Chapters (95)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Video #1
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Video #2
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Video #3
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- The Final Video
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Cover
“What do we need to talk about?” I ask.
Chad looks at his phone, shifts the book and folder in his hand. “I wanted to tell you at your house. That’s why I came over. And I wanted to see if you were okay. But I didn’t want to text you. I mean you are a suspect and everything, and I heard the cops are digging through all your shit. At least that’s what’s on the news.”
“What did you not want to text me?”
“No time now.” He pats me on the back. “Lunch, okay? And, seriously, I’m glad you’re back. Everybody wants to see you, man. Lunch, okay?”
“Okay. But, Chad, what is it?”
He pauses, scratches the clean-shaven chin where one large pimple has sprouted. “About homecoming night. About the night Chloe disappeared.”
His words jolt me, and he pats me on the back again and then he’s gone.
I kick the skeleton one more time. It grins at me from the floor. Stupid, mindless. Dead.
Seven
Either no one wants to talk to me. Or no one knows what to say.
I can’t decide which.
I slip into my first period class—pre-calc—and head for my seat near the front of the room. I have friends in this class, people I talk to on a regular basis. But everyone turns away from me and grows quiet, the chattering voices shutting off like someone hit the mute button. If this had been any other day, I’d have sworn that I’d walked into the room with no pants on or with a note scrawled on my face. That’s how quiet it is.
Church quiet. Funeral quiet.
I slide into my seat and pretend to look at something in my textbook. A heavy pressure settles on my neck and shoulders, an invisible weight. The silence is a force pushing against me. The skeleton dances in my mind’s eye, the ignorant note. Did someone in this room let the air out of Dad’s tires? I want to tell them all to fuck off, but I sit, staring at my book.