Madeline linked her fingers through Emma’s. “You’re better off without him. Honestly? I didn’t want to tell you this when you guys were going out, but I think Garrett dragged you down. He’s sort of understated, like white bread. And you’re Sutton Mercer—the opposite of ordinary.”

Emma looked into Madeline’s bright blue eyes, touched. Sutton’s friends might not be perfect, but they were loyal.

“And Charlotte told me that when she dated Garrett, he was weirdly obsessed with the Summer Olympics,” Madeline went on, snickering. “Especially women’s gymnastics. Can you imagine? They’re linebacker-ish gnomes!”

Thanks for telling me this when I was alive, guys.

But Emma giggled. “Yeah, maybe he wasn’t worth it.”

“Definitely.” Madeline reached up to adjust the crown on her head. Her sleeve slipped down her arm, revealing bare skin. Emma saw four purplish bruises on the inside of her forearm in the shape of fingers.

Emma gasped. “Mads, what happened?”

Madeline followed Emma’s gaze and paled. “Oh. Nothing.” She tugged the sleeve back down, her hands trembling. It got caught on her bracelet, and she struggled with it until it fell past her wrist. Then, Emma saw the pinkish burn on her hand. And the bruise on her calf. And another one on the side of her neck.

Alarms clanged in Emma’s head. She’d met plenty of kids in foster care who didn’t want to talk about their black eyes, the missing clumps of hair on their heads, the burns on their arms.

“Mads,” Emma whispered. “You can tell me. It’s okay.”

Madeline’s mouth formed a straight line. She pushed her pointer finger into a carved groove in the bench. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

Girls’ voices floated past the locker room. Another scream rang out from the haunted house. The second hand on the clock over the gym teacher’s office made a half rotation before Madeline spoke again. “It was because of the cigarette.”

“The cigarette?”

“The cigarette I was smoking out the window last Saturday. I broke a rule. I deserved it.”

“Deserved it?” Emma repeated. Mr. Vega’s angry face flashed in her mind. “Oh, Mads.”

All at once, I saw a vision, too: Mr. Vega bursting into Madeline’s bedroom, his face red and shiny, his voice booming. I swear to God, Madeline, if you break your curfew one more time, I’ll break your neck! Madeline ran down the stairs after him, and moments later I heard heated but muffled shouts. Then there was a clang, as though a shelf full of pots and pans clattered to the floor. I had sat there, doing nothing. Too afraid to act.

Madeline had returned a few minutes later, her cheeks streaked with tears and her eyes red. But she smiled and shrugged and pretended nothing had happened, and I didn’t ask.