Under a Spell by Hannah Jayne Page B

kidnapper.”
    My eyebrows rose. “How so?”
    Will sauntered down the aisle of desks and plopped himself down in one toward the back of the room, kicking up his professor shoes on the desk kitty-corner from him. “We know that the garbage goes out on Monday mornings.”
    I flipped a desk around and sat it in. “We do?”
    “Okay, I know that the garbage here goes out on Monday mornings. So we know that Alyssa’s clothes had to have been dumped within the last twenty-four hours.”
    “And that means?”
    Will blew out a sigh. “I thought you were the crime-fighting expert and I was just the attractive sidekick.”
    I felt myself bristle and let out and audible growl.
    “It means that whoever dumped Alyssa’s clothes more than likely has a connection to the school.”
    “Of course—” I was about to summon up my best “duh” expression, but Will held up a silencing hand.
    “I mean other than as a hunting ground.”
    I felt a hot blush was over my cheeks. “Go on.”
    “Why would your perp—”
    “Unsub,” I corrected, feeling the stupid need to contribute something of merit.
    “Why would your unsub”—Will eyed me as he said the word—“return to the scene of the crime just to light up his victim’s clothes? He could have done that anywhere.”
    “Maybe he was trying to make some kind of statement?” I bit my lip, considering. “A burning uniform . . . maybe his statement is that high school is like the burning fires of hell?”
    “You know, you could really use some therapy for all those non-repressed memories.”

    My head was spinning—and throbbing—by the time I snapped Nigella’s door shut and trudged up the steps to my apartment.
    “Same time tomorrow?” Will asked as he sunk his key into the lock.
    I shook my head. “I need to run some errands tomorrow so I’ll take my own car. But I’ll see you.”
    Will gave me one of those exceptionally manly head nods before disappearing into his apartment. I pulled my own keys from my shoulder bag and was about to unlock my door, but I stopped, cocking my head to listen.
    Music was thumping through my front door—a weirdly cheery electronica beat. I would have chalked it up to one of Vlad’s super-vamp bands, but this particular song lacked the recorded-in-a-coffin timbre and any lyrics bemoaning an afterlife pox that included Sookie Stackhouse and the Twilight cast.
    “Vlad?” I pushed my key into the lock and was surprised when Nina’s dark head popped up from behind my open laptop. She was stationed at the dining table, papers spread all around her, a spiral notebook thick with black scrawl in front of her. She grinned when she saw me.
    “So, what do you think?” she yelled over the beat.
    “About what?”
    “This!” Nina stood up and did a series of funky club moves that probably looked great with low lighting and a severe buzz.
    “What is that? And”—I gestured to her cira-1980s full-body snake motion—“what is that?”
    She clicked the volume button off and we were dropped into blessed silence—even though the electronica beat still throbbed in my head. “What is all this?”
    “Okay, remember how I said that I needed something to really make my mark?”
    “Because I’m a substitute teacher, enriching young minds to the point of complete and utter disdain for me? Yeah, I remember that.”
    “Well, this is it!” Nina flung out her arms in a measure of complete and utterly confusing joy.
    “You’re teaching the snake to a new generation of club dancers?”
    Nina’s sigh was so exasperated and so long I thought her chest would implode. “No, silly. Listen.” She clicked the beat on again, started her little jig again, and again, I was baffled.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s UDA ,” she crowed. “ The Musical !”
    “No,” I said, my sheer terror pushing me backward. “Just . . . no.”
    Nina frowned, slammed my computer shut, and slumped down into a chair, chin in hands. “It wasn’t exactly coming together