“That’s absurd.” He shakes his head. “This is what I mean, though. The cops know what really happened, and it’s not the bullshit they fed to the media. So why haven’t they come out with the truth?”

“It’s like they’re trying to apply pressure,” I muse. “But why threaten me? I’m the victim here. They seem to believe I’m trying to cover for someone. If I knew that someone did this to me, I sure as hell wouldn’t be trying to protect them.”

Mason considers my words before shaking his head again, looking upset. “It’s sick. All of it.”

“But maybe I had it coming,” I murmur.

He lets out a short laugh of disbelief. “What are you talking about?”

I tear off a tiny piece of the wrapper. “You heard about Jacob Griffin.”

Mason makes a low noise of sympathy, sitting back in his seat. “What happened to him was fucked up, but I don’t see what that has to do with you.”

“People think I did it.”

“You didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

He looks irritated. “Because that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Zoe told me he was this great actor and I might’ve felt threatened by him, so I tried to get rid of the competition.” Saying the words aloud makes my stomach turn, bile rising in my throat.

Mason is looking at me as though another head has sprouted on my shoulders. “Alina,” he remarks. “Jacob wasn’t in theater.”

I freeze. “What?”

“He was well known for being very academic and playing sports, but he never tried out acting.”

“Zoe said—” I stop, mind racing. “She made me believe it was my fault.”

Mason is speechless, shaking his head as he watches the torrent of emotions play out on my face. “I’m sorry.”

Everything feels as though it’s unraveling. That day outside of the school she fed me lies with such conviction that it makes me question whether anything she’s told me is true.

A complicated mixture of emotions fights for my attention. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or even more confused. Ever since I heard about my possible involvement in what happened to Jacob, I’ve obsessed over everything, unable to get it out of my head.

But maybe what ties me to Jacob is our shared connection to one person in particular.

The Harris house has a distinct chill to it.

Even in Zoe’s bedroom, with the fireplace going, it feels as though there’s a breeze moving through the room, causing goose bumps to rise on my skin. I’m lying on her bed, stretched out over my schoolbooks, and she sits at her desk, her posture perfect as always, as music floats from her Bluetooth speaker.