Patty Horne had come with three other girls. They had been dropped off by her friend Candice’s father, who leaned against the hood of his car and watched them. Because Patty had been close to the victims, she had pride of place at this strange gathering. She sat, the understood queen of a large circle of people who spoke quietly and looked respectfully in her direction.

“What about Shawn?” she heard someone say. “He was freaked out about Sabrina. I bet he did it. He’s not even here. . . .”

Was this how it was going to be? People talking about severed heads and fingers and guessing who may have done it?

Apparently.

Candice passed her a cigarette and she accepted it. She reached into her fringed purse for some matches. Look how normal it all was—sitting here in her flip-flops and her yellow halter top and white shorts, getting grass stains on her ass and mosquito bites on her arms, smoking and talking with everyone from Liberty High here in the dark. What was real, even?

Then she saw a figure approaching, one she had been expecting. Greg Dempsey, her boyfriend. His dark shaggy hair was blown all over, which meant he had come on his motorcycle. He wore cutoffs and a beat-up Led Zeppelin T-shirt. That felt like a tribute to Diane, who’d loved the band with all her heart and soul.

Without a word, the group all shifted to make space for him next to Patty. He opened the bag he was carrying and pulled out a six-pack of Miller beer and cracked one open for himself, leaving the rest in the grass, an open invitation to Patty and really no one else.

“Your dad here?” he asked.

“No. He’s still working with the cops.”

“Doing what?”

“Patrolling or something.”

Patty’s father was a little older than most of her friends’ parents. He was one of the town’s illustrious war heroes. No one ever talked about it, but everyone knew that Mr. Horne had been a spy or something. He wasn’t a cop, but he was the kind of heavy guy who could help out when you were looking for a murderer. The town had a posse now, rolling slowly through the streets, watching the darkness at the edge of the woods.

“You want to get out of here?” Greg said quietly.

“Not allowed,” she said, nodding to Candice’s father. “He’s watching, and he’s taking us home at eleven.”

“Who cares? Let’s go.”

“Seriously,” she said.

Greg shook his head. He was almost nineteen now, and out of high school. He had never really answered to his parents before, and he definitely didn’t now. He shook his head and reached into his pocket, producing a handful of joints.

“Last ones,” he said. “Last of Diane’s rolls.”

Candice looked over at Greg as he lit one of the joints.

“They’re watching,” she said, indicating the cars and silent forms of the parents on the edge of the field.