My adrenaline is pumping too hard, distorting my vision, my hearing. Is that the rush of my own blood, or the whoosh of Gabriel hauling himself from the pool. Is that thumping my heart, or his feet on the slick tiles?

I pound on the door, hurting my fist, but I don’t care.

And it opens. I’m so stunned, so fucking relieved, that I don’t care that the door whacked me hard in the shoulder. Some floppy-haired, Muppet-faced dude peers at me perplexedly. I push past him and burst into the gym, skirting the dance floor as my eyes strain over the crowd for Ben.

Not there.

I mad-dash toward the lobby, past Bronte, who tries to stop me, but no—I can’t trust her. Then there, at the doors, Ben. Relief floods my body. I rush forward, grab him by the arm, and yank him outside.

“Cecelia, what’s going on? Where did you go?”

“We need to leave,” I demand.

A protest trips on Ben’s tongue, but at the last second he holds it, nods, and follows me to his car. I can’t breathe, can’t think, let alone talk coherently until we’re in his Toyota, doors closed.

Ben’s hand pauses, keys poised over the ignition. “Where are we going? Do you want to tell me what happened now?”

“Police station” is all I can say, voice shaking. My hands are, too. I bunch them in the fabric of my skirt, take a shuddering breath. My arms and chest ache like I’ve run a marathon. Panic is exhausting.

Ben doesn’t argue; he starts the car and steers us toward downtown.

“It’s Gabriel,” I say finally, once the school has shrunk enough in the rearview mirror. And I recount the whole chilling affair.

“Shit” is Ben’s only reply.

“It’s hardly proof, but you’re right—I have to tell Sheriff Morrow.”

“About that.” Ben turns sheepish, and I realize with a start we’ve coasted right past the turnoff that would take us to the sheriff’s office. “They’re closed at this time of night. But you can call the emergency line.”

Stupid as it is, it knocks the wind out of my sails. It seemed so clear: march into the station, ask to speak to the sheriff, submit to a formal interview.

I pull out my cell and type in the numbers 9-1. My fingers hover over the last button. “I…I don’t know what to say,” I admit to Ben.

“Talk me through it,” Ben says calmly. “You saw Escano. He told you he drowned Natalie.”

“He didn’t, though.” My voice is barely audible over the road noise.

“What?”

“He…didn’t admit to anything. He was there at the pool, and there were the texts. But…”

Ben’s eye flick between the road and me. “Okay, so he texted you.”