Clark pushed her way through the gates and hunted for any sign of Joel.

She spotted Darren, Paulette Whitley’s boyfriend, standing in the line for the toilets. She’d had her doubts about the man’s alibi for last Friday night but now she grabbed him by the arm.

“Joel? Here?” Darren shouted over the noise. “Since when did he care about football?”

“Clark?” Paulette Whitley said, coming up beside Darren. “Is something wrong with Joel’s phone? It don’t even ring before it goes to voice mail.”

Clark forced on a professional smile. “I’m sure he just let the battery die.”

A few cheerleaders stood sipping water and taking selfies near the edge of the field. As Clark approached them the girls all suddenly remembered something they had to do elsewhere. She watched them leave, hoping to spot Kimbra Lott or Bethany Tanner, someone who might have spoken to Joel. But neither girl was here. Odd.

She glanced over her shoulder to the field house, searching for some sign of him among the players filing toward the parking lot, or of big Coach Parter with his idle smile and the best years of his life behind him, but she saw neither. She turned back to regard the cheerleaders one last time. She spotted Dashandre, the lone boy of the squad, eyeing her cautiously.

“You’re friends with Kimbra, aren’t you?” she asked him, stepping over to where he sat massaging his feet.

“I thought I was.” He took a sip of water. “She left school early, didn’t bother telling any of us.”

Heat prickled between Clark’s shoulder blades. “And where’s Bethany Tanner?”

“Being Bethany.”

Clark studied him. “Thank you,” she finally said, and turned to go.

“Did y’all ever talk to that crazy guy on Grindr?” Dashandre said from behind her.

Clark froze. The noise around her faded.

“What crazy guy?”

“I tried to tell Mr. Whitley about him last Sunday night but he blocked me ’fore I could say nothing.” Dashandre shrugged, tried to look bored, but Clark could tell he was spooked. “It’s just this weird dude pops off on there sometimes. It probably don’t mean nothing.”

She held out her hand. “Show me. Now.”

“It ain’t that big a deal.” He unlocked his phone, tapped it a few times, handed it over.

On the screen Clark saw a blue message that had arrived for Dashandre at 9:10 p.m. seven days ago, a little more than an hour before Dylan was last seen alive.

Right after halftime, Clark realized, when the Bright Lands boys had been passing around links to Dylan’s doctored escorting ad.

IF ANY OF U FUCKING FAGGOTS COME NEAR MY BOY I WILL FUCKING CUT U N MAKE IT LOOK LIKE A ACCIDENT.

Clark read the message twice. “Faggots?” she said softly to Dashandre. “Isn’t this an app for gay people?”

“I told you, he’s crazy. Look.” Dashandre tapped a button and the screen reverted to a blank gray square. “This where you normally would have your profile and shit. This guy don’t post nothing. For a while he used to come online when he was lit and try and get busy and then pretend he don’t know you next time you say hey.” Dashandre shrugged again. “He’s trash.”