Free The Sixes by Kate White

Phoebe climbed the steps. The front door was already ajar, and she pushed it open all the way. She found herself in a foyer strewn with boxes, old boots, mail circulars, blow-in cards from magazines, a couple battered skateboards, and one half of a badly dented bike. A row of pegs had been nailed to the wall, and a small jean jacket, probably a woman’s, as well as a pink slicker, hung limply from them. There was a door to the left, likely leading to the downstairs apartment; up a staircase she could see another door. She glanced at the two mailboxes, thinking they might provide a clue as to which apartment was Blair’s. But they listed only names—three male names on one, and on the other, Blair Usher and Gwen Gallogly.
    She was about to rap on the downstairs door when it opened and a shaggy-haired guy, probably a student, stepped outside, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
    “Can I help you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.
    “Sorry to bother you,” Phoebe said. “I was looking for Blair Usher.”
    “Upstairs,” he said, lifting his chin.
    “Thanks,” Phoebe said. She turned and took a step toward the stairs.
    “But I don’t think they’re there,” he added. “I heard somebody go out earlier.”
    “Why don’t I give it a try anyway,” she said. That’s another thing she’d learned over the years from her work: Believe only half of what people tell you.
    After mounting the stairs, she rapped lightly on the door up there. It was heavily chipped, but there was a new-looking straw doormat on the floor in front of it, and tacked to the door was a Pennsylvania Dutch hex sign designed with two black-and-red birds and the word Wilkum . Both items were the kind of things a mother would send in a care package. Getting no response, Phoebe rapped again, harder this time. She waited. Nothing.
    Just as she was about to leave, she heard soft footsteps making their way to the door. It swung open and revealed a tall, pretty redhead with pale skin. Her hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, and there were faint smudge marks beneath each eye, as if she’d slept in her eye makeup and hadn’t washed her face yet today. She was wearing a neon green camisole and tight jeans tucked into knee-high gray suede boots. A frown began to form on her face as she took Phoebe in.
    “Yes?” the girl said. She cocked her head as she spoke, and the ponytail followed.
    Phoebe introduced herself and explained she was a teacher at Lyle. “Are you Blair?” she added.
    “No,” the girl said bluntly. “She’s not here right now.”
    “Will she be back soon?”
    “I’m not sure. What’s this about?”
    Obviously the phrase “teacher at Lyle” had failed to elicit even a soupçon of respect.
    “I’m sure you’ve heard about Lily Mack,” Phoebe said.
    “Of course. Why—is there some other news?”
    “No, but I’ve been asked to help in the internal investigation the college is doing. You must be Gwen, then.”
    “Yes—and we’ve already told the police everything we know.”
    “The school has to look into what happened as well. May I come in for a minute?”
    “I guess,” Gwen said, petulantly. “If you’re saying it’s absolutely necessary.” Gwen opened the door fully, and Phoebe stepped into the apartment. To her surprise she saw that it was in total contrast to the junk-strewn foyer downstairs. Though the walls were cracked and blistered in spots, they’d been painted a pretty yellow in the hall and red in the living room beyond. There was an old gilt-framed mirror in the entranceway and a small table, both the type of used but respectable booty you lugged home from Goodwill. Everything was neat and tidy, almost disarmingly so. The only sign of student life were two field hockey sticks leaning against the hall wall, along with a padded knee brace. A ripe, sweet smell filled the air, as if a vanilla candle was burning somewhere.
    “Sooo?” Gwen said.
    “Do you mind if we sit down?” Phoebe said, pointing