A brief relaxation spills down my back and cools my skin: the lookout point boasts an unimaginable view of the ocean. Not the ink-black drink from my arrival, but a picture-perfect, sapphire-blue ocean of serenity. Even the rollicking surf breaks are insignificant up here. Up here. My relaxation dissolves: there’s nothing “up here” but a long way down. Where the cliff meets the long drop into the ocean, a fire hydrant-red bench has been installed—four rivets fuse the seat into solid rock. In two strokes, the Reverend wipes the previous day’s rain from the bench. When he stands again, he’s holding handcuffs.

Run. Run now.

I jerk backward quickly, straining a muscle in my lower back. “Am I going to need these, Mr. Major?” the Reverend asks, circling the bench.

“I didn’t do anything,” I insist, staggering backward, but already out of room. Behind me is another cliff’s edge—the waterfall. A few slimy, moss-eaten stones are all that stand between me and a very, very rocky landing.

“I’m going to do this”—the Reverend closes one of the metal bracelets over his own wrist—”so you can trust me.”

“I didn’t do anything!”

The clifftop isn’t wide. A few steps back and it’s a hospital bed for me. If I survive the fall. The river rushes through a muddy embankment to my left; to my right, the Wrangler blocks my path back down the incline; and straight ahead, the Reverend marches closer with an open handcuff. “I know how paranoid you must feel,” he says. “I would be too. But trust me—you won’t be hurt.”

I bet you said that to Ricky.

The gap closes between us. I’ve retreated too far. I can’t go forward, left, or right without the Reverend getting in a good shove. One shove is all he’ll need. “My mom’ll find out…” I whisper. The Reverend snatches my arm. “NO—!” My legs become weightless noodles as I lose my footing…but the Reverend has my arm. He yanks me forward, nearly tossing the Walkman out of my pocket, but the ground solidifies. The other end of the Reverend’s handcuff swallows my wrist with a rattling click.

We’re linked together. More importantly, I’m not falling.

“There,” the Reverend says. “Now, we can talk.” I struggle not to bawl my eyes out as my ribcage vibrates with alternating terror and relief. The Reverend, still clasping my arm, walks me back to the little red bench. My body is overflowing with so many endorphins that I follow him as willingly as a toddler. “These handcuffs mean I can trust you not to run. And you can trust me not to do anything crazy like push you.”

“It’s true…?” I ask. “You pushed Ricky?”