“Max, please tell me you know my dad’s Indonesian.” Leo slapped his back as they trudged toward English. Only two hours left before the final bell.

Max debated staying home. It was a blow-off day, movie after movie after movie. He tried to get some sleep when the teachers dimmed the lights, but his classmates kept interrupting with invites to parties and flyers for bonfires. Man, I sound pathetic. It was the last day of eleventh grade, which meant it was almost the first day of senior year. He and his friends had been looking forward to this moment since they first stepped into the building, and now he was whining about going to parties? Nothing felt right anymore.

“Yeah, your father was born in Indonesia,” Max said. “Which is somewhere in Southeast Asia. And your mom is, like, Polish?” It sounded like a question.

“Czech, but close enough.” Leo nodded.

“Max got that wrong,” Jackson huffed.

“Poland and the Czech Republic are right next to each other.”

“Why would I know that?”

“Because one day, believe it or not”—Max wrapped an arm around his friend’s broad shoulders—“you might actually leave Connecticut.”

“Says the guy who’s taking over his dad’s business,” Jackson quipped.

Max shut his mouth. Touché.

His family owned Oliver Seafood, one of the town’s only restaurants on the waterfront. Max grew up waddling around picnic tables full of lobsters in plastic tubs, while his dad worked the kitchen and his mom kept the books.

Then, just like it had for many people in Roaring Creek on that same hideous, unforgettable day, his world changed.

“Sorry, man, didn’t mean to bring it up.” Jackson caught the change in Max’s face, or the laser stare from Leo; either way, he shifted to pity mode. It always came back to the dead dad.

“Bring what up?” Max tried to brush it off. He didn’t want to talk about his father, and thankfully, the moment shifted.

Jackson’s gaze pointed across the hall. “Hey, Bridget! You comin’ today? Devil’s Pool!” Jackson strutted over to the redheaded volleyball captain, his arms spread like Bridget might actually hug him.

“That’s never gonna happen.” Max snorted.

“I know, right?” Leo smiled. “He’s got about as much of a shot at hooking up with Bridget Levandowski as I do of getting into Harvard.”

“What, Harvard doesn’t take C students?” Max quipped.

“I’ll have you know I ended with a C-plus.” Leo pumped his brow.

They strode into English, and Max’s eyes caught on a swish of wavy dark hair across the room—black locks to match her black outfit and black nail polish, as though there were a funeral about to commence.

Vera Martinez.

He’d never thought much about her. He’d heard the rumors—about what her parents did for work. And he’d laughed along with everyone else in grade school when they pretended that touching Vera would give you “the death disease.” But lately, after tucking his sister into bed and trying to ignore the chill on his skin, he couldn’t help but think of all the possible explanations for what was happening at home. Dark ideas sprang to mind, ones he was too afraid to say aloud but he knew existed, because of the whispers that followed one of the most infamous families in Roaring Creek.