Jamie shakes his head. “I don’t think we should,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t know what I saw.

“Please,” I whisper. “You said I was brave. Now I need us to be brave together. We have to get in there.”

He shakes his head, mutters something under his breath, then starts walking around the backyard, looking under flower pots.

“On TV, people always hide their keys somewhere,” he says.

I don’t know why he likes me so much to follow my wild ideas. But I’m glad he does.

He gives up and goes back to staring through the windows.

Gently tapping on the patio doors, Jamie says, “We’re not getting through these.”

He tries the back door before checking the garage, which thankfully is unlocked, and coming out with a crowbar.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and I steady my breathing.

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“You’ll see for yourself in a minute,” I whisper. Then, when he doesn’t move, “I know this is foolish. But is it more foolish than chasing Michael down the street with a hammer? Or stopping those bullies? I’m not as brave as you think I am. I need your help.”

Jamie listens for a moment, then puts the crowbar in the gap between the door and the frame and pulls. The paint is cracking, and it looks old compared to the rest of the house, but as much as Jamie tries, it doesn’t open.

Just when I think he’s going to give up, he says, “Kick it.”

“What?”

“When I yank, you kick, hard. Not the glass part obviously. Aim low.”

“Won’t that be noisy?”

Jamie shrugs. “Do you want to get in or not?”

For a second, I think maybe I don’t, because I’m scared of what I’ll find on the other side of the door, but I nod and say, “Okay.”

Jamie pulls. “Now,” he says, and I kick, then again, and the third time, I hear a crack, and the door swings open.

We pause, waiting for someone to come and investigate, but no one does. We stare at the doorway that leads into the kitchen. I watch Jamie, and for the first time since we met, he looks genuinely scared.

We could still leave, and no one would know it was us. But I step forward, the smell of an unfamiliar house hitting me harder than it ever has before.

The house is quiet, too quiet, just the hum of a huge fridge and the sound of birds singing coming through the broken back door.

I leave Jamie in the kitchen and go straight to the living room, and there she is, staring at me from a family portrait—Bernie.

I feel dizzy and sit heavily on the sofa.

I stare at the photo, at Bernie smiling that perfect fake smile as she stands with her mother, stepdad, and Clara.