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“I don’t enjoy making accusations,” Vincent says, borderline mournful. “It’s just that, to me, it sounds like you not only violated the privacy of two members of staff, but considering that one of those staff was the guidance counselor, the privacy of several of your classmates as well. And that is completely, utterly unacceptable.”

Okay. It’s fine. All I have to do is tell the truth and this is done. It’ll be easy. Felicity Keating stole Ms. Perkins’s key card, broke into Mrs. Brewster’s office, tore Ms. Penny’s desk to shit. Felicity Keating is blackmailing me. Felicity Keating is a threat and a danger.

Vincent says, “When I gave you that entrance code, I said it was a big responsibility. I put a lot of faith in you.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“And one of the biggest parts of that was holding yourself to the highest standards of respect for yourself and others.”

Say it. Just say it. It wouldn’t even be throwing Felicity under the bus; it’d be letting them walk into traffic.

But—the fear in their voice as they tore up the file cabinet. The Saw trap bearing down on their skull. Watching them across the table at the bookstore, realizing how much they understand.

If my bio parents find out I’m alive, they said.

I can’t do it.

“So tell me,” Vincent says. “Am I correct in my assumption? Did you do that?”

If Vincent thinks it was me alone, then he hasn’t pulled the rest of the entrance history from the back door, and he definitely hasn’t checked the cameras. If I push back, then he’ll have every reason to go and look. He’ll see Felicity. He’ll know.

“Whatever.” I put a fingernail in my mouth. “Yeah. That was me.”

“Oh,” Vincent says, as if shocked that I folded so quickly. His professional shoulders slump. “Morgan—”

I don’t want to hear it. “What’s the punishment.”

“The punishment can wait. Can you tell me why?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. I think it does.”

“I—” I put the story together as I talk, studying the clacker toy on his desk so I don’t have to look at Vincent’s disappointed face. “The documentary sucks. The producer’s an asshole. Had an interview that morning and I was angry. Fucked up the offices. Whatever. I tried to put it back, but apparently I didn’t do a great job. Sorry, I guess.”

Vincent sighs.

He says, “As soon as I heard about the documentary, I knew it was going to be bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Is your mother—”

“It was her idea. Of course she’s not helping.”

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says.

“Just tell me what you’re going to do.”

It takes him a second to respond. He doesn’t want to say it, either. “Well, you do understand that I’ll have to revoke after-hours access. That was contingent on you following my guidelines. I’ll contact maintenance and have your code removed from the system.”

I nod. Figures.

“I won’t be calling your mother,” he continues. “I get the sense that that will only, if I may, make it worse.” No shit. “There will be in-school restriction, of course, given that this is a level-one infraction. I expect a handwritten apology to both Ms. Penny and Mrs. Brewster, and …”

A single text, sent as quickly as possible while Vincent gets up to fetch Ms. Penny to escort me to in-school restriction:

Morgan