They stopped. Claire said, “How?”

“She was caught in the guidance office, using a computer.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither did we. One of the guidance counselors found her in there. She was printing out a transcript. Turns out it was just her own.”

Myron thought about that. “Aren’t those computers password-protected?”

“They are.”

“So how did she get in?”

Reid spoke a little too carefully. “We’re not sure. But the theory is, someone in the administration made an error.”

“An error how?”

“Someone may have forgotten to sign out.”

“In other words, they were still logged on so she could gain access?”

“It’s a theory, yes.”

Pretty dumb one, Myron thought.

“Why wasn’t I informed?” Claire asked.

“It wasn’t really that big a deal.”

“Breaking into school transcripts isn’t a big deal?”

“She was printing out her own. Aimee, as you know, was an excellent student. She has never gotten in trouble before. We decided to let her go with a stern warning.”

And save yourself some embarrassment, Myron thought. It wouldn’t pay to let it out that a student had managed to break into the school computer system. More sweeping under the rug.

They arrived at the locker. Amory Reid used his master key to unlock it. When he opened the door, they all stood back for a moment. Myron was the first to step forward. Aimee’s locker was frighteningly personal. Photographs similar to the ones he’d seen in her room adorned the metallic surface. Again no Randy. There were images of her favorite guitar players. On one hanger was a black Green Day American Idiot tour T-shirt; on the other, a New York Liberty sweat-shirt. Aimee’s textbooks were piled on the bottom, covered in protective sleeves. There were hair ties on the top shelf, a brush, a mirror. Claire touched them tenderly.

But there was nothing in here that seemed to help. No smoking gun, no giant sign reading THIS WAY TO FINDING AIMEE.

Myron felt lost and empty, and staring into the locker, at something so Aimee—it just made her absence that much more obscene.

The mood was broken when Reid’s mobile phone buzzed. He picked it up, listened for a moment, and then he hung up.

“I found someone to cover Mr. Davis’s class. He’s waiting for you in the office.”

CHAPTER 37

Drew Van Dyne was thinking about Aimee and trying to figure out his next step when he arrived at Planet Music. Whenever he did that, whenever he got too confused by life and the poor choices he’d often made, Van Dyne either self-medicated or, as he was doing now, he turned to music.

The iPod ear buds were jammed deep into the canals. He was listening to Alejandro Escovedo’s “Gravity,” enjoying the sound, trying to put together how Escovedo had written the song. That was what Van Dyne liked to do. He’d tear a song down in the best way possible. He’d come up with a theory about the origin, how the idea had come, the first bit of inspiration. Was that first seed a guitar riff, the chorus, a specific stanza or lyric? Had the writer been heartbroken or sad or filled with joy—and why specifically had he been feeling that way? And where, after that first step, did he go with the song? Van Dyne could see the songwriter at the piano or strumming the guitar, taking notes, altering it, tweaking it, whatever.

Bliss, man. Pure, simple bliss. Figuring out a song. Even if. Even if there was always a small voice, deep in the background, saying, “It should have been you, Drew.”

You forget about the wife who looks at you like you’re a dog turd and now wants a divorce. You forget about your father, who abandoned you when you were still a kid. You forget about your mother, who tries now to make up for the fact that she didn’t give a rat’s ass for too many years. You forget the mind-numbing, regular-Joe teaching job you hate. You forget that the job is no longer something you’re doing while waiting for your big break. You forget that your big break, when you’re honest with yourself, will never come. You forget that you’re thirty-six years old and that no matter how hard you try to kill it, your damn dream will not die—no, that would be too easy. Instead the dream stays and taunts and lets you know that it will never, ever, come true.

You escape into the music.

What the hell should he do now?

That was what Drew Van Dyne was thinking as he walked past the Bedroom Rendezvous. He saw one of the salesgirls whisper to another. Maybe they were talking about him, but he didn’t much care. He entered Planet Music, a place he both loved and loathed. He loved being surrounded by music. He loathed being reminded that none of it was his.

Jordy Deck, a younger, less talented version of himself, was behind the counter. Van Dyne could see from the young kid’s face that something was wrong.

“What?”

“A big dude,” the kid said. “He came in here looking for you.”

“What was his name?”

The kid shrugged.

“What did he want?”

“He was asking about Aimee.”

A lump of fear hardened in his chest. “What did you tell him?”

“That she comes in here a lot, but I think he already knew that. No big deal.”

Drew Van Dyne stepped closer. “Describe this guy.”

He did. Van Dyne thought about the warning call he’d received earlier today. It sounded like Myron Bolitar.

“Oh, one other thing,” the kid said.

“What?”

“When he left, I think he went to Bedroom Rendezvous.”

Claire and Myron decided to let Myron talk to Mr. Davis alone.

“Aimee Biel was one of my most gifted students,” Harry Davis said.

Davis was pale and shaking and didn’t have the same confident stride Myron had seen just that morning.

“Was?” Myron said.

“Pardon me?”

“You said ‘was.’ ‘Was one of my most gifted students.’ ”

His eyes went wide. “She isn’t in my class anymore.”

“I see.”

“That’s all I meant.”

“Right,” Myron said, trying to keep him on the defensive. “When exactly was she your student?”

“Last year.”

“Great.” Enough with the prelims. Straight for the knockout punch: “So if Aimee wasn’t your student anymore, what was she doing at your house Saturday night?”

Beads of sweat popped up on his forehead like plastic gophers in one of those arcade games. “What makes you think she was?”