“Do any of you guys know where she is?” Landon’s voice is a little below normal speaking range, brusque, like she’s making herself do this just to cover all the bases. She’s working the fingers of one hand, concentrating her nervous energy there.

We glance at one another. After a pause, Bree says, “You don’t?”

“No, I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.” Landon’s gaze is fixed beyond us, on the street, fingers ticking, ticking, counting off. “Look, did any of you hear anything? Did she say anything to you? I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

Trace and Sage look at each other, Trace finally giving a shrug. “She seemed the same as always on Thursday. That’s the last time I saw her—standing with you, in the parking lot. They think she went to see her mom, right?” Landon nods. “Then . . . sounds like you just have to wait. She wouldn’t do anything stupid like hitch with some skeeve, would she?” Landon glances down, shakes her head. Trace sits forward a little. “She’s either riding with a soccer mom, or she took a bus. She’ll call.”

Landon’s quiet a moment. Then she says, “Yeah,” walking past us toward the next group of people hanging out on the playground equipment, not looking back at Sage’s quiet “Sorry, hon.”

She’s so stiff, Landon, so deep inside herself, that I find myself scanning my memory of Thursday for anything I could tell her, but it’s hazy, lost under a blood wash of Fireball and Kincaid butterflies—make that lace-border moths. I remember Ivy’s hands, her fingernails tipped with black polish, carving the pumpkin, protecting it from Trace’s kick. Her words about black cats and Halloween. That’s all.

Bree waits until she’s gone. “Such crap.” Sage