Three girls, splayed on the cement. Necks broken, limbs bent, dead.

The juxtaposition was uncanny. Cold weather for May, dark clouds covered the sky. Police cruisers lined the street, officers hovered around the scene. Everything played out in perfect accordance. Diverting eyes and unwanted glances, all for one reason: the bodies of three dead girls.

Detective Evan O'Riley stared for as long as he could, then turned away. He was accustomed to seeing this sort of thing. Arriving at crime scenes and observing dead bodies was what he did for a living. Yet somehow this was different. Looking at those three girls, he felt off. As though their youth and innocence were being broadcasted on a sign above them, spinning and flashing for everyone to see. Too young. Too broken.

The perimeter had been taped off, faced with crowds of young faces trying to peek through and see what all the commotion was about. But by that point, most people already knew. Word spreads fast, after all, especially in a school with less than a thousand students.

The courtyard of St. Paul's Catholic School was crowded, kids swarming the taped-off area, trying to see for themselves what had happened. Cellphones were held above heads, shoulders nudged to get to the front. This was the most upheaval they'd ever seen.

Briarwood was a small town, population of five thousand. Nothing bad ever happened there. It was the type of town where neighbors went to each other for a cup of sugar or a borrowed egg. Where you knew every single person you passed on the street. A tight-knit community with family ties. Crime was practically unheard of. Sure, there was the odd DUI or domestic dispute from time to time – but death? Especially on those so young?

The only thing that people died from in Briarwood was old age. The way people saw it, there were only two ways out of that town: until you died of old age, or you moved far away and never looked back. The last time the town had seen an untimely death from someone under the age of eighty was a few years back, when a nineteen-year-old boy drowned in the lake. That was enough to rattle the community for quite some time. But now this had happened, and nobody knew what to think.

The three girls lying on the ground were one month shy of completing their sophomore year when their lives ended. Haddie Taylor, Anya Wilson, and Kiera Barnes. Classmates. Best friends. Soul Sisters.

Deceased.

It was 12:05 p.m. The 911 call came through shortly after 11:00 a.m., which meant that the girls died sometime just before that. Lunch began at 11:00, so the question begged: what were the girls even doing up there in the first place? Why were they not in class?

Evan ran his fingers through his hair, taking in another deep breath before turning around to face his superior, Major Frank Connolly. They had only arrived on scene ten minutes prior, approximately half an hour after the 911 call was dispatched. Evan and his team were from Riverton – the closest city – approximately forty minutes out from Briarwood. Normally they wouldn't respond to a call outside their jurisdiction, but given the circumstances, and the fact that Briarwood had an almost zero percent crime rate, Riverton PD was required.

Forty minutes and the small town was already in mayhem. The school-board was doing everything in their power to prevent news from getting out. The mayor had arrived on scene and was doing her best to keep everything at bay. The last thing they needed was the local news station catching wind of things and making a dime from this devastating loss. And what would news such as this do to their small community? Surely people would be horrified to hear of something so traumatic.

Evan focused his attention, listening to the sound of hundreds of iPhones clicking as the cameras went off. People – fellow students – taking pictures, trying to get a first look, capture that perfect, newsworthy shot.

It was a perplexing case that should have been straight-forward. From what they had gathered thus far, the girls had been plunged from the roof of the school, bodies hitting the pavement, killing them instantly. Plunged was an interesting word, because as far as anyone could tell, the cause of this plunge was still unknown.

"What do you think we're looking at here?" Frank Connolly said as he turned to Evan.

Evan took in another breath and faced his superior. "Looks pretty cut and dry to me," he said, pushing the image of the dead girls temporarily out of his mind. "Suicide."

"A triple suicide?"

Evan shrugged.

"You don't think any foul play was involved?" Frank asked.

"In all honestly, sir, I have no idea what to think. I'm still processing all of this."

"It just seems out of sorts to me. I spoke with the principal," Frank nodded to a lanky red-headed woman, skittering around in high heels and a pencil skirt. "She says the girls were wonderful students. No sort of problems that she knows of. No bullying or signs of suicidal thoughts."

"So you think someone pushed them."

"Or made them jump."

"But why would someone force three sixteen-year-old girls to jump off the roof of their school?"

Frank shrugged. "Kids do crazy things."