Free Slide by Jill Hathaway Page A

leans forward. “That must be hard. How is Mattie doing?”
    I pick at my nails. “Not so good. She feels like . . . like she might have had something to do with Sophie’s death. She did something not very nice to Sophie the day she died.”
    “That’s rough.” Mr. Golden rubs at his beard thoughtfully. “But no one made Sophie kill herself. It’s important to realize that. Her choice was her own. It’s a terrible thing, but no one put that knife in Sophie’s hand.”
    I drop my hands into my lap abruptly.
    How did he know about the knife? Did the teachers hear all the gory details during a faculty meeting?
    He winces a little and pulls back. “I realize that must sound harsh to you, Vee. But suicide really is an act of selfishness. Think of her parents. Think of her friends, who are left to wonder what they could have done to stop it. Whatever your sister did, it wasn’t enough to drive Sophie to take her own life.”
    “But Sophie didn’t—” Somehow, I stop myself from insisting that Sophie didn’t kill herself. How could I explain without telling my secret?
    “Sophie didn’t what, Vee?” Mr. Golden tenses, his fingers curling against his khakis.
    I drum my fingers against my leg in frustration. How can I make him understand?
    “I just feel like Sophie would never do something like that.” I remember Sophie’s mother’s words. “She was strong—more than she knew.”
    Mr. Golden’s face softens. “That’s very nice of you to say, Vee. But you can’t know how she was feeling inside. Depression is an insidious monster. It eats you up from the inside. No, I think Sophie was in an immense amount of pain.”
    I dig my fingers into my temples and rub little circles. Nothing I say, short of confessing I witnessed the murder, will change Mr. Golden’s mind. In just a few seconds, Mr. Golden has morphed into an authority figure, spouting off crap about things he can’t possibly know. I really thought he was different.
    I stand indignantly.
    “There’s more to Sophie’s death. And I’m going to find out what it is.”
    I turn to leave before he can say anything in response, but the look on his face is so satisfying—his eyebrows raised and jaw dropped. I hope someday the truth does come out, and he remembers all this psychobabble bullshit he tried to feed me.
    When I open the door, I come face-to-face with Samantha Phillips, who’s gazing into a mirror on her locker door and patting powder onto her prissy little nose. She looks from me to the dimly lit room from which I’ve just emerged. Her eyes light up with glee, probably thinking about the rumors she can spread. By the end of the day, everyone will be whispering about my scandalous affair with Mr. Golden.
    “Doing a little extra credit?” she asks, smirking.
    I scowl at her and walk away. The sound of her voice reminds me of locker rooms and purple dresses and hands where they shouldn’t be.
    “Better be careful,” she calls after me. “Sophie Jacobs got cozy with Mr. G., and look where she is now.”
    I stop abruptly and turn to confront her. “What are you talking about?”
    She closes her locker door. “I saw her with him. In his car. All I’m saying is, you better be careful. He likes ’em young.” She spins on her heel and heads in the other direction, snickering all the way.
    And then it hits me. I saw them together, too. It was Sophie shaking and crying on the couch in Mr. Golden’s room. Hours before she was murdered.

 
     
    I arrive late to psychology, but Mr. Golden doesn’t give me a tardy. In fact, he doesn’t say anything to me at all, doesn’t even look at me, just keeps talking about intrinsic versus extrinsic motivation.
    Scanning the room, I realize there are only two places left to sit—next to Rollins or next to Zane. Just as he did in biology, Rollins looks at me and then away.
    I drop my eyes and sink into the empty seat next to Zane, pulling out my notebook. Mr. Golden roams around as he talks,