Lia reached over and nudged his leg. “Anyway, Faith’s going to jail. For a long, long time.”

Faith’s parents had hired the best defense attorney in the state, and any time Lia saw them on the news, they were silent and stone-faced. They never looked at Faith. It was like she wasn’t there at all. But Faith had found a new sort of attention in the dregs of the internet. Some people agreed with Faith and thought she had deserved the scholarship. They weren’t kind in their comments about why.

Lia had deleted her social media accounts after that.

And she’d also accepted that the game was over. The Council never announced a winner—and somehow, she was okay with that. She and Gem and Devon had all won, really.

They were alive.

Carefully, she laid a new picture of Omelet, biodegradable and cleared by the cemetery’s front office, next to the wilting flowers and mementos. “May adopted a dog. He’s the wrinkliest pug, like five years old already and breathes like a tornado, but she likes him. He tried to eat Gem’s socks.”

“My favorite pair of socks,” Gem added from somewhere behind Lia. “The little goblin.” Lia knew Gem had spent a lot of time recently at May’s house, supporting her. It was going to take a long time to accept everything that had happened.

Lia stood up and glanced back at Gem and Devon, who waited a few steps behind her. Gem had returned to class. Devon hadn’t returned to school, and his parents had dared the office to say anything. It was amazing what getting stabbed on school property did for administrative red tape.

“Ready?” he asked. He had on a concert T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. The mark on his arm was all but gone. You had to look really close to see it. “We can walk if you’re not.”

“I have no good socks left,” Gem whispered to him. “Don’t volunteer me to walk.”

“I would carry you, but I got stabbed.” He shrugged.

Gem snorted. “You didn’t even need stitches.”

“I’m ready,” Lia said, and joined her friends. “Come on. No carrying required.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to go?” Devon hooked one arm through Lia’s, the loose weight of his arm against hers as warm as the sun peeking through the spring clouds above them. “It’s not like we have much to do. We can wait around.”

“No, I’m good,” Lia said. “I don’t know if this is for me.”

Her therapist had suggested talking to Abby, but like everyone else, had underestimated Lia’s hatred of explaining her own feelings, even to ghosts. Instead of apologizing, she had tried talking about everything else this time. It still felt weird.