“What?” I look all around us in confusion. “Where’s your car?”

“I had to park it on the other side of the neighborhood so your parents wouldn’t see me. Come on.” She pauses when she sees I haven’t followed. “I just want to talk,” she says. “Let’s go for a drive.” When I remain unmoving, she shoots me a halting smile. “Remy?”

For a moment, I think about turning back. Maybe this was a mistake. The thought of being with her in the Pink Caddy terrifies me.

But I have to find out the truth.

“Fine,” I say, and she seems surprised by the edge in my voice.

“Is something wrong?” she asks as soon as we’ve pulled out of my neighborhood.

I know she’s asking about right now, this moment, why I’m so distant and quiet, but still my mind screams: What isn’t wrong? But I’m paralyzed, overwhelmed and unable to speak.

At a stoplight, she hands me the cigarette case I got for her birthday. I shake my head, refusing it. “What?” Now she sounds really concerned. Elise hesitates but lets it go, lighting one for herself, glancing at me every few seconds as she drives. I stare at the cigarette case, the filigree and inscription. The lighter she gave me is in my bedroom in the drawer of my nightstand. I haven’t been able to look at it.

We’re heading in the direction of the Pink Mansion, maybe out of habit, but there’s no way I’ll step foot inside it now, or ever. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“We could go anywhere. And I really mean anywhere,” she says. “Let’s do it. Let’s just go tonight. We’ll run away. Leave and never come back.” Then she sees my expression and her smile falters. “That was a joke,” she says. “But maybe when this is all over—we could go. You’ll be eighteen soon, and no one will bother to look for me.”

I can’t believe this is what she’s thinking, what she’s been thinking in the aftermath of Jack’s death. She hasn’t brought him up at all, and I feel sick. I want to scream—for her to feel my devastation.

I want her to hurt like I do.

Elise seems to mistake my silence for encouragement. “We can sell the fancy furniture in the Pink Mansion, my grandmother’s jewelry. Then after I turn eighteen next year, we’d never have to worry about money again. Rem—”

“What happened?” I ask, unable to stand it anymore. “Sunday night.”

She takes a moment to answer. “I don’t remember,” she says slowly.

“You don’t remember anything?” I don’t believe her.

“I don’t,” she says. Her voice wavers like she might cry. “One minute I was standing there, the next Jack was down and the gun was in my hand.”

“So then tell me what you do remember.” She glances over at me, and I refuse to look away. I refuse to let this go.

“I told you—”

“Before the moment you came face-to-face with Jack. What do you remember about that night?” The top is down and the wind is in our faces, my hair beginning to whip around me.