“Yeah, but it’s Halloween. Somebody must’ve seen her walk by and asked her to hang out for a while. We’ll find her, okay? Everything’s going to be fine.” I grab my coat from the closet, pull on my sneakers, some small, shameful part of me exhilarated that I can help Bree, try to win her back. “Do any kids from her grade live here?”

“Um. There’s that Peyton girl—and Jackson Adelman, I guess. He lives up in the high numbers.” Bree’s heading toward the door, talking like she’s in shock, like deep down, she’d expected to find out it was all a mistake, that Hazel was still at the rec department after all, eating orange-frosted cupcakes and showing off her dip and step.

“Wait for me. Hold on.” She’s already heading down the steps, the door left gaping, so I grab paper and pen, writing a quick note to Dad, hoping to hell that I’ll be back long before he has a chance to read it.

We try four different apartments, all the middle school kids Bree can think of. Nobody’s home at two of them, and at the other two, our knock is answered by a kid doing what I was doing before Bree showed up, watching TV and giving out candy. Neither of them have seen Hazel.

Bree’s walking faster, faster, and the sun’s lower every time we emerge from behind one of the units, a fiery orb stretching out tendrils of orange and purple along the horizon. “Let’s go back to my place,” I say, squeezing my hands together, wishing I’d paused long enough to grab my hat and gloves. “My dad will be home before too long, and then we—”

“Do you think he took her? That guy from the other night?” Bree turns, and there are tears on her cheeks; she’s been walking and crying and I didn’t even know it, because no other part of her reveals a thing. “Do you think that’s what happened? She’s out in the woods?”

I shake my head slowly. “Come on . . . there are trick-or-treaters everywhere tonight, people coming and going—it wasn’t even getting dark yet when she got dropped off.”

“Was it dark when Aidan chased you?” She’s got me there; I say nothing, and she shakes her head. “What if somebody grabbed her, or tricked her? Got her to go out on the trails with them?” She presses her fist to her lips for a long second, then turns and heads down the slope toward the street.

I know where she’s headed. “Stop. Let’s call the cops.”

“Call them, if you want. I’m not waiting.”

“Bree! Don’t be stupid! Come back!”

She breaks into a run. I curse, kicking the ground, watching her cut by the laundry building, heading toward the trails.