“I don’t know you,” she says again, as if she’s observing the facts from a distance. I wonder if they’ve sedated her.

“No, you don’t.” I stay where I am, not too close, giving her lots of space, letting her size me up. “Listen, Tatum, I don’t pretend to know what you’ve just been through.”

That, at least, gets something of a normal teenage eye roll.

“I wish everyone would stop making such a big deal out of it.”

“You swallowed a handful of pills.”

“Just a dumb idea. I wasn’t trying to die. I just…had a headache.” When she looks at me then, her expression sharpens into one of distrust. It’s as if, for the first time, she is seeing me. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m from Barrens, too. I left for a while. But I’m back now.” I hate how final the words sound. But aren’t they, after all, the truth? My condo in Chicago feels as far away to me as a dream. “I’m a lawyer. I came home to find out what happened to a girl a decade ago. She went missing.”

“Kaycee Mitchell?” she says, and of course I realize she would have heard of her. I can only imagine the lore, and how the stories of Kaycee were transformed. “She faked being sick and everyone else started faking too. So, what? You think I’m faking?”

“Not at all,” I say. I take a deep breath. “I think Kaycee was in trouble. And I think you are, too.” This gets her attention. She gets even stiller, more alert, as if she’s listening for music playing far away. Then: “I know about the Game, Tatum.”

For a second, her mouth opens wide, and I’m worried she’ll scream, or shout for a nurse. But then, all at once, she relaxes.

“Who told you?” she asks.

“Monty Devue.” This gets another eye roll.

“He’s been obsessed with me since, like, seventh grade.” But she doesn’t sound afraid of him, only annoyed. For a long time, she sits there, obviously debating whether to say more. Then, suddenly she sits up in bed. “You didn’t tell my mom, did you? She can’t know. You can’t tell her!”

“I haven’t said a word.”

She sinks back against her pillow. She stares down at her hands, clutching and unclutching them. “I feel so stupid.”

“Is that why you did what you did?”

“I got scared.” Her voice drops to a whisper.

“Why? Is someone threatening you?”

She waves this idea away. “No. Nothing like that.” As if she, Tatum Klauss, is beyond threatening. “But I got worried everyone would find out…”

I take a gamble. “Because of the pictures?”

Now she looks up. “How…?”

“The Game has been going on for a long time,” I tell her, and she sucks her lower lip into her mouth, chews it like a kid. “Tell me what happened.”

She shrugs. “I heard about the parties back when I was a freshman…”