“Think about it,” she persists, grip tightening on the wheel. “He immediately slithered back into your life after you lost your memory. Killing you didn’t work, so now he’s using your amnesia to his advantage. It’s disgusting.”

I stew in my seat, fidgeting with my fingers. I don’t know what to say. The picture she painted of Mason isn’t what I see when I look at him. There’s no universe where I can imagine him doing any of that. But I don’t know if I should pretend to buy into her version of events or the version everyone else believes.

Zoe sniffles, swiping at a tear before it can fall. “Anyway, it’s just speculation. You don’t have to believe me,” she finishes. “Just be careful.”

The rest of the drive is stifling. Whatever happened at home seems to have completely distracted her from keeping a close eye on my behavior—she’s too rattled to pay attention to how quickly my knee is bouncing.

She pulls into the parking lot of the trail haphazardly. We step outside, and the air is cool as the day creeps closer to nightfall. Zoe trudges onto the path without a word, and I follow, trying not to lose my footing. The deeper we go into the woods, the louder the disembodied shouts and laughter floating toward us become. Sticking my hands into my pockets, I feel a chill rack my body. This place is a lot more welcoming in the daylight.

I hasten to fall in line with Zoe. “Do you know if Damien is coming?”

She refuses to look at me, veering in a different direction than the waterfall. “Who knows?”

We reach a clearing, where flames flicker in a large fire pit. People sit on logs surrounding the fire and dance next to the makeshift sound system, moving in time to the throbbing bassline. The party is in the beginning stages but there are already loads of people here.

A boy I vaguely recognize from my history class is standing next to a folding table, filling up a line of plastic shot glasses. Zoe grabs one without waiting for permission, tossing it back with ease.

The boy watches her, impressed. “Damn, okay.”

Wincing slightly, she sets the empty shot glass on the table before reaching for the next one. To my surprise, she passes it to me, letting me know she actually is aware of my presence.

“Oh thanks,” I mumble. I don’t want to drink a lot tonight. I need to stay focused, but I also need to keep up appearances.

Zoe picks up another glass, tapping it against mine, and together, we throw them back. I can’t hold back my grimace as the alcohol burns my throat, and I make a face, sticking my tongue out.

She laughs shortly. “Don’t tell me the amnesia made you a lightweight too.”

“I’m going to pace myself tonight.”

“Suit yourself.”