“Hey, sorry, that took forever!” I find a Solo cup of Diet Coke thrust into my hand and Ben at my side. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” I take a long sip of my soda. “Let’s go outside to get some fresh air,” I say. And I grab Ben by the hand and tug him toward the exit, leaving Gabriel behind. The gossipy throng parts for us, and my nerves calm as soon as the cool snap of the night air hits my face and shoulders.

Ben peers at me knowingly. “So it’s down to Gabriel,” he says. I can see the wheels turning for him.

“Or Grace.”

“Or Grace,” Ben parrots. “Well, steer clear of both of them. Let’s enjoy the rest of the night. If you’re really worried, you can go to the sheriff tomorrow.”

“With wild theories, not proof.”

“You don’t know what they have. It could help.”

We throw our empties in a nearby trash can, and Ben takes both of my hands in his. Music from the gym reverberates in heavy pop bass, but he twirls me around, leads me in a languid slow dance to a song only he can hear. A kiss is the next step in the choreography. Ben cups my face with a broad hand and tips my chin up just so; our lips touch tentatively, even though it’s hardly our first time. But in this dress, at the big dance, this kiss is an event. It’s unhurried and perfect.

Right when I’m about to suggest we take off—I’ve had my fill of dances and drama and anyone who isn’t him—he breaks away, moves back toward the school.

“Come on, let’s go inside. Get warm.”

A coward, I follow. By the gym doors, Ben pauses. “Find us a good spot on the dance floor. I have to…you know.” He indicates the bathroom, then goes beet red. “Pee. I have to pee. Nothing weird.”

I send him off with a laugh, head into the gym. My phone buzzes in my clutch. I pull it out, wake the screen, and see I have a text from an unfamiliar number. I tap in, and the dual speech bubbles send a shard of ice through my gut.

That’s a pretty dress.

It looked good on Maura, too.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

My eyes dart around the gym. Who sent this? Grace? Gabriel?

Whoever it is, I know Natalie’s killer has my number. In more ways than one. The mayor’s accusation at the wake comes back to me. It was you. Sending me nasty texts that night. Trying to frame me. So this is the killer’s game. Spoofing his number and playing with people like a cat with a mouse. It must have been the killer’s original plan to use the mayor as a patsy to find the body.

So what is the plan for me?