Her love for me was murder. Guilt tore through my lungs.

Any minute—it was my choice when—but soon, I’d have to tell her the bad news. An awful truth about something I’d done, and I knew—like I would know years later when I came out—that as soon as I said what I needed to say, her face would change forever. I’d batter away her cheerful mood with a sledgehammer, and there’d be no preventing it. She would slowly remove her hands from my feet and stop comforting me. She’d give the almond paste cookies to our neighbor instead. She’d remove her love, closed for business, and I’d never get back to that warm place on the couch.

I told the truth, and I lost her.

In this moment, seated across from the Reverend, a similar truth pulls at my chest. The truth that I know Ricky’s attacker is with us—maybe even in this very car. If I speak it aloud, something terrible will happen.

“Who talked to you?” the Reverend asks, drifting his taser closer. “Briggs was acting strange when I saw him. Was it Briggs?” In the seconds it takes me to weigh framing Briggs over snitching on Drew, the Reverend makes up his mind. “It was someone else.”

“No one told me nothing,” I sputter, my hand creeping toward my door’s manual lock—but I might as well be a football field away. I’ll never make it out before getting grilled with that taser.

The Reverend strokes the edge of his weapon and thinks hard about his next words. “Sharon—Ricky’s mother—didn’t handle his death well. Those FBI agents she called finished with our case years ago. You must be so curious what that was all about.”

I swallow a reservoir of tears, my neck frozen with tension. “…her name’s Sharon?”

The Reverend never once drops his taser. “Her mental health isn’t great. She was wrong to call those agents. It was all settled with Ricky. Ancient history, and we need to let him rest in peace. Don’t you agree?”

I’ll bet that’s what you want. No more prying.

“Like I said, I don’t know anything,” I sniff, blood returning to my fingers. “Other than that Ricky was a camper. That’s all.”

Does he believe me? If he doesn’t, I’m dead.

The muggy air stiffens. Neither of us blink.

Click. The door locks open, and my heart gulps a gigantic breath like it’s been trapped underwater. “Come on,” the Reverend says, alight with excitement. He slides out onto the bed of grass covering the cliff’s lookout point—taking the keys with him so I can’t commandeer the Wrangler. As I step outside, I pat my waist and right pocket to double-check that the Walkman and headphones are secure. Don’t need them falling out and making things worse.