“To get him down there, too. To get you to believe it, so you would convince the sheriff. I used the planting-some-of-the-victim’s-things-in-his-locker trick, a classic. On top of the weed? He’d go down for sure. Still will.”

With you dead is left unspoken.

“What weed?” I ask, because I want to know, and also because I need him to keep talking. To give my stupid brain enough time to work. Figure out how the fuck I’m going to get out of this.

“Gabriel’s dealing. Everyone who cares to know knows. Why do you think he’s lying about his alibi?”

“Weed’s legal in California,” I say. “Why would it matter?”

Ben chuckles to himself. “God, you’re new. It’s a bit more complicated than that. The Escanos are amateur growers, and the sheriff’s always looking for a reason to bust them, take his own cut. Towns like this run on bullshit.”

“So you fit right in.”

“Ha ha.”

I know we’ve reached the end of the road. Ben’s eyes keep flicking behind me. At the flapping plastic sheet that would be easy enough to rip free—and give me to the sea.

Outside, the squawk of a squad car startles us both. Hope streaks through me as panic hardens Ben’s resolve. He grabs me by the forearms, flips me around, and shoves me toward the edge.

“Ben, no!” I fight, try to pull myself free, jab my elbows into his torso. Bend my knees and grind my feet into the floor. But he’s much stronger than I am, his grip on my arms iron. The floor beneath my feet is springy. Unstable.

Salt air kisses my cheeks. My hair whips around my face.

“I’m sorry, Cecelia,” Ben says into my ear.

I use the last weapon I have: psychological warfare.

“Your mother would be ashamed of you.”

I seize on Ben’s shock, the hot poker of grief and shame and rage I’ve just thrust into his gut. I stomp a foot onto his, shove a sharp elbow into his ribs. We stumble toward the ocean, but only a few inches. I twist in his grasp, use the momentum to shove him away from me.

And with a strangled cry, Ben falls backward—over the edge of the house.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I lunge forward, catching Ben by the arms. Searing heat travels up to my shoulders, into the muscles of my back, as I try to wrench him up. I will not let this motherfucker die. He doesn’t deserve that.

My toes dig into the cold, wet carpet, but the leverage isn’t enough. I can’t pull him up. Shit.

“Help!” I scream, praying my rescuers aren’t just idling outside, waiting for signs of life. I grunt like a rampaging animal, push and pull with all my strength. I. Will. Not. Let. Go. I will not become a murderer.