I think of the way she looked at me, the day I found Chestnut in the woods and knew what Kaycee had done to him. That’s sick, she’d said, lifting her chin, as if I were the rotten thing. How could you even think something as sick as that?

I think of the day years later, when I found her hugging a toilet seat, with blood unspooling in the water behind her. What’s happening to me? Truly afraid. I would have sworn it.

Brent clears his throat and leans back. “You want to look for the real violations around here? Check out the old construction, not the new. Can you believe the high school was basically crawling in asbestos when we were there? Optimal wanted to donate a new gym and convert the old into an auditorium, but abatement was half a million dollars. Made more sense to build out the new community center instead.”

“Asbestos isn’t what we’re looking for,” I say.

“I’m just saying, it’s the old Barrens that’s screwed up.” Brent holds up his hands as if in surrender. “Optimal turned this town around. Gallagher is just angry his way of life is going down the tubes. He wants someone to blame.”

Brent O’Connell is certainly good at what he does: he’s a natural-born salesman.

“You might be right,” I say. I keep my voice light, casual. “Or you might be wrong. That’s why I’m here. To figure out which.”

“And I thought you just wanted to see me,” Brent teases. “Just do me a favor and don’t let Gallagher take off an ear—you’re too pretty for that.”

Ten years ago I would have died if he said I was pretty; now I’m surprised to find that it irritates me.

“I’m from here too, remember,” I say. “I know how to shoot back.”

The bill comes. Brent pulls out his card, but I get to it first. “On me. Please. For taking up your time.”

“You’ll have to let me make it up to you,” Brent says, just as the first rain drums against the window. “Will you?”

It takes me a second to understand that he’s asking me on a date. “I’m not sure—” I start to say, but he cuts me off.

“Please, Abby. It’s really nice to see you again.” He sounds like he means it. I was prepared for deflections. Prepared, even, for his charm. But the apology, the compliments, the flirting, and now this…

Memories of last night do a quick-shuffle through my head: Condor’s smile, the way he drums his thigh when he’s thinking, his hands, brown from the sun, pulling me closer to him. Brent’s hands are pale and well kept. I realize the difference between Condor and Brent. With Condor, the person I don’t trust is myself.

“All right, screw it,” I say. Brent O’Connell, the Golden Child, football quarterback, hometown hero, wants to take me on a date. “Sure. Why not.”

Brent smiles. “Welcome home, Abby Williams.”