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“Emily’s prose is not Charlotte’s prose. Charlotte’s voice is not Anne’s voice. And Anne’s is distinctly different from both of her sisters’. None of them are interchangeable. That’s what makes writing personal. You can teach someone grammar. You can teach structure. You can teach technique. But the way a writer combines all of those things?” He taps the book against his palm. “That belongs to them.”

For the rest of class, Mr. Collins shows us different ways a writer can leave traces of themselves on the page. Sentence length. Repeated words. Dialogue patterns. Imagery. Rhythm. One writer might spend an entire paragraph describing a room while another barely mentions the color of the walls.

By the time the clock starts creeping toward the end of class, I’m no longer dwelling on our earlier conversation, completely invested in discovering what my own fingerprint could be.

“There is one last reason I wanted to discuss this particular topic with you today.” Something in his tone makes the room go quiet. “As we’ve established, your writing carries fingerprints. And after reading enough of your work, I’ve begun to recognize them,” he says, making eye contact with all of us. “I’ve learned your voices. I’ve learned your habits. I know which of you loves a semicolon and which of you can’t stand them. I know who writes sentences that run half a page and who can say everything they need to in two words. I know your favorite words, your crutches, your strengths, which in turn helps me recognize the areas we still need to work on.” His posture grows rigid. “Which means if you hand me something written by someone else—or worse, something you stole from someone else—I will notice.”

“Mr. Collins, are you saying someone has been cheating?” Holly blurts out in outrage.

“Unfortunately, Holly, yes.” Mr. Collins pauses, his mouth set in a disappointed scowl. “One of your classmates handed in a story that was not written by them. And today, I learned that the student it was taken from had no idea it had been stolen.”

A wave of whispers immediately sweeps through the classroom, everyone looking around and throwing out names, wondering who was stupid enough to think they could get one past Mr. Collins.

“Now, I will not be bringing this to Principal Hargrove’s attention. Academic dishonesty is a serious offense, and I’m giving the student responsible an opportunity to learn from this mistake before I take it any further. They will receive an F on the assignment, and I will be speaking with them privately.”

“Who was it?” Troy asks, practically smelling the gossip in the air.

Mr. Collins gives him a pointed look. “Who cheated on the assignment is my concern, not yours.”

Before anyone has time to continue guessing, the bell rings, ending class.

Chairs scrape against the floor as everyone grabs their things and files out into the hall, but I remain frozen in my seat.

Was he talking about me? Is he saying someone stole my work?

That’s the only explanation I can come up with as to why he wanted to know if I’d done the assignment for someone else. He recognized my writing—my fingerprint—and wanted to make sure I wasn’t involved.

By the time I finally look up from my desk, the classroom is empty. Well, almost.

“Peyton,” Mr. Collins says, his voice stern. “A word, please.”

My head whips in her direction. She hasn’t moved, but the fury written all over her face tells me all I need to know.

“Max, I think you should get going. You don’t want you to be late for your next class.” Mr. Collins offers me a warm smile.

I gather my things and make my way toward the door.

“Please close it on your way out,” he says.

But he’s no longer looking at me.

His cold stare is laser-focused on Peyton.

I do as he asks, closing the door behind me before heading toward my locker, my mind struggling to catch up with what just happened.

I should be happy that karma has finally found Peyton’s address. I should be thrilled that, for once, she’s the one getting in trouble.

But I’m not. Not when there’s one burning question I need answered.

How the hell did Peyton get her hands on one of my stories in the first place?

The question follows me for the rest of the day.

With Misty having to get ready for tonight’s football game, she can’t give Sienna and me a ride home, which means we’re stuck taking the school bus.

Sienna hasn’t said more than two words to me all day, still furious over the Reds’ latest stunt.

I haven’t said much either. Every spare thought keeps circling back to the same question—how did one of my stories end up with Peyton?.