Free The Prom Queen by R.L. Stine Page B

officer. He looked past my father to me. “Elizabeth McVay?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s me,” I said quietly.
    â€œWere you at Rachel West’s house tonight?”
    My parents both turned to stare at me. “Yes,” I said.
    â€œWell,” the cop said, “I’m afraid I need to talk to you. You were the last person to see her alive.”

Chapter

13
    â€œM aria’s rosary,” I said. I made a check on my clipboard. “The captain’s whistle. Check.”
    I was in the prop room, making sure I had everything for that night’s rehearsal. Trying to keep my mind on what I was doing was the hardest part.
    It was Thursday night. A week had passed since Rachel’s murder. A week that had passed for me in a total daze. I just tried to put one foot in front of the other.
    Soon after I had left Rachel’s house that rainy Wednesday night, her family left too. Her dad had insisted on taking all the Wests out for ice cream—never mind the rain or that it was nine forty-five.
    But Rachel was so upset over Gideon that she had refused to go.
    Mr. West asked her nicely, then he begged, pleaded, and even ordered. He isn’t the most understanding guy in the world.
    Rachel can be as stubborn as her father. There was no way she was going out for ice cream when her boyfriend had just dumped her. “I’d rather die than go!” she yelled at her father.
    Of course, those were words her dad will never forget. And he’ll probably never forgive himself for leaving Rachel at home alone.
    Then again, he thought the killer had been caught. We’d all seen his strange, smiling face on TV.
    So Rachel’s family had gone out for ice cream without her.
    When they got home, Rachel was there.
    Facedown on her bedroom floor.
    Stabbed to death.
    â€œThe picnic basket,” I said out loud. “Check.”
    I lowered my head. Now I was remembering Rachel’s funeral. I thought the whole school would have been there. But not that many kids showed up. Gideon came. I bet he felt pretty low. He sure gave her a nice farewell present—dumping her for Elana.
    They buried her in the new section of the Fear Street cemetery. It started raining again during the ceremony.
    I tried focusing my attention on the play. I used to love being up in the prop room. At our school the prop room is way up at the top of the flies—that’swhat they call the area above the stage. It’s hidden in a corner at the end of the catwalk that goes across the stage. It’s so small it feels like a secret attic room. It’s filled with all kinds of wild props. There are cardboard boxes stuffed with swords, feathers, old-fashioned phones, canes, every kind of dishware, bells, whistles, even a gun with a flag inside that says “Bang!” when you fire it.
    Right then the tiny cramped room struck me as very scary. Who would hear if something happened to me up there? No one.
    Then I noticed something peculiar.
    The door to a small closet was slightly ajar.
    I knew I had closed it after the last rehearsal. I knew because I close all closets until they snap shut. It’s a silly habit I have. I like things to be neat. I can’t stand a drawer that’s half-open or a cupboard door that’s half-shut.
    I slowly approached the closet. The only thing I could hear was my heart beating.
    Slowly I pulled the door open.
    A box of papier-mâché masks crashed down and almost clunked me right on the head.
    There was no one in the closet. I knelt down and muttered to myself as I checked the masks. Luckily, nothing had been broken.
    And that was when the boy’s voice behind me said, “Hi, Lizzy.”
    I stood up fast. It was Robbie. He was pointing a gun right at my head.
    â€œYou’re dead,” he said.
    He squeezed the trigger. The flag inside the gun popped out. “Bang!” it read.
    â€œVery funny,” I said. “You—nearly scared me to