Free The Sixes by Kate White Page B

didn’t, but as she read more, she learned that many early hex signs had six-pointed stars, and surprise, surprise, one theory held that the name hex had evolved from a mispronunciation of the German word seches —meaning “six.”
    So maybe the hex signs in Blair and Gwen’s apartment had nothing to do with witchcraft, but were simply a way for the girls to sneakily announce that they were part of the Sixes. Funny, she thought, how secret organizations always had to make sure they had their damn symbol down, to give members a way to show that they belonged. Because what secret societies invariably wanted was to not be a total secret—they wanted people to whisper about them, to yearn to belong, and in some cases, to be very afraid of them. Phoebe had learned that all too well.
    Next, she Googled information about drowned bodies. When a person drowned, she read, the body generally sank at first, but as it decomposed, the resulting gases forced it to the surface. The colder the water, the longer it took for those gases to form. At this time of year it might take well over a week for a body to rise to the surface, even if the weather was as warm as it had been. But a body didn’t always sink to the bottom. Sometimes it got caught on tree roots or wrapped in nautical rope along a dock. Maybe that’s what happened to Lily’s body, Phoebe thought, which would explain why it had been found so quickly.
    Then she checked out the story Stockton had mentioned about students dying in the Midwest. He hadn’t exaggerated. In the past five or six years a dozen young men in just a few states had been found drowned after a night out. In all the cases, authorities had declared the deaths accidental, though some family members bought into the notion of a serial killer. Again, Phoebe felt her skin crawl. She instinctively glanced up to the window above the table. How horrible to even consider, she thought. But serial killers did move around. She’d read enough about Ted Bundy to know that he had begun his deadly spree in Oregon, moved on to Colorado, and killed his last victims in Florida. Stockton might be right.
    Thinking of Stockton made her remember to check her e-mail. As promised, there was a message from him with the names of the two girls who’d exchanged the look during the committee meeting: Molly Wang and Jen Imbibio.
    Bingo, Phoebe thought. Jen Imbibio was in one of the sections of her writing class. It would be easy to find an excuse to talk to the girl after class tomorrow.
    She opened the file she kept on her students on her laptop and scrolled down to Jen Imbibio’s name. Jen had earned B-, C, and C+ on her three assignments so far. Phoebe had yet to review and grade Jen’s most recent assignment. She’d asked her students to write a reported article on any topic they wanted, and also a separate, first-person blog on the same subject, done in a much chattier, breezier style. Jen had chosen reality TV as her subject.
    Phoebe reached across the table to a stack of papers, located Jen’s two pieces, and read through them. Her research for the reported piece had been decent enough, but the writing was stilted. For the blog, Jen had gone off on a total tear about the girls who were on the shows, girls who flaunted their fake breasts and were famous for nothing. The writing here was sassy and provocative in parts, a refreshing surprise.
    Phoebe glanced at her watch. It was close to four o’clock, and she’d done nothing yet for dinner with Duncan. She jumped up from her desk and hurried into the kitchen. She’d decided earlier that she’d make spaghetti carbonara, which she’d planned to prepare for herself that night anyway. There were arugula and lemons in the fridge, which meant she could put together a salad with lemon vinaigrette. What about dessert, though? she wondered. There was still time to make a mad dash to the supermarket before it closed. But that would be trying too hard, turning the evening into more