I snap my head up and the intensity in Josh’s eyes is clear, his focus absolute. His gaze flicks around the room—checking to make sure we’re not going to be overheard. Waves of gratitude roll over me, because I’m so glad to not be alone in this moment.

“I think we need to be careful with Brecken,” he says quietly. “He’s stressed and volatile and he’s trying to pin the blame for what happened to Corey on anyone but himself.”

I tense. “He’s trying to pin it on you, you mean.”

He shakes his head, unconcerned. “I don’t care about that. I know what happened and I’m happy to talk to the police.” He ducks toward me and I smell soap. “I’m more worried about Kayla. He keeps making comments about the drug thing. If he paints some picture of a deranged addict, they might buy it.”

“Kayla wasn’t driving,” I say.

“I know, I know. I don’t know how he’d do it, but…” He lets out a hard exhale. “I sound crazy. I’m making him out to be a monster. He’s probably just scared.”

“Maybe,” I say, but I don’t know if I believe that Brecken is afraid. Across the room, he’s sitting at our table, his mouth a hard line and his fists thick and heavy on either side of his empty glass. He looks like he would not hesitate to throw someone else in front of a firing squad if it meant saving his own tail.

“I just can’t shake the feeling that he’s up to something.”

Harper steps out of the bathroom and we separate instinctively, Josh’s face going blank. She pauses beside us, taking in the room.

“Are you okay?” I ask her softly.

“I’m fine,” she says, and she sounds it. Her eyes are puffy, and those bloodstains aren’t going anywhere, but her hair and skirt are smoothed. She is put together beautifully again, but I know better now. I thought Harper was all the things I wanted to be, but there are two sides to that coin. For every moment she’s held it together, there’s another where she’s fallen to pieces.

At the bar, Smitty stands up, donning hat and gloves and handing Joyce what looks like a fifty-dollar bill along with a kiss on the cheek. Her eyes well up she tries to give it back, but he refuses, wishing her a Merry Christmas.

He’s pushing in his bar stool when he pauses, looking over at the man at the end of the bar. I look, too, a chill running up my back. That man still hasn’t moved. Not to pull out a phone or go to the bathroom—he’s somehow downed two drinks, but I haven’t seen him so much as twitch.