Trace stares at his house for a second, a humorless grin passing over his lips. “A serial killer. In Pender.” Burst of barely contained laughter. “Letting the Mumbler take the fall for everything, when we really got a homegrown Dahmer picking off the bad-kid population. Hells yes. I can buy that.” Thumps both hands down on the roof, starts back to the barn with us on his heels.

My air escapes in an exasperated gust. “What are we going to do?” My near shout makes the goats look up. “Thoughts? Anyone?”

Trace grabs his shovel, scoops another load. “Well”—pauses, hefting the weight—“this guy’s a traditionalist. So, far as I can tell”—manure lands in the wheelbarrow—“all we’ve got to do is survive Halloween.”

After we leave Trace’s, Moon drives toward the Terraces. I promised Ma this morning that I’d come straight home after school and keep the doors locked; the ominous way she said, “We’ll talk later,” after the meeting with Mrs. Mac made me want to be extra sure I don’t get caught breaking my word. I don’t know if Trace took anything we said seriously; maybe that’s just how he processes, by being a smart-ass. Sounds familiar.

I glance over at Sage, wedged between us in the cab. “You and Bree hanging out after this?”

She nods, watching how hard I try to keep my expression neutral. “Have you tried talking to her at all? About—” Gestures, meaning the obvious: Kincaid.

“Tried.” I shrug. “I don’t think I got through.” Not sure how well-versed I am on the subject of Kincaid, anyway, if I’m even qualified to guess at what he really wants from me. I stay silent a second, then blurt, “I just feel so bad. I mean . . . with her parents, and being the only one watching out for Hazel and everything. I never thought—”

“That he would like you back.” She smiles a little, shaking her head. “Bree didn’t, either. So when he crashed your little crush party, it kind of blew everything up, right?” She holds up a hand. “Not judging. I’ve been there.”

“You have?”

“Not with Bree. A different friend, back in middle school. Crushing on this one guy was like this game we played every day, until shit got real. I don’t know which sucks more—being the one he doesn’t pick, or getting the guy, losing the friend.” She pauses, chipping at the clear coat on her fingernails. “But if you’re feeling bad because you think you have things better than Bree, don’t.”

I give a short laugh. “Seems pretty legit to me.”