Reconstructing Amelia Read Online Free Page A

stopped short of actually putting it on Kate’s arm. A tattoo on his forearm—a cross—peaked out from under the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Could you please come with me, ma’am?”
    This wasn’t right. She didn’t want to go somewhere with this detective. She wanted to be sent somewhere out of the way. Where all the other irrelevant spectators were sent.
    “No.” Kate jerked away. Her heart was racing. “Why?”
    “It’s okay, ma’am,” he said, putting a strong hand on her elbow and tugging her toward him. Now his voice was lower, more careful, as if Kate had a horrific head wound she was unaware of. “Why don’t you just come over here with me and have a seat.”
    Kate closed her eyes and tried to picture Amelia’s feet that morning when she’d happily bounded out the door. Mothers were supposed to know what kind of shoes their children were wearing. They were supposed to check. Kate felt light-headed.
    “I don’t want to have a seat,” she said, her panic rising. “Just tell me what’s wrong. Tell me now!”
    “Okay, Mrs. Baron, okay,” Detective Molina said quietly. “There’s been an accident.”
    “But Amelia’s okay, right?” Kate demanded, leaning back against the fence. Why weren’t they rushing? Why was the ambulance just sitting there? Where were all the flashing lights? “She has to be okay. I need to see her. I need her. Where is she?”
    Kate should run. She felt sure of it. She needed to go somewhere far away where no one could tell her anything. But instead, she was sinking, sliding down to the cold, hard sidewalk. There she sat, balled up against her knees, mouth pressed hard against them as if she were bracing herself for a crash landing.
    Run , she told herself, run . But it was too late.
    And for one long, last moment, there was only the sound of her heart beating. The pressure of her tight, shallow pants.
    “Your daughter, Amelia”—the detective was crouched next to her now—“she fell from the roof, Mrs. Baron. She was . . . she unfortunately didn’t survive the fall. I’m sorry, Mrs. Baron. But your daughter, Amelia, is dead.”

gRaCeFULLY
    SEPTEMBER 12TH
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    Because there are 176 definitions for the word loser on urbandictionary.com.
    Don’t Be a Statistic
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    Hey bitches,
    Here with the shit that’s not fit to print . . .
    Ah, the clubs. The place where all you desperate social climbers might finally get your slippery hands on that higher rung. Just remember that there isn’t actually any honor in your boobs or your wee-wee getting sized up against the pledge next to you, no matter how many hundreds of years they’ve being doing it.
    Then again, could be I just think that because I’m still waiting to get tapped.
    Word on the street is that the Tudors and Devonkill are trying to lift their street cred by going hard core with hazing, the Magpies are thinking outside the box—ha-ha—on invites this year, and Wolf’s Gate is staking out a great British invasion.
    Speaking of great British invasions, how many people is Ian Greene going to bed down? It’s only the second week of school, and from what I hear he’s approaching double digits with lots more fair ladies lining up to be laid—our resident harlots Sylvia Golde, Susan Dolan, and Kendall Valen just to name three.
    And Dylan Crosby? Dear, beautiful, mysterious Dylan? No, she’s not one of them. Not sure who she’s getting with, but she’s not the kind to queue up for anything.
    Word is George McDonnell and Hannah Albert finally consummated their decade-long obsession with each other. And Carter Rose has his eye on one tight-legged sophomore. Oh poor Carter, don’t bother. That chastity belt snaps open for no man.
    And stayed tuned, everyone. I’ve got mad scoop on the academic probation roll . . . I’m thinking I’ll just put it up in its entirety in the next issue. I mean—imho—if you can’t keep your head above water in a cush school like this, you deserve to get made a