And finally I can’t bear to hold it in anymore, can’t bear the weight of it alone. “They’re using the girls, Brent.” My voice cracks. “They’re using them as—as collateral. Currency. Bribes. It’s been going on for years. I think—I think Kaycee knew about it. I think she was killed. I think that’s why she was killed.”

There’s a long silence. “What you’re saying,” he says finally, “it doesn’t make any sense. It’s…” He sucks in a breath. “I can’t believe it.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever felt sorry for him. I think again of the time I caught him with Misha in the woods behind the school. What lies was she feeding him then?

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s true.”

More silence. When he speaks again, he can hardly manage a whisper.

“I always wanted to believe…” His voice breaks. “I always wanted to think she was okay.” He clears his throat. “Jesus. Can we meet up? Can we talk in person?”

He doesn’t think I’m crazy.

“Okay,” I say, “I’m at my dad’s house.” I guess it’s my house now.

“I’ll come as soon as I can. Don’t—don’t tell anyone else, okay? If you’re right…” His voice cracks again. “We can’t trust anyone.”

That word, we, lights up my insides. I’m not alone anymore. Brent is on my side.

“I won’t,” I tell him, and hang up.

—

My father’s house is cool and quiet. It smells like Pine-Sol and Windex. I’ve almost cleaned away the past.

I’ve tucked my mother’s jewelry box on the top shelf of my father’s closet, behind the few items of his that I intended, only a few days ago, to keep. Now I see there’s no point. There is no meaning attached to his belt, or his tie, or the two-dollar bill he kept folded in his wallet, just as my mother’s ghost has not imprinted on her jewelry, just as Kaycee cannot be resurrected through her fingerprints on Chestnut’s collar.

I loosen the collar from the tangle of cheap necklaces—junk, all of it. The past is a trick of the mind. It’s a story we misunderstand over and over.

I find a shovel in my dad’s shed and set out for the reservoir with Chestnut’s collar coiled around my wrist. Years ago I set out to bury it; instead, I let Brent kiss me, and from that moment on, without knowing it, I’ve been stuck in place.

I remember burying Chestnut close to the shore—I insisted on it, because he loved the water—and my dad marked the grave with a pile of rocks he pulled from the underbrush. But I can’t find the grave anywhere. The rocks must have been moved—used to line a fire pit, maybe, or as part of another kid’s imagined fairy world.

In the end I just pick a spot that seems nice, a place where the dirt hasn’t quite given out to mud, and I start to dig. A small hole will do it, but I shovel until my arms ache, until my hands blister and I’m suddenly aware of the sun kissing the tree line.