The voice of reason quickly extinguished Patch’s involvement. He could have caught a cold. Or he could have run out of gas on the drive to school and was stranded miles away. Or maybe there was a high­bets pool game going on at Bo’s Arcade and he figured it was more profitable than an afternoon spent learning the intricacies of the human body.

At the end of class, Coach stopped me on my way out the door.

“Hang on a minute, Nora.”

I turned back and hiked my backpack up my shoulder. “Yes?”

He extended a folded piece of paper. “Miss Greene stopped by before class and asked me to give this to you,” he said.

I accepted the note. “Miss Greene?” I didn’t have any teachers by that name.

“The new school psychologist. She just replaced Dr. Hendrickson.”

I unfolded the note and read the message scrawled inside.

Dear Nora,

I’ll be taking over Dr. Hendrickson’s role as your school psychologist. I noticed you missed your last two appointments with Dr. H. Please come in right away so we can get acquainted. I’ve mailed a letter to your mother to make her aware of the change.

All best,

Miss Greene

“Thanks,” I told Coach, folding the note until it was small enough to tuck inside my pocket.

Out in the hall I merged with the flow of the crowd. No avoiding it now—I had to go. I steered my way through the halls until I could see the closed door to Dr. Hendrickson’s office. Sure enough, there was a new name plaque on the door. The polished brass gleamed against the drab oak door: MISS D.

GREENE, SCHOOL PSYCHOLOGIST.

I knocked on the door, and a moment later it opened from within. Miss Greene had flawless pale skin, sea blue eyes, a lush mouth, and fine, straight blond hair that tumbled past her elbows. It was parted at the crown of her oval­shaped face. A pair of turquoise cat’s­eye glasses sat at the tip of her nose, and she was dressed formally in a gray herringbone pencil skirt and a pink silk blouse. Her figure was willowy but feminine. She couldn’t have been more than five years older than me.

“You must be Nora Grey. You look just like the picture in your file,” she said, giving my hand a firm pump. Her voice was abrupt, but not rude. Businesslike.

Stepping back, she signaled me to enter the office.

“Can I get you juice, water?” she asked.

“What happened to Dr. Hendrickson?”

“He took early retirement. I’ve had my eye on this job for a while, so I jumped on the opening. I went to Florida State, but I grew up in Portland, and my parents still live there. It’s nice to be close to family again.”

I surveyed the small office. It had changed drastically since I’d last been in a few weeks ago. The wallto­wall bookshelves were now filled with academic but generic­looking hardcovers, all bound in neutral colors with gold lettering. Dr. Hendrickson had used the shelves to display family pictures, but there were no snapshots of Miss Greene’s private life. The same fern hung by the window, but under Dr.

Hendrickson’s care, it had been far more brown than green. A few days with Miss Greene and already it looked pert and alive. There was a pink paisley chair opposite the desk, and several moving boxes stacked in the far corner.

“Friday was my first day,” she explained, seeing my eyes fall on the moving boxes. “I’m still unpacking.

Have a seat.”

I lowered my backpack down my arm and sat on the paisley chair. Nothing in the small room gave me any clues as to Miss Greene’s personality. She had a stack of file folders on her desk— not neat, but not messy, either—and a white mug of what looked like tea. There wasn’t a trace of perfume or air freshener. Her computer monitor was black.

Miss Greene crouched in front of a file cabinet behind her desk, tugged out a clean manila folder, and printed my name on the tab in black Magic Marker. She placed it on her desk next to my old file, which bore a few of Dr. Hendrickson’s coffee­mug stains.

“I spent the whole weekend going through Dr. Hendrickson’s files,” she said. “Just between the two of us, his handwriting gives me a migraine, so I’m copying over all the files. I was amazed to find he didn’t use a computer to type his notes. Who still uses longhand in this day and age?”

She settled back into her swivel chair, crossed her legs, and smiled politely at me. “Well. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about the history of your meetings with Dr. Hendrickson? I could barely decipher his notes. It appeared the two of you were discussing how you feel about your mom’s new job.”

“It’s not all that new. She’s been working for a year.”

“She used to be a stay­at­home mom, correct? And after your dad’s passing, she took on a full­time job.” She squinted at a sheet of paper in my file. “She works for an auction company, correct? It looks like she coordinates estate auctions all down the coast.” She peeked at me over her glasses. “That must require a lot of time away from home.”

“We wanted to stay in our farmhouse,” I said, my tone touching on the defensive. “We couldn’t afford the mortgage if she took a local job.” I hadn’t exactly loved my sessions with Dr. Hendrickson, but I found myself resenting him for retiring and abandoning me to Miss Greene. I was starting to get a feel for her, and she seemed attentive to detail. I sensed her itching to dig into every dark corner of my life.

