Standing here in the center of the spotlight, I can tell you that’s exactly how this light they’re shining on Clifford feels to me. As if my shadow on the sidewalk suddenly looks more like a monster than like a human being.

I park a block away from Jake’s house, then I sneak down the gravelly alleyway between the Johnsons’ and the Parkers’ houses and into his unfenced yard. His dog—a mutt with German shepherd blood—is chained to a metal post, asleep in the center of a round patch of ground he’s walked bare.

Brewster’s eyes open and his nose twitches, but he knows me, so he just goes back to sleep as I pull my phone from my pocket.

come to the back door

A set of ellipses appears as Jake types a response. Then it disappears, but no message comes. Two minutes later, the door opens.

“What are you doing here?” He’s whispering, and he keeps glancing over his shoulder into the dark, empty kitchen. “This place is on lockdown. My mom called Brother Bill.”

Bill Ryan is the youth minister at First Baptist, Clifford, where the Mercers go every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. They have a guitar player during the Sunday services and video game tournaments during youth group all-nighters, but the sermons haven’t yet veered into such contemporary territory.

“Why? What happened?”

“Mom heard about the Cryer. She signed up for Twitter just so she could keep up with it.”

I groan. “She saw what they’re saying about me.”

And if Jake’s mom thinks I’m the dead baby’s mother, then she thinks he’s the father. She’ll probably flick holy water and brandish a cross at me the second she sees me.

He nods. “Why are you here, Beckett?”

“I told my mom about the bag. She’s getting a warrant. But if you want to talk about that out here …” I shrug.

“Fine. But you have to be quiet,” he whispers. As if I were planning to tap dance my way to his room until he talked some sense into me.

“Hey.” I grab his arm before he can go inside, because I don’t want to say this in his house. In his parents’ territory. “I’m really sorry about the other day. About breaking into your car. About accusing you of cheating. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should just start over.”

Jake blinks, and something I don’t understand flickers in his eyes. “Beckett, your timing sucks.”

Chapter Six

SIX

I’ve been at Jake’s house a million times, and there are always dishes in the sink, because the dishwasher is broken—going on four years now—and Jake puts off hand-washing until the last possible minute. Until the Mercers run out of clean spoons and his dad tries to eat ice cream with a fork.