There are also several trailer parks, where single-wides are lined up at an angle from a central gravel through-way. None of those trailers are new. In fact, in my entire life, I’ve never seen a new single-wide. I’m not even sure they’re still making them. But I know where all the old ones have wound up.

Clifford also has an assortment of larger trailers—double-wides with bricked-up foundations, permanently installed on individual lots around the edges of town, or out in the country.

But everything that isn’t Briarwood or a trailer is basically my neighborhood, cloned all over town. One-story houses shaded by old-growth oak trees, connected by cracked sidewalks. Some of the yards are neatly mowed. Some of the backyards have trampolines or above-ground pools. Some of the front doors have screens. Just like my neighborhood.

But this is not my neighborhood.

A fissure in the sidewalk catches the toe of my right shoe as I run, and I go down hard, skinning the heels of both hands.

“Damn it,” I curse as I sit up, inspecting the new tear in my jeans, over my right knee. Blowing on the raw, red skin to ease the burn.

At least the camera didn’t catch my wipeout.

A car rounds the corner behind me, and I turn to find Amira rolling slowly down the street in her mother’s sedan. She’s clearly looking for me, but she doesn’t see me until I push myself to my feet.

She stops at the curb, and I get in.

“Hey,” she says as I buckle my seat belt. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry for bolting.”

She shrugs. “You’re lucky I found you. I might not have, if that reporter hadn’t told me which way you turned.”

“So the devil does have a heart?”

Amira gives me a sad smile. “She’s just doing her job.”

I blink at her as she pulls away from the curb.

“You’re too nice. Clearly I don’t have that problem. Neither do those gossiping bitches at the salon. They don’t know a damn thing about me or my family. My father’s never been arrested. My mother would never break the law.”

I stare out the window, watching houses slide past in a kaleidoscope of color from the Christmas lights. Amira puts her blinker on and turns right, heading toward the high school, where I left my car, and when I look at her, I find her staring straight through the windshield, both hands clutching the wheel.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Amira. What?”

“Nothing.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel, refusing to look at me.

“Just spit it out.” She’s always been terrible at keeping secrets.

“Fine.” Amira glances at me, then she quickly turns back to the road. “But don’t get mad at me.”

“I’m not going to get mad at you.”