There's a policewoman waiting for us in homeroom. She's dressed in jeans and a polo shirt, but just from the way she stands at the front of the class it's obvious she's here on official business. As I make my way to my desk I feel sure that she's looking right at me. Already I can feel myself blushing under her imagined gaze. I sit down and try to remember what I look like at my most normal.
Once everyone is settled at their desks our homeroom tutor steps forward and holds up her hands for quiet. Almost at once, silence falls, people dropping their conversations mid-sentence. The tutor looks almost surprised, but I can sense the tension. Everyone's waiting to see what our visitor is here for, what she has to say. And I have a dreadful sense that I already know.
The policewoman steps forward and clears her throat. She surveys the classroom, her eyes sweeping over me like a searchlight.
"All right everyone," she says. "I'll cut right to the point. I'm officer Miller from the local constabulary, and I'm here to ask for your help." The tension in the room rises another notch, but Miller carries on regardless. "At the moment we're mounting a very serious investigation, in co-ordination with other constabularies up and down the coast. We're looking for a girl who's gone missing, and she'd be about the age most of you are now. I'm here to ask for your help." My throat has gone dry. I'm almost certain that I'm shaking. Desperately, I try to keep my body still and my face set. "Has someone moved in with a friend? Have you seen someone new in town? Even wandering the streets? If you have it's vitally important that you tell us. This girl is dangerous. She's been involved with some very nasty criminals, and has links to terrorist organisations. Your tutor is going to give out a card with her description and my number on it. If anyone of you see or hear anything suspicious, you can call me up anytime of the day or night to discuss it in the strictest of confidence." Miller gives one more sober, searching glance around the room, then steps back. "Thank you," she says, and shows herself out.
The moment she's gone I let out a breath that feels as if I've been holding since I walked into the room. As our tutor walks around handing out the cards I bury my face on my arms and try to cool the blush that's crept up my cheeks. I feel like I've just gone through an interrogation, but as far as I can tell I didn't give myself away. All the same there's this horrible paranoid feeling at the back of my brain. Part of me wants to go running back into town to find Lynch and warn her, and part of me is also wondering: Miller said that she had links to criminal organisations, even terrorists. Could it be true?
For a few minutes I'm torn. But then I think of her standing cold and bedraggled and lonely-looking on the beach and I know at once, of course, that she's no terrorist, no criminal. And at the same time it all suddenly seems really, deeply real for the first time. The Academy, Ingleman, Lynch; they're not part of some other world, some other person's problem. They're here, in my world, in my town, in my life. And for Lynch's sake, and Darren's, it's up to me to do something.
"Are you all right, Laura?" It's our tutor, looking down at me with a concerned frown. I do my best to sit up and smile like normal, but I know at once it's not going to work.
"Actually," I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, "I don't feel very well. Headache. I think . . . maybe I should go to the nurse's office."
The tutor buys it wholesale. Five minutes later I'm making my way down the corridor, hall pass in hand, wondering what on earth I'm supposed to do next.
