Chapter 5: The Control Group

Detective Derek stared at me, then pulled out a stack of photos and spread them out like playing cards, the table sticky from spilled coffee. The images were glossy and a little bent, like they’d been handled too much.

"Sorry, Dr. Harris, it’s my job—I’ve looked into your background. There’s not much about the gifted class, but I found your graduation photo. You’re right in the center. They stuck you in the middle, like you were the class mascot. It looks nice, but really, it’s just a way to single you out."

"I imagine you went through a lot—isolated, ridiculed. That kind of shame can last a lifetime. Motive, right there."

His words blurred as sleep crept in. If this was supposed to rattle me, he should’ve tried after I’d slept more than three hours.

"Detective, if all you’ve got are old photos and wild guesses, I need to go. My eight-year-old’s waiting for me."

I stood to leave, but his tone turned sharp. "That’s just one possible motive. Here’s another: why were you admitted to the gifted class in the first place?"

I sat back down. "Go on."

He pulled out a yellowed newspaper, listing the gifted class entry requirements: under fifteen, IQ above 200, solve the latest math puzzle, photographic memory.

"You didn’t meet any of those. Your family didn’t have connections. So why you? I think the school needed a control group—someone to always be last so the others looked better. You were used by the school as the control group."

I let out a laugh—short, bitter. It made too much sense.

"Detective, how long have you been on the force?"

He blinked, surprised. "Three years."

He’s still got that rookie glow. Doesn’t know yet how ugly things can get. Tough luck to get stuck with a case like this.