My brain hurts. I need a break from it all—the comments online, the sneers, whispers, swastikas, Mr. Lane. It’s too much. “I need to get out of here. I’m sorry, but I can’t deal with this now.” I start moving again, this time at a less punishing pace.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

“Right now, I am.”

At my locker, I spin the dial on the new lock Miss Wather gave me. Dammit! I kick the bottom. What was the combination? I try to remember, but I draw a blank, nothing but zeros. Somewhere in my backpack there’s that tiny piece of tape with the numbers. I start digging through my stuff, but…“To hell with it.”

Leaving my coat behind, I take off, hobbling a bit. I stick my hand into my pocket, grateful one thing has gone my way. At least I have my car’s key fob.

Chapter 39: Cade

I take one step into the kitchen and I’m instantly chilled. Not because the furnace isn’t working but because something must be drastically wrong. I’ve never come home to this scene before. Mom, Dad, and Nana are sitting around the table. Nana’s skin is as white as flour.

“Cade, come sit down. How was school?” Nana asks, wrapping her fingers around a mug that rests on a folded copy of the New York Journal. I heard Nana, but Dad’s grim expression might as well be a sock that’s been shoved down my throat. I try to suck in oxygen, but I can barely wheeze in a breath. A thousand nightmarish thoughts run through my mind—the assignment, Nana’s health, the finances of the inn.

“Family meeting,” Mom says. Dad hooks his work boot on the leg of my chair and pulls it out for me. At my place, there’s a mug of hot chocolate and a plate of gingersnap cookies. Nana’s doing.

Nana slides her mug off the newspaper almost as if it’s too heavy for her to lift. She flips over the paper and pushes it across the table. Under “State News,” there’s a picture of Logan and me below the headline: UPSTATE TEENS FIGHT MURDEROUS ASSIGNMENT.

How? We didn’t give them an interview.

“I’d like to hear the details,” Nana says, her accent thick. “Tell me about this assignment.”

I glance at Mom, and she motions with her hand for me to go ahead.

Stalling, I bite into a gingersnap. Where am I supposed to start? Finally, I say, “Mr. Bartley gave my History of World Governments class an assignment to re-create the Wannsee Conference.”

“What is this conference?” she asks.

“Are you familiar with Hitler’s Final Solution for the Jews?”