The smell of smoke and ash clinging to his clothes made Thomas nauseous. He has been breathing it in for hours, but he was afraid that if he moved, he would see his insides splattered on the reflective floor in front of him. They told him to stay, and that was the only anchor he had to cling on to. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. The headmaster's gravel voice rumbled through the door next to where he sat. He grasped his seat and listened after a female professor slipped into the office but not before giving Thomas a pitying look.

"All the students have been accounted for," said the one who just arrived. "The police are monitoring the dorms and halls for the time being."

Miss Finch. Her name pecked at a corner of his numb consciousness. She taught English. Thomas was in her class yesterday. She liked his poem but he had to persuade her not to share it with the rest of the class when she pulled him aside to ask permission. No one would have appreciated it except for her and...

"What a fucking mess," barked a man.

Thomas flinched at the sharp tone. Mr Douglas. He taught history. He never liked that class.

"How could this have happened?" Mr Douglas continued. The floor creaked under his pacing steps.

Silence.

"How are we going to address the press?" Mr Douglas sighed.

"The press?" Miss Finch said shrilly. "Two students are dead, Mr Douglas, and you're worried about the press!"

"Loanne," the headmaster's deep voice warned before heaving a heavy sigh. "We're all still in shock. Our focus should be on the rest of the students. They've also suffered a tremendous loss. I will speak to them in due time."

"And Thomas?" said Miss Finch. "What is going to happen to him? The students, the police, and the press will want to know what happened in the library. The poor boy...We have to protect him somehow. Has anyone talked to him? Has he been sitting out in that hallway all this time?"

She was answered with silence.

"You're all unbelievable," she breathed. The doorknob jiggled.

"Loanne, what do you hope to accomplish?" said Mr Douglas.

The doorknob slid back into place.

"You heard what Headmaster Coleman said," growled Miss Finch. "Our priority is to care for all the students. In case you've forgotten, Thomas is a student. What I hope to accomplish, Theo, is to do my best to fix some of the damage done."

The two men must have been giving her a strange look because she said, "What is it?"

Headmaster Coleman spoke, "Miss Finch...have you considered that..."

"Don't you dare say it!" she snapped. "Thomas wouldn't have done such a monstrous thing!"

Mr Douglas interjected, "Maybe you're denying the possibility that this wasn't an accident just because you have some affection for the boy-"

Slap!

"Miss Finch! That is enough!" yelled Headmaster Coleman.

"Maybe if you treated him like a human being, then he would have told you what happened! Instead, you forced him to sit, alone, like a chained criminal to that damn chair while you go about condemning him!"

"Don't be daff! You know his history!"

"You're both dismissed!" The headmaster's chair skid across the floor.

The door swung open so hard that it slammed against the wall, causing the impact to thunder down the halls and Thomas to jump in his seat. Mr Douglas' one cheek was more scarlet than the other. Miss Finch was behind him, staring daggers at his head. He stormed down the hall, but Miss Finch stood by Thomas, closing the door behind her. Her hand pressed against it for a moment before she turned to him. Her composed mask sliding back into place.

"Did you hear all that?"

Thomas shook his head. She slumped into the seat next to him.

"You don't need to lie. Not to me." 

After a breath, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her voice was a whisper.

"Was it an accident, Thomas?"

Miss Finch's auburn hair fell over her shoulder. Her eyes, though tired, were kind. They always were. A malicious voice purred.

She may believe you but no one else will.

She pressed her lips together, nodding. 

"Let's get you warmed up and out of those clothes."

She placed her hands on her knees, but she didn't stand. She was so still that Thomas turned to make sure she was alright. When she did meet his eye, hers were wet. Her mask was cracking.

"Was the poem you wrote about Artie?"

Thomas bowed his head, his chest tightening. 

"What's going on?"

An unfamiliar woman's voice echoed down the hall, coming towards them alongside a tall man. The woman had blond hair and brown anxious eyes. She was still in her nightgown underneath what Thomas assumed was her husband's winter coat. Her husband wore a wrinkled shirt and slacks, his dark brown hair sticking in every direction and his gray eyes had shadows underneath them. Miss Finch stood.

"Mr and Mrs Beaumont?" Miss Finch asked softly. The headmaster's door opened and he stepped out.

"Yes, that's us," said Mr Beaumont, sleep still evident in his voice. "We were told it was urgent. Is Artemis alright?"

Headmaster Coleman winced at his words. He gestured to his office, his eyes flashing briefly to Thomas.

"It's best we talk inside. Miss Finch, escort Thomas to the showers and then to the infirmary."

"Thomas?" said Mrs Beaumont, eyeing his soot-covered face and clothes questioningly. "Are you Artie's friend?"

How did she know?

A breath escaped him.

Artie wrote home about me.

"Mr and Mrs Beaumont, please come in. I'll explain everything."

The moment the door closed, Miss Finch turned back to Thomas.

"Come," she said gently. "You don't want to be here for this."

Thomas stayed seated. Artie was gone. Her parents will never see her again. He will never see her again.

"Thomas, please." She pleaded, squeezing his shoulders.

A piercing sob jolted Thomas to his senses. A groaning wail joined it.

"Please God, not my angel! No, no, NO!"

"It's not true! It can't be!"

Artie's parents emerged, nearly stumbling out the door. Her mother buried her face in her husband's chest. Her face wet with streaming tears and flushed as she struggled to breathe. Her gasps were ragged and painful. Artie's father collapsed on his knees with a sickening thud, his wife followed him down as he desperately clung to her. His whole body shook, his mournful howling continued. 

Thomas shakily got to his feet, silently weeping as he watched their agony consume them. His grief was just a raindrop in their ocean, but even so, he was drowning. 

He didn't remember being lead to the showers or to the infirmary, but he remembered their screams. Artie's. Her parents'. They haunted him all night.