—

I’m only a few miles from home when an SUV pulls out behind me and nearly blinds me with its high beams. The brights bounce off my windshield and gobble up the road in front of me. I put a hand out the window, signaling. But the driver doesn’t take the hint.

Frustrated, I make a right on a ribbon of concrete that will loop me back to County Route 12 on the far side of the gas station.

A second later, the SUV turns, too.

My heart speeds up. I hit the gas, and the SUV accelerates to keep pace. It can’t be a coincidence.

There are no lights here, nothing but fields stretching blackly on either side of us. It was stupid to make the turn. The SUV nudges closer. I can hardly see. The windshield is all glare. My tires hit a rut and the wheel jumps out of my hands before I realize I’ve drifted and jerk back onto the road.

I spin a left at a dirt road and have a brief moment of relief: the SUV misses the turn. But a second later, it screeches to a halt, guns backward, and spins around the turn. It’s coming fast now.

Forty feet. Twenty. A scream knots in my throat.

Just as I spin the wheel and bump off the gutter and into the thwack-thwack of new corn, the SUV swerves around me. It’s going sixty, seventy miles an hour, far too fast for me to make out who’s driving. I jam hard on the brakes. Leaves churn up from my grill, smacking my windshield, and I bounce over stubbly ground.

Finally I get the car back on the road. By then the SUV is nothing but a pair of taillights swallowed into the night.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

When Becky Sarinelli died, Sheriff Kahn came down to speak to the students.

I remember we were herded into the gym and the windows beaded with the condensation of all that body heat; outside, it was a cold October. I don’t know why they asked Sheriff Kahn to break the news—not like any of us hadn’t heard it already, anyway.

“Certain tragedies can’t be explained,” he said. I remember that because it was so obviously a lie. We all knew why Becky had killed herself. It wasn’t inexplicable at all. It was because of the photos. “Ms. Sarinelli was in a lot of pain. And I’m here to tell you that you got options. If you’re in trouble, you can talk to your parents. You can talk to your teachers.” They had him using a microphone and I remember that felt wrong. “You can come down to Blyck Road and talk to me.”

Sunday morning, that’s exactly where I find myself. Then, same as now, Sheriff Kahn looked like the last person in the world you’d ever want to talk to if you were in trouble. His whole mouth droops along with the line of his mustache, and the blunt furrows of his forehead read like a billboard for shut up and bear it. He’s tanner than I remember, and blingier, too: in addition to his big class ring, a gold necklace is nested beneath his uniform, and he checks a thick gold watch just often enough for me to know he finds me an inconvenience.