Lucy said “wine coolers and stuff,” but I know what she meant. She only said wine coolers because she knew it would be easier for me to process. What she meant was the stuff—vodka, tequila, and whatever else gets a person drunk as fast as possible.

With a frown, I cast my eyes toward my watch. “Ophelia, what kind of alcohol do teenagers like?”

Ophelia starts to reply with a link to the top-rated alcoholic beverages of the year, but I’m distracted by someone giggling behind me. When I turn, I see a girl not much older than Mei. She’s wearing pink jeans and a thin hoodie, and she’s holding a bottle of chocolate milk she must’ve gotten from one of the fridges.

I turn back to the shelves to hide my embarrassment, and the reality of what a ridiculous plan this is suddenly dawns on me. There is no way on earth I can buy enough alcohol for a graduation party without raising suspicion. Even with this dress, I do not look twenty-one. I barely look eighteen.

Releasing a heavy sigh, I set the wine coolers back on the shelf.

I don’t care if Lucy is mad at me—I’m mad at her. Most of the people at tonight’s party haven’t said more than two words to me all year. Some of them probably don’t even know my name. What does it matter if they hate me? It’s not like I’ll ever have to see them again.

Besides, Finn will be there, and he won’t care if I show up empty-handed. If anything, he’ll be angry at Lucy on my behalf.

Nothing can ruin tonight. I won’t let it.

I turn on my heels just as the bell near the door rings again.

And then I hear his voice.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!” Gravelly. Desperate. Angry.

I duck to the ground before I can process anything beyond the stolen authority in his voice. But I’ve seen him—his black mask, his green jacket, and the black pistol in his right hand.

And he’s seen me.

My entire body goes rigid, and my heart slams against my chest like it’s about to rip out of me.

The man at the desk is sputtering something inaudible, and the gunman waves the barrel at him and tells him to open the cash register. He casts his eyes quickly over the room. He looks at me again and then toward a woman on her way to the checkout. The snacks and magazines she’d been holding are in disarray near her feet.

“Everyone stay where you are,” he orders, letting his eyes move back toward the cashier shakily pressing a code into the machine.

Fear rises up like bile, twisting my insides and leaving a horrible ache in the back of my throat.