“You didn’t like that. Then you drafted up that god-awful email to McGill to try to get them to revoke my acceptance. You knew it would ruin my life. Everyone would’ve known what I did to Jacob. My parents, they would’ve—”

Her face threatens to break at that, and I remember her father pounding on the hood of her car as we sped away. Something akin to sympathy twists in my conscience, and once more I work to tamp it down. This girl is currently monologuing about her failed homicide attempts while brandishing a knife.

“I got drunk at that stupid party. I told Damien everything, and I kissed him,” she spits. “When you caught us, you flipped out. You said you were going to send that email. I couldn’t let you get away with that.”

In the dim light of the moon, I can see her eyes glimmer with held-back tears. It’s the most human and vulnerable I’ve seen her. I hate that I’m feeling any amount of pity. But when I look at her, I see someone who’s been treated poorly by nearly everyone around her. That’s not to say she didn’t deserve some of it.

“I didn’t intend for it to happen, but when I saw your car, I couldn’t make myself stop. It all happened so fast. I wanted to hurt you.”

Her voice comes to me again, from that day when we stood outside at the back of the school. Maybe you got angry and did it before you could really think about it. She wasn’t trying to comfort me, she was trying to comfort herself.

“But then I panicked. You were furious. None of us wanted to get in trouble for what happened. So I took it upon myself to solve the problem and buy us more time.” She examines the knife in her hands. “I knocked you out. We smashed your car into a tree, not far from here. I put booze in the trunk so that even if you remembered what happened, nobody would believe you.”

It’s odd to have the true details of the accident laid out so simply. The flashbacks make sense now: leaving the party upset, getting out of the car, my shouted words of betrayal, the bloodstained hands. She didn’t plan for me to survive the crash, so she took matters into her own hands.

“The amnesia was an unexpected bonus,” she says, smiling audaciously. “For a while, I felt guilty, so I was nice to you. I thought it would be my penance for what I did. I thought it would throw you off from the truth, even if you did someday get your memory back.”

She takes in my feeble position on the ground, sobering up again. “I realize now that the only way to completely solve the problem is to get rid of you.”