As soon as I think it, I know it must be true. It fits. Kaycee loved that—secret messages, cryptic ways of communicating. The summer after fifth grade she tried to make up a whole new language that only we would be able to understand, and was so frustrated when I couldn’t learn it fast enough that she threatened to stop being my friend, only relenting when I burst into tears. She was always all tricks and codes and clues. The kind of girl you could only get close to the way you have to creep sideways toward a wild animal, not making eye contact, so it won’t run away.

However screwed up she was, however much to blame for starting the Game in the first place, she regretted it. Maybe for the first time in her life, she was trying to do the right thing.

And she died for it.

My phone rings.

I catch it on the first ring and don’t even have time to glance at the name before I answer.

“Condor?” My voice is still croaky.

There’s a slight pause. “It’s Brent,” Brent says. He doesn’t bother keeping the hurt from his voice. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“Brent. Hi. Sorry.” My chest tightens. Does he know? Could he possibly know? I think of what he told me at the football game: I’m beginning to think you’re right about Optimal…there’s something funny going on in accounting.

“I’ve called every day. I’ve been worried about you.”

“I know. I’ve been…busy.” An obvious lie. By now, Brent must know I’m off the Optimal case. “I’m okay, though.”

“You don’t sound okay,” Brent says matter-of-factly. “You sound like you’ve been crying.”

I hesitate. Brent works for Optimal. He’s friends with Misha. He dated Kaycee for years—and yet, he kissed me.

On the other hand, he’s never blamed or punished me for investigating Optimal, or tried to warn me away. He admitted Misha always had a thing for him. Misha is an expert liar. Why wouldn’t she be lying to Brent?

“Abby?” Brent sounds as if he’s pressing his mouth into the phone, trying to reach his way through it. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” I say. Can I trust him? Yes or no. Heads or tails.

I count seven crows on a telephone wire. Seven for a secret, never to be told.

“Talk to me,” he says. Warm. Concerned.

“You’re right. I’m not okay.” Then, before I can regret it: “How much do you know about the Optimal Scholarships?”

“The…?” Now Brent sounds bewildered. This definitely wasn’t what he expected me to say.

“The scholarships,” I repeat. “What do you know about them?”

Brent clears his throat. “Not much, honestly. I know Misha manages the program and our CFO oversees the financing. But why on earth…?”

And I’m sure, now, he isn’t faking his confusion. He can’t be.

“I need to know I can trust you.” My phone is hot in my hand. “I need you to promise.”

“Promise what? What is this about, Abby?”