“I remember,” Grayson says with a soft smile, the first one I’ve seen since his daughter’s disappearance. “You looked like ghosts with your faces covered in white flour, and your hair…” he trails off, shoulders dancing with amusement. “Your eyes popped wide open when I walked into the kitchen.”

“I always liked that about you, Grayson. You never got mad.”

Not unlike my mom, who can’t stand a mess. The only time she engages in conversation is when she shouts at me. Sometimes I deliberately do stuff I shouldn’t to get her attention, even if it’s only for her to call me useless and remind me of what a mistake it was to keep me.

“It would take a cold heart to get mad at you girls. You always got into some crazy situations.”

We share a smile, and my heart begins to feel warm and fuzzy when I recall Chloe’s infectious laughter.

“I should go.” Standing up, I collect the dishes and bring them to the sink, then proceed to wash and dry them. I don’t want to leave Grayson with a mess, not when I invited myself here.

When I turn around, he stands up too. “Want to do this again soon?” I ask, expecting him to turn me down while desperately hoping he won’t.

“I’d love that.”

CHAPTER 6

WILLOW

JANUARY 3RD, 2016

As the weeks pass, Grayson and I meet up several more times to cook together and exchange memories of Chloe. I don’t know if it helps him, but every time I succeed in drawing a smile from his lips or lifting the darkness in his gaze—if only for a short moment—my own soul feels lighter somehow. It’s my way of making up for not walking Chloe home that night. I can’t shift the guilt, no matter how hard I try.

I’m standing outside my local convenience store, staring at a photograph of Dylan in an orange jumpsuit on the front page of a newspaper.

“Trial set for April,” I whisper, reading the headline.

The bell sounds above the door as a middle-aged woman with curly hair and caked-on makeup steps outside. After lighting a cigarette and inhaling the smoke deep into her lungs, she says on the exhale, “He was eighteen at the time of the murder.”

I drag my eyes away from his photograph and peer at her in the afternoon sun. The embers crackle as she takes another drag. She blows the smoke out to the side, regarding me, before tipping her chin at the newspaper. “He’s eligible for the death penalty.”

My heart lurches in my chest. She must notice my discomfort because she steps out of the way as the door to the store opens again. She moves closer. “Was he your friend?”

Her southern twang is strong. It’s soothing, like a warm hug on a cold autumn morning. “The girl who died… Chloe…” I clear my throat. “She was my best friend.”

“Oh, darling.” The cigarette is back between her pink lips, and she squints as she inhales.