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the library, determined to get to the bottom of Ben’s story. Armed and ready with notepad and pen, I claim a computer in the corner and start googling his name, along with the words murder , accident , and cliff .
    A bunch of Ben Carters pop up: Ben Carter, astrophysicist; Ben Carter, real estate mogul; Ben Carter, whose Web page shows a picture of a forty-five-year-old guy looking for love.
    I let out a sigh, wondering if my lack of luck is because Ben was a minor at the time of the incident—if maybe the press was trying to protect his privacy. I’m just about to call it a day when I feel something touch my back.
    I jump in my seat and swivel around—only to find Matt.
    “Hey, there,” he says, taking a step back as if I’ve scared him, too. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
    “It’s okay,” I say, mentally peeling myself off the ceiling.
    He stands there a few moments, shuffling his feet like the mere sight of me makes him nervous.
    But I guess I’m nervous, too. I wish things could go back to the way they were at the pre-dating stage—when he was Matthieu and I was Camille and we were each other’s role-playing buddies in French class.
    “What’s up?” I ask him.
    “I’m sorry I didn’t call you last night.”
    I feel my brow furrow in confusion as I suddenly flash back to the end of last year—when he used to call me at least twice a day.
    “About French tutoring,” he continues.
    “Oh, right.”
    “I mean, I hate to bother you. It’s just that you know how I suck at French, and I have Madame Funkenwilder this year. I hear she’s a real hard-ass.”
    “She is.” I giggle, suddenly wishing my science skills were even half as good as my linguistic ones.
    “So, do you think you could help out? I mean, I could pay you. I just don’t want to screw up my GPA, and I have a quiz next Tuesday.” He glances over my shoulder at the computer screen.
    “Don’t worry about it,” I say, doing my best to rebound. I grab the computer mouse to shut things down, but the evidence is right there in the search-engine box.
    Matt pulls up a chair and sits. “You heard about that guy, huh?” he says, obviously having spotted Ben’s name.
    “Who hasn’t?”
    “So, why are you checking him out?”
    “He’s my lab partner this year,” I say, forgoing the whole saving-my-life story.
    “And you’re nervous about him?”
    “I’m curious about him,” I clarify.
    Matt smiles slightly. His teal blue eyes look right into mine, making me smile, too.
    “What?” I ask, feeling my cheeks start to blaze.
    “I know you, Camelia, remember?”
    “ And ?”
    “And let me help you. I’ll find out this guy’s deal.”
    “There is no deal. I was just curious,” I remind him.
    “So, let me un -curious you.” He smiles wider, smoothing back a strand of his dirty-blond hair. “I have connections, you know.” He winks at me, all covertlike. “It’s the least I can do as thanks for helping me out with French.”
    “Well, don’t lose any sleep over it or anything.”
    He nods. His eyes linger a moment on my flushed cheeks. We make plans to study together Monday night. “I’ll swing by after my movie date with Rena,” he says. “Did you know the theater downtown shows Hitchcock flicks every Monday afternoon?”
    I shake my head. “I didn’t even know you were dating Rena Maruso.” Pretty, pert, petite, good-at-science Rena Maruso.
    “Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s so incredibly yesterday’s news.
    And, no, it’s not that I’m jealous. I just don’t want to hear about Rena Maruso, or anyone else who might be dating my ex, for that matter—especially when said ex is being so nice, almost making me forget why we broke up in the first place.
    Almost.

11

    It’s the last block of the day, and everyone’s talking about Ben’s locker. Sometime before lunch there was another sign left on it. Only this time, Ben couldn’t just tear it down. Someone had written the words Killer Go Home down