“No!” Lia lurched. “Mom, the game isn’t—”

“My God, Lia, what if you had still been there?” her mom asked. “What if you trip while chasing someone? What if they mistake you for a mugger? You have other things you need to think about, like your life.”

If she had still been there, maybe Ben wouldn’t have died.

Lia’s parents were in agreement: She wasn’t allowed to play the game any longer. They didn’t give her a choice, and they didn’t ask for her opinion.

But Lia had done what they told her to for far too long. They talked about how dangerous it was to stay out late, to walk home alone, to talk to strangers. But Ben had been at home. Lia could think of nothing that would keep her safe from whoever killed Ben. The killer had incapacitated him with latex before even trying to kill him. The allergic reaction was all over the news.

The killer knew him.

“We talked to Devon’s and Gem’s parents,” her father said on the way home from the therapist’s office. He drove slower than he spoke, his fingers clenched around the wheel. “You’re excused for three days. Try to focus on school and getting healthy.”

Like she wasn’t right now?

Her mom cleared her throat. “What your dad means is, focus on yourself. Don’t feel like you have to push yourself to do anything you don’t want to do.”

It was high school. Students always had to push themselves.

“I want to keep playing Assassins,” Lia said. “I’ve been looking forward to it all year and planning for it, and we’re raising money for Abby.”

“No,” said her mom. “Absolutely not. Focus on yourself.”

“And school,” her father said.

If she let them know she didn’t feel up to school, they’d just let her skip. Sure. Yeah. That was how that would work.

He didn’t mention the deaths again after that, as if maneuvering around them would keep the grief at bay. Her mom, at least, gathered her up in a hug and settled her on the couch with a blanket. They gathered in the living room, glued to the news and their phones, and her mom repeated every hour or so about what a tragedy it was. She didn’t have access to the gossip-filled chats Lia did; not everyone thought it was a tragedy.

“What an idiot,” one anonymous comment read. “What sort of linebacker loses a fight?”

“The dude better be huge when they catch him.”

Ben Barnard was murdered and still people found a way to twist it for laughs. The last murder in Lincoln had been five years ago, and it had been a family feud. Now there were two dead kids and dozens of rumors: Abby’s death wasn’t an accident. Ben had killed Abby and this was revenge. Assassins was cursed. Lia was cursed.

She stopped reading after that.

She had spoken to the police for an hour the day after Ben’s death, making sure her timeline lined up with everyone else’s. She couldn’t even blame them.