“They’re dreams, Clark. You think the government’s putting them in our head?”

“My mom used to talk about stuff like this. She used to say there was a monster that gave us nightmares when it moved.”

“Your mother also thought the Pope was sending her messages in the Dillard’s catalogue.”

She’d also correctly predicted the day of her own death, but Clark wasn’t sure that would hold much water with Joel. It was true, Margo had believed in a number of strange things; perhaps with enough predictions and assertions you were bound to get lucky and have one pay off eventually (if you could call a head-on collision with a hay truck lucky). Stopped clocks are right morning and night, et cetera, et cetera.

Clark had let it go. Or, rather, she hadn’t fully acknowledged, to either Joel or herself, what she’d become so frightened of last night before he’d called: an awful suspicion that whether they were talking about drugs or secret gay affairs or boys dumped in creeks, something far uglier was at work here than either of them was quite prepared to accept.

She was a half mile from the school when she saw the flashing lights. She heard the sirens a moment later. She picked up speed, saw a cruiser and two unmarked cars screaming in her direction. One of those cars, if she wasn’t much mistaken, belonged to Investigator Mayfield.

The three cars swerved toward the school’s parking lot. She followed them to the front door, her pulse thudding in her ears.

Jamal Reynolds stood frozen on the curb a few yards away.

As Clark sped across the lot, she saw Investigator Mayfield, Sheriff Lopez and County Attorney Boone stepping out of their vehicles.

And Jones, climbing out of the flashing cruiser with his gun drawn.

“Hands in the air!” Jones bellowed. When Jamal only stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth agape, Jones shouted it again.

Clark parked behind the cruiser, threw herself from her truck without killing the ignition. Jamal Reynolds raised his hands. Mayfield turned back to give her a quick blank look and started toward Jamal.

“Mr. Reynolds,” Investigator Mayfield shouted. He held a plastic bag in his hand. “Are you the owner of a red Ford Explorer SUV?”

“What?”

“A red Ford, Mr. Reynolds. Currently being serviced at Sparks’s Auto Body?”

“That’s mine, but—”

“You have the right to remain silent, Mr. Reynolds,” Mayfield said, and rattled off the rest of it. As the investigator spoke, Jones made his way across the lot, pushed the boy to his knees, cuffed him.

Bethany Tanner burst from the front door of the school, her blond hair flying. “Stop!” she shouted. “He was with me!”

“That’s enough, darling,” said Mr. Boone sharply.

“But it’s true!” Bethany shouted. Clark saw faces in the classroom windows watching them, saw sashes sliding up so the folks inside could listen. Bethany repeated, “Jamal was with me all weekend!”

“Mayfield, what the fuck is this?” asked Clark. “Why didn’t you call me?”