girl shook her head. “No way. I’m not into anything organized. It’s all just one control system or another, isn’t it?”
“But Morgan believed in it?”
Heather nodded. “Yeah. I don’t know how serious she was. She liked the whole feminist thing, the goddess within us stuff. I think that’s what appealed to her.”
“Did the other girls accept her beliefs?” Oz asked.
The girl gave him a look that suggested she questioned his intelligence. “Hardly. They’re all conformists. They made fun of her.”
“How?” Stephanie asked.
“They called her ‘witch,’ ‘satanist,’ that sort of thing.”
“Was it just name-calling?”
“No, sometimes it was more. Someone left a broom outside her door once, like it was her broomstick, and they used to leave nasty notes on her door, like ‘You’ll burn in hell,’ that sort of thing. Just the kind, Christian response to a nonbeliever.” The sarcasm was heavy in her voice.
Oz frowned. “Did she tell someone about it?”
“Like who?”
“The headmistress or the guidance counselor?”
Heather snorted. “No way.”
“Why not?”
“Look, they don’t listen to people like us.”
Oz exchanged a look with Stephanie. She pulled her eyes back up from an examination of Heather’s footwear. The shoes were dark leather, outlined with yellow stitching. Mary Janes on steroids. The soles looked rugged, different than the ones they’d found at the crime scene.
“People like us?” Stephanie prompted.
“Nonconformists. Me, Morgan, Beau Steuben. People who dare to ask questions about what these stupid rituals have to do with real life.”
“What about Wiccan rituals? Were they stupid?” Oz asked.
The girl frowned at him. “Not to Morgan.”
“Who’s Beau Steuben?”
She shrugged. “Just this boy in town. He and Morgan went to school together when they were like five or something.”
“Did you and Beau participate in any rituals with her?”
Heather shook her head. Stephanie studied her face closely, looking for a flicker of eyes or tilt of the head that could indicate lying. The girl was stolid, impassive.
“No. I told you—I don’t do rituals.”
“What about Beau?”
“How would I know?” She looked offended. “Do I look like his keeper?”
“Where were you two nights ago, Ms. Lester?”
She rolled her eyes. “My room. Where else would I be? There’s nowhere else to go.”
Stephanie suppressed a sigh and glanced down at the list of names. Next.
They wouldn’t call her name; there was no reason. She passed by the library several times throughout the day just for the pleasure of catching a glimpse of the two detectives and their futile questioning.
Once the male detective came out to the hall to get a drink at the fountain and passed right by her. He was a large, lumbering man who gave her a goofy grin, pulling at his ugly pale blue tie as if it were choking his beefy neck.
He hardly looked competent enough to catch anyone. It was almost tempting to play with them, but she resisted the urge. Better to wait
