But why would Miss Manners want to kill Drew? And in such a grotesque, dramatic way to disguise it as suicide? Obviously, Drew knew more about Ricky’s death than he admitted, so he had to go. On our drive to the cliff, the Reverend sensed that I’d found out something I shouldn’t have about Ricky—he knew someone talked. Did he put the pieces together that it was Drew? Did Miss Manners act alone or on the Reverend’s orders? Who wrapped their hands around the boy’s throat so tightly, they left dark purple prints?

An aching thought wallops me: It’s my fault. I forced Drew to talk, and he paid the price.

“Lunchtime’s over,” Miss Manners says flatly, not a scrap remaining of her quaint, southern charm. Calm tumbles over me like I’m in the eye of a hurricane as we wait for the riflewoman to squeeze her trigger. Beside me, Molly’s horrified expression hardens into fury as Marcos drowns in his own confusion.

“You’ve had a busy lunch break,” I speak carefully, ordering my mouth not to get us all shot. “Must be starving.”

“You little gays.” Miss Manners laughs behind the cold, black eye of her rifle barrel. “So witty. I’ve worked here for years, and you know what? I am sick of witty.”

“Sorry, miss.” I chomp down on my tongue as ten thousand gallons of fear hormones flood my cerebral cortex.

“Mr. Major, empty your pockets. Miss Partridge, call out what you find.”

It’s all useless paper to me now. Slowly, without sudden movements, I lighten my pockets one item at a time. “A Playbill for…Into the Woods,” Molly shouts.

“We found it on his body,” I confess. “It’s a memento from Ricky Hannigan to the Reverend when they were kids. Why would he be carrying that?”

Behind her rifle, Miss Manners studies me for a long, grinning moment before admitting, “Because the Reverend was right about Drew. Briggs was weak and told his little girlfriend everything…and he was about to tell you.”

The hideous truth I already know in my gut is rapidly approaching the surface of my thoughts. “Those are some big-ass handprints on his throat. Wasn’t you, was it?”

“Nope,” she replies coldly. “An hour ago, the Reverend comes to me holding a body. Unlike Briggs, I do as I’m told without questions. I’ll be a much more reliable second-in-command than he was. Now, drop the Playbill.”

I lob Ricky’s final message to his cousin over my shoulder, and it joins Darcy’s wig and the shredded birth certificate on the Coral Road. My head sways under the heat of the truth: the Reverend killed a kid. Snuffed him out with his bare hands.

Mom’s hero. My pastor. The wounded boy on that tape.