“I don’t think they really listened to me.” Devon’s gaze darted to his mom, and then he leaned into Lia and cupped her face in his hands. He whispered, “They didn’t leave after shooting you. They waited. I think they were trying to decide what else to do with you.”

She shook out her hair, wet clothes sticking to her skin, and fought back another shudder. “They’re probably not done with you either.”

They probably weren’t only going to pull him off the railing. The water gun and spiked water were insurance.

“Keep it.” Devon wrapped his shirt around Lia’s shoulders. “You should probably be in a car.”

It was nice to have someone’s attention solely on her. Devon had held back her hair while she had heaved up a lungful of water, and Lia’s mom still hadn’t asked if she was okay, only urged her to leave. It wasn’t winter anymore, but it was dark and windy, and the cold had sunk into Lia’s bones.

“I feel like a burrito,” she said.

“You look like a burrito.” He rubbed her shoulders. “A cold, soggy burrito.”

His lips, rolled together, twitched. Lia laughed.

“That cop called you my boyfriend,” she said softly. “We just haven’t talked about it and—”

His chest rumbled with laughter, and he patted her arm. “I know we probably should talk about that, but can we talk about it after all this is over and we’re not in the middle of three death investigations?”

“Yeah,” she mumbled, and pulled away. “Of course.”

He squeezed her hands. “It’s just this is a lot and if someone is trying to kill me, then—”

“Lia!” Her mom broke away from where she was talking with the cops and James, and approached them.

Devon’s mom waylaid her with a hand on her arm, and Devon pulled away from Lia.

“You didn’t send any of those messages, did you?” he asked.

Lia shook her head. “Whoever was emailing you is probably the one who killed Cassidy.”

“It’s weird,” Devon said. “I was always next to Cass in lines. We used to play tic-tac-toe on the school assembly schedules.”

Cassidy Clarke and Devon Diaz—they were right next to each other alphabetically.

“Hello, Lia.” Dr. Diaz, Devon’s mom, walked over. “Thank you for not letting Devon fall off a flight of stairs.”

Devon had inherited her height and sharp features, but her brown skin was a shade darker and warmer and her black hair cut short in a perfect bob. It looked lovely against her red coat and white scarf.

Very aware of the damp hair stuck to her face and how her mascara must have run, Lia only nodded and said, “Of course.”

Such an offhanded comment, but it was the key to all of it. This was what Lia couldn’t think of when staring at the roster in her journal and erasing their scratched-out names. The deaths were in the order of the class list, just like her journal had been. Ascher, Barnard, Clarke, and Diaz.