After we’ve received our food, he drives to a nearby park, and we sit in the car as the rain begins to fall. I hadn’t realized I was hungry until I had the food in front of me, but now the anxiety has worn off and my mouth waters in anticipation. We eat in silence for a while, splitting fries between us and watching the grass become saturated with water, until I finally speak.

“Zoe invited me to come over after school.”

“Are you going?”

“I feel like I have to,” I say. “I don’t want her to know I’m suspicious.”

Mason hums thoughtfully. “That’s probably smart.”

“It could be a chance to have a look around and see if I can find anything,” I suggest, balling up the sandwich wrapper in my hands. “But if she found out I was snooping . . .”

“Don’t let her.”

“I don’t even know what I’m expecting to find,” I say, doubt creeping into my words. “It’s not like there’s going to be a note saying I did it.”

He gives me an unimpressed look. “Obviously not. But you never know. Text messages, a diary, web search history, things like that.”

I suppress a shudder at the thought of trying to do any of that without getting caught. “This is a bad idea.”

“You could also try for a conversation. Ask if she can tell you anything more about the night of your accident,” he says. “She can’t fault you for that. You’re just trying to understand what happened to you.”

“Maybe.”

“Whether it’s today or tomorrow or some other day in the future, we’re going to find out the truth about what happened,” he reassures me, his voice soft.

“We?”

One half of his mouth hitches upward. “I’m far too involved to back out now.”

The thought of having someone else on my side—someone to confide in, to theorize with—provides a tantalizing amount of comfort. It may be too early to be making snap decisions, but I desperately want to trust Mason.

I struggle to think of what his ulterior motive for telling me all of this could be, unless he’s trying to throw suspicion off himself. But that’s not an explanation that makes sense.

“Why are you helping me?”

“The story that was released to the public about your accident has never sat right with me,” he says, serious once more. “And I’m not the kind of person who can just ignore the things I overheard.”

“The police said the same thing . . .” I trail off, remembering my conversation with Officer Edwards at the bookstore. “They said my accident seemed calculated. They think I’m hiding something.”

“What, they think you staged it?”

“Apparently. Or that I’m faking the amnesia to cover something up.”