“Yes, but you must be very lonely all by yourself at the farmhouse.”

“We have a housekeeper who stays with me every afternoon until nine or ten at night.”

“But a housekeeper isn’t the same thing as a mother.”

I eyed the door. I didn’t even try to be discreet.

“Do you have a best friend? A boyfriend? Someone you can talk to when your housekeeper doesn’t quite … fit the bill?” She dunked a tea bag in the mug, then raised it for a sip.

“I have a best friend.” I’d made up my mind to say as little as possible. The less I said, the shorter the appointment. The shorter the appointment, the sooner I could visit Vee.

Her eyebrows peaked. “Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“You’re an attractive girl. I imagine there must be some interest from the opposite sex.”

“Here’s the thing,” I said as patiently as possible. “I really appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but I had this exact conversation with Dr. Hendrickson a year ago when my dad died. Rehashing it with you isn’t helping. It’s like going back in time and reliving it all over again. Yes, it was tragic and horrible, and I’m still dealing with it every day, but what I really need is to move on.”

The clock on the wall ticked between us.

“Well,” Miss Greene said at last, plastering on a smile. “It’s very helpful to know your viewpoint, Nora.

Which is what I was trying to understand all along. I’ll make a note of your feelings in your file.

Anything else you want to talk about?”

“Nope.” I smiled to confirm that, really, I was doing fine.

She leafed through a few more pages of my file. I had no idea what observations Dr. Hendrickson had immortalized there, and I didn’t want to wait around long enough to find out.

I lifted my backpack off the floor and scooted to the edge of the chair. “I don’t mean to cut things short, but I need to be somewhere at four.”

“Oh?”

I had no desire to go into Vee’s attack with Miss Greene. “Library research,” I lied.

“For which class?”

I said the first answer that popped to mind. “Biology.”

“Speaking of classes, how are yours going? Any concerns in that department?”

“No.”

She flipped a few more pages in my file. “Excellent grades,” she observed. “It says here you’re tutoring your biology partner, Patch Cipriano.” She looked up, apparently wanting my confirmation.

I was surprised my tutoring assignment was important enough to make it into the school psychologist’s file. “So far we haven’t been able to meet. Conflicting schedules.” I gave a What can you do? shrug.

She tapped my file on her desk, tidying all the loose sheets of paper into one clean stack, then inserted it into the new file she’d hand­labeled. “To give you fair warning, I’m going to talk with Mr.

McConaughy and see about setting some parameters for your tutoring sessions. I’d like all meetings to be held here at school, under the direct supervision of a teacher or other faculty member. I don’t want you tutoring Patch off school property. I especially don’t want the two of you meeting alone.”

A chill tiptoed along my skin. “Why? What’s going on?”

“I can’t discuss it.”

The only reason I could think why she didn’t want me alone with Patch was that he was dangerous. My past might frighten you, he’d said on the loading platform of the Archangel.

“Thanks for your time. I won’t keep you any longer,” Miss Greene said. She strode to the door, propping it open with her slender hip. She gave a parting smile, but it looked perfunctory.

After leaving Miss Greene’s office, I called the hospital. Vee’s surgery was over, but she was still in the recovery room and couldn’t have visitors until seven p.m. I consulted the clock on my phone. Three hours. I found the Fiat in the student parking lot and dropped inside, hoping an afternoon spent doing homework at the library would keep my mind off the long wait.

I stayed at the library through the afternoon, and before I realized it, the clock on the wall had passed quietly into evening. My stomach rumbled against the quiet of the library, and my thoughts went to the vending machine just inside the entrance.

The last of my homework could wait until later, but there was still one project that required the help of library resources. I had a vintage IBM computer at home with dial­up Internet service, and I typically tried to save myself a lot of unnecessary shouting and hair pulling by using the library’s computer lab. I had a theater review of Othello due on the eZine editor’s desk by nine p.m., and I made a deal with myself, promising I’d go hunt down food as soon as I finished it.

Packing up my belongings, I walked to the elevators. Inside the cage I pushed the button to close the doors, but didn’t immediately request a floor. I pulled out my cell and called the hospital again.

“Hi,” I told the answering nurse. “My friend is recovering from surgery, and when I checked in earlier this afternoon, I was told she’d be out tonight. Her name is Vee Sky.”

There was a pause and the clicking of computer keys. “Looks like they’ll be bringing her to a private room within the hour.”

“What time do visiting hours end?”

“Eight.”

“Thank you.” I disconnected and pressed the third­floor button, sending me up.

On the third floor I followed signs to collections, hoping that if I read several theater reviews in the local newspaper, it would spark my muse.

“Excuse me,” I said to the librarian behind the collections desk. “I’m trying to find copies of the Portland Press Herald from the past year. Particularly the theater guide.”