Sage produces essentials—lip gloss, a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans—and we rotate them, Bree talking rapid-fire, everything good between us now that we’re a team, raiders of the dark, the wildness of last night mingling like some exotic perfume, and I know exactly what I’m going to do at school today, exactly who I’ll be hunting the halls for: “—and he doesn’t have a girlfriend, I’m sure of it, because the girl everyone said was his girlfriend doesn’t come around anymore, and he never talks about her—”

“Ask Annaliese.” Sage jots digits on math homework, signs her name in giant, swirly letters. She doesn’t wear the flannel shirt today; Trace must’ve reclaimed it. “They talk sometimes. She’d know.”

“She hates me. All those girls do. Which is fine.” I catch Sage’s tolerant eye roll as Bree crunches the last bean in her molars, flicks the bag to the floor. “I followed him once.” My attention jerks back, and Bree smiles, a slow expression. “From the skate park.”

Sage angles herself against the window. “How did I not hear about this?”

“Because I didn’t tell you. It was this summer. One of the times you went in the woods with Trace.” Hint of accusation. “Figured, why not.” Bree sinks back against the seat, watching her own reflection in the bus driver’s circular spy mirror mounted up front, her lashes lowered. “It started raining, like this warm rain, and everybody left. But he stayed. He was soaked, all his clothes and everything, streams running off his hair. Then he skated down Maple. Just coasting, you know?”

“What’s his house like?” I picture a split-level ranch, struggling flower garden out front, maybe a gnome or a plaster angel by the steps.

“Never found out. He turned right onto Summer, picked up his board, and cut through somebody’s backyard. There’s a path worn through there, like kids do it all the time. When I came out on the other side of the garage, he was gone.”

Sage snorts. “He saw you stalking him and gave your ass the slip.”

“He didn’t see. Nobody did.” Bree pauses, biting her lip, then seems to come back to us. “Anyhow. Zero intel collected, other than he lives close.” A slap across Sage’s bare arm, startling her. “Don’t you dare tell Trace.”

“Like I would.” Sage settles back, saying under her breath, “Even though he could just tell us where—”

“No. Let’s find out on our own.” I look between them. “We must get this information.”

Bree nods. “Must.”

“So, he didn’t grow up with you guys?”

“He moved here . . . four years ago?”

Sage thinks. “More like three. He’s older. A senior.”

“Is Kincaid his first name or his last?”

Bree grins. “I’m not sure. Even the teachers call him that.”

“That’s so weird.”

“I know.” And we’re giddy.