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entertainers—he was officially an attorney. He cleared his throat and said, “What’s going on here?”
    She smiled at him. “We’re done here. Your nephew is free to go.”
    She started to rise.
    “Investigator Dunleavy?” I said.
    She stopped.
    “Who was killed?”
    Her eyes narrowed. “How do you know—?”
    Now it was my turn to hold up the hand. “You said two people were shot. You also said you were a
homicide
detective. That means someone was killed, right?”
    “Not always,” she said, but her voice was soft.
    Myron stood next to me. We both just watched her.
    I said, “But in this case?”
    She took her time, looking down, gathering her paper. But then she said, “The gunman also shot Rachel’s mother. And, yes, she’s dead.”

CHAPTER 8
    What do you do after getting news about a friend being shot and her mother being murdered?
    In my case, you go to school.
    Myron asked me a hundred questions, making sure I was fine, but in the end, what was I going to do—take what my classmates call “a mental health day”? I checked my phone and saw two texts from Ema. The first one had been sent early in the morning: I found something about your dad’s paramedic that makes no sense.
    Normally, I’d be all over that, but about an hour later, Ema’s next point was much more urgent: OMG! RUMOR THAT RACHEL WAS SHOT! WHERE ARE YOU?
    The mood at school was both somber and surreal. There were counselors on hand for kids who were having trouble dealing with the news of the shooting. Some students were openly weeping in the hallways—the ones you’d expect to get overly emotional. It didn’t matter if they knew Rachel well or not, but, hey, people react differently to tragedy and it wasn’t fair to judge.
    Rumors were flying all over the place, but nobody seemed to know how seriously Rachel was injured. Two days ago, Rachel had told me that her parents were divorced and that her mother lived in Florida. She hadn’t mentioned anything about her mom visiting.
    So what was Rachel’s mother doing in New Jersey?
    I found Ema sitting alone in the cafeteria. Some would say that we sit at the outcast or “loser” table. That may be, but to me the cafeteria is more like a sports stadium. The so-called cool kids get the boxes and suites while the rest of us sit in the bleachers—but I always have more fun when I sit in the bleachers.
    “Wow,” I said to Ema.
    “Yeah. Where were you this morning?”
    I told her about the police asking me questions. As I did, I spotted Troy Taylor out of the corner of my eye. Troy sat, to keep within my sports metaphor, in the “owner’s luxury box.” Our fellow students came up to him to pay their respects or offer condolences.
    I looked over at his table and frowned. “They weren’t even dating.”
    Ema gave me the flat eyes.
    “What?” I said.
    “That’s what matters to you now? Troy Taylor’s past with Rachel?”
    She had a point.
    “And just for the record, Rachel didn’t sit here. She sat with them.” Ema pointed toward Troy’s table. “Once she graced us with her presence to unload some baked goods. That’s all.”
    “She helped us,” I said.
    “Whatever.” Ema waved her hand dismissively. Her dark nail polish was chipped.
    We ate in silence for a few moments.
    “Mickey?”
    “What?”
    “Do you think the shooting is connected to what happened at the nightclub? I mean, are we in danger too?”
    “I don’t know. But we should probably be more careful.”
    “How?”
    She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and hope. I flashed back to Wednesday, to the knife against her throat, how close Ema came to dying. My heart crumbled anew. I was about to offer up some lame statement about not worrying, that we’d come up with some answer, but I was mercifully interrupted.
    “Hello, comrades. Even on this terrible day, it gives me great pleasure to see you.”
    It was Spoon. He always held his tray close to him, afraid that someone would intentionally knock