Silence. Sage leans forward. “You can come to my house.”

“Nah. Your parents hate me.” No argument from Sage. The mask sits on the center console now, smiling blindly at the roof. “I’d better.” Trace nods a little. “Just to check in. Then I’ll drop you guys back at the park.”

No one speaks. I settle back and wait, my makeup feeling itchy and thick, pores starved for air.

I’ve never been to the limits of Pender before. It’s a lot like what I saw of Derby, hinting at some long-gone past before the paper mill, when people must’ve made their living farming out here. Leaning fence posts, faint moonlit outlines of barns and equipment sheds.

Trace’s place is an old farmhouse sitting at the top of a sloping driveway, with a huge Quonset hut barn and possibly the biggest outdoor light I’ve ever seen mounted above the haymow door, spreading the whole dooryard in a flat, artificial green glow. I see a tractor, a chicken coop, lots of pasturage behind. “One sec,” Trace tells us.

“Babe—” Sage.

“Leaving it running. See?” Trace climbs out, key ring swaying in the ignition.

We watch as he walks up the driveway. Dogs—looks like hundreds—explode from the darkness, barking their heads off, leaping and jerking at chains, tails lashing around, answered by Trace’s booming “Shut up.” Apparently, he’s their human, because they sit immediately, whimpering and wriggling as the door bangs shut behind him.

Time ticks by. A lot of time. Kincaid reaches over and turns off the engine.

“He said he’d be back, right?” I scratch at my makeup.

“It’s his mom.” Bree stops, meeting eyes with Sage, the first time I’ve ever seen her defer to Sage for permission.

“She’s different,” Sage finishes.

“Shocker.” I wait. “How different?”

Moon snorts as he opens the last beer. “Like totally bizarre.”

Kincaid speaks to the windshield. “She used to be the Sunday school teacher over at First Presbyterian. Sweet Ms. Savage, everybody called her. Always brought her own Bible to church with her because she said it helped her feel closer to God.”

“Were you in her class?” I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear; he’s back in storyteller mode.

“For a long time, Sweet Ms. Savage really was sweet. She directed the Christmas pageant. Ran the bake sales. Always had Trace by her side, making change or handing out tracts. Suit, loafers, side-parted hair, the whole ventriloquist dummy look.”

“Come on,” I say, but Bree shushes me.

“It was the kids in the congregation. They just kept getting worse. Mouthing off, acting up, no respect for the church. People say they broke her spirit. Sweet Ms. Savage went sour. Started talking to herself, quoting the Bible all the time. Old Testament stuff, fire and brimstone.”