The photograph was taken with the front of the vehicle in the foreground, and I’d recognize the smashed-up hood of the black Ford Focus anywhere. Immediately, I look at Mason, only to find that he’s looking at me too.

“This is a photo of a car that was involved in a recent accident,” Edwards explains. “The victim was taken to—oh.”

He stops abruptly, as some sort of commotion happens near the bottom of the bleachers. Frowning, I strain to get a better view, peering over the tops of people’s heads. Someone stumbles to the gymnasium floor, and those around him back up to give him space.

James.

With no warning, he doubles over, vomiting on the linoleum.

Gasps move throughout the room like dominoes, echoed by noises of blatant disgust, and Damien hurries over, putting his hand on his friend’s back, trying to usher him to the door. My legs feel shaky; it’s odd to see any expression on James’s face other than playful indifference, but his dark skin looks ashen, a haunted look filling out his features.

As he staggers to the exit, propped up by Damien, the smell of puke reaches my nose. The audience bursts into loud chatter, theorizing about what just happened, and Clayborn and Edwards both appear to be dumbfounded.

Mason’s gaze finds me again, and somehow I know exactly what he’s thinking. The picture was a trigger for James. He was there that night.

Beside me, Zoe is sitting stock-still, expressionless, though she suddenly looks sickly, too, her gaze riveted to the spot where James last stood.

A few more people bolt to the door, eager to escape the gymnasium. Chaos continues to erupt as the emotional distress in the room heightens, and I try to tune it out, feeling restless.

Finally, Clayborn takes over the microphone again. “We’re going to end things here,” he says, struggling to be heard over the noise. “Please be careful on your way out.”

Everyone stands, hurriedly making their way down the bleachers and to the doors, giving a wide berth to the puddle of vomit on the floor. I’m eager to get out before Edwards can talk to me, though that task proves to be difficult with everyone shoving each other to escape. Zoe trails behind me, dazed and zombielike, and it gives me a sick sense of satisfaction.

Her suffering is justified. I hope that the thought of what she did to me is on her mind at every waking moment, because God knows it’s all I can think about now.

When we finally make it out of the gym, Zoe heads straight for the doors leading outside. I follow her. The second we step onto the pavement, she inhales deeply.

“That was disgusting,” she says, using her hands to push her hair over her shoulders.

“I hope he’s okay,” I say. “I’m totally spooked.”