But the Reverend isn’t that boy anymore. “I’m something else now,” he warned. It’s becoming even likelier that he’s the one who attacked Ricky and killed his husband. This entire week has been about the Reverend covering his tracks because the FBI reopened Ricky’s case.

You’re next, Major…you had your chance to get out of Nightlight, and you blew it.

“Miss Hayward…why are you telling us this?” Marcos asks, hands in the air and anxiety at a fever pitch.

“Because we’re not leaving this courtyard alive,” I say, keeping my eyes on the rifle. I don’t have to turn my head to know my icy reality check has fallen over Molly and Marcos. The barrel of Miss Manners’s gun is giving me nothing but clarity, as awful as that clarity might be. “How are you gonna do it? Make it look like we all hanged ourselves—goodbye, cruel world—when we’ve clearly been shot? I mean, my mom will believe anything the Reverend says, with or without a bullet hole in my skull. But what about Molly and Marcos? Their families might want a closer peek at the details of their dead kids. So, what’s the plan?”

“I’m not sure yet…” Miss Manners purrs behind her weapon. A hot wind rustles through the palms, and in a flash of inspiration, her eyes light with excitement. “Maybe…Drew snapped. Killed you three. And the guilt made him do himself in.”

“Nah. Won’t work.” I battle a rising lump in my throat, but I refuse to spend my last moments begging this cretin.

“And why’s that?”

“Everyone’s already seen Drew dead and us three alive. The stories won’t match.”

“Interesting…I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

“Yeah,” Molly scoffs. “More murders. That’ll solve everything.”

“Not too worried about it, to be honest,” Miss Manners replies, her plucky southern lilt slowed to a dull, lifeless drawl.

“You just like hurting us,” Marcos accuses, glowering at Miss Manners. His voice is newly deep and dripping with scorn. “Y’all could’ve handled Drew or any of us without having to…but you won’t. You’re just looking for any reason to do what you’ve always wanted. To kill us.” The bottom drops out of my stomach as Marcos’s accusation brings a deeper reality to light: these people live to inflict pain on queers, and they barely need a logical reason to do so.

“I never thought of it like that,” Miss Manners says, impressed. She steels herself against her rifle and pivots it one degree my direction. “What else is in your pockets?”

“Why don’t you just take it off my corpse?” I ask, sampling a taste of Marcos’s fury. “Seems like your brand.”