Curtis

  Sam and I reach Sunfield Public School not long after I receive the call. Sunfield Public School has about 700 students and nearly 75 staff, large enough to stay busy but small enough that people recognize familiar faces.

  The first message I got said a student had been shot dead at Sunfield Public School in Owenhill, and that I needed to be there. That was it. No details, no context. I hate messages like that. The worst news comes without warning and leaves your mind racing to make sense of it.

  My first concern wasn’t the investigation but the safety of the other students.

  We don’t know if the person responsible is still somewhere on the property.

  Then the update comes in.

  The victim is likely Emily, the same girl reported missing this morning. Her parents hadn’t realized she was gone earlier. There’d been a misunderstanding about where she was supposed to stay last night.

  That’s a small relief. At least it’s only one student, not a mass casualty.

  We head straight to the old railway track behind the school, where her body lies. The place feels too quiet and isolated. Almost too convenient for something like this to happen.

  The railway track lies abandoned, overgrown with weeds and barely visible. Beside the track, a lone rock juts out a few feet away, and Emily’s body rests next to it. One gunshot to the head. No weapon nearby.

  Someone fired the shot and took the gun. Leaving it behind would’ve been risky. A weapon can lead investigators straight to the shooter. Whoever did this didn’t want to be found quickly.

  I study the distance between the school and the track, trying to make sense of how Emily ended up all the way out here. There are no signs of forced movement, no drag marks, nothing to suggest she struggled along the way. That means she likely came willingly, or someone she trusted brought her here. If she didn’t, someone would’ve had to carry her, though that seems unlikely. Another possibility is that she was forced to walk this far with a gun aimed at her. It’s grim, but it could’ve happened.

  Her clothes are intact. Faded blue Tommy shorts and a plain white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Other than the dried blood on the fabric, nothing looks disturbed. There are no immediate signs of sexual assault, though we won’t know for certain until the full examination is complete.

  A few footprints mark the dirt nearby. They tell us someone else’s been here, but not when. They could be old, or they could mean more than one person was involved.

  Josephine, our forensic specialist, arrives a few minutes later. She studies the body in silence before speaking.

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  “She fell to her side,” she says, still not taking her eyes off the body. “No defensive wounds. Contact shot to the temple. Fine back spatter on her hands and forearms. At first glance, it looks self-inflicted.”

  “There’s no weapon,” I tell her.

  Her eyes lift to mine, widening slightly. “No weapon?”

  “Maybe she was shot at close range, or someone forced her to pull the trigger before taking it,” Sam suggests.

  Josephine scans the area again, slower this time.

  “It’s possible. A scream out here wouldn’t carry far, but right now, I see no defensive injuries. That might change once we do a full check. How far is this from the school?” she asks.

  “About eight hundred metres. Ten minutes on foot.”

  “No reports of a gunshot?”

  “We only found her recently. We still need to speak to nearby residents and staff. No one’s reported hearing anything yet.”

  Josephine begins her work, moving carefully across the ground.

  I keep looking at Emily. She appears to have been sitting on the rock when the shot was fired. She fell to the side and never moved again.

  A beautiful young girl with her whole life ahead of her. Fragile. She must’ve been terrified.

  With teenagers, motives are rarely simple. Jealousy, humiliation, anger, or some stupid prank. Small things that grow into something dangerous.

  My phone buzzes. Steven from the support team is on the line.

  “Something’s spreading around the school,” he says. “Pictures. They’re everywhere. Two girls kissing. Students think they’re dating. One face is blurred. They believe that one is Emily. They’re recognizing her from her hair and body.”

  “And the other girl?” I ask.

  “Scarlet Hogan.”

  “Pull everything on her.”

  “Already working on it. Attendance, address, guardians, discipline, social circle...”

  “Send me the images.”

  “There are several versions. The first ones showed up a week or two ago. Each version gets more explicit. Less clothing. More intimacy. Emily’s face becomes clearer in the later ones, though not as clear as Scarlet’s. Most of the paper copies are gone, but I managed to secure two. I also have the ones that were circulating online.”

  “Send all of them.”

  The images arrive a moment later.

  They’re exactly as Steven described. Emily’s face is blurred and uncertain, almost hidden. Scarlet’s face is sharp and detailed. A young girl with striking features. She looks happy.

  The drawings are too precise. Too controlled.

  This wasn’t careless.

  This was planned.

  Sam leans closer. “Kids don’t draw like this for fun.”

  “No,” I say quietly. “They don’t.”

  I study the details. Emily is hidden just enough to deny it, but clear enough for students to guess. Scarlet is fully visible. Fully exposed.

  With each version, the images become more humiliating. Clothes disappear, and the poses grow more intimate. Slowly, Emily’s face begins to come into focus.

  Someone wanted this to spread.

  Someone wanted the damage to grow.

  “Scarlet Hogan,” Sam says. “What do we know about her?”

  “Not enough yet.” I pull my gloves back on. “But we will soon.”

  A uniformed officer approaches. It’s Kevin, a young and energetic cop who’s going to assist us.

  “Send a unit to Scarlet Hogan’s house. I want you there before her parents hear anything and try to shape the story,” I tell him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He leaves immediately.

  Sam looks back at the ground. “Multiple footprints. Could be more than one person.”

  “Maybe. But this area is close to the school. Students pass through here all the time. We can’t assume they’re connected.”

  He hesitates. “Some officers said students avoid this place. They think it’s haunted.”

  I look around the empty track. The trees crowd the edges. It’s calm and dark, like something out of a haunting story.

  If students were afraid to come here, how did someone convince Emily to walk all the way here? That means not everyone was afraid to come here. Not everyone believed the haunting story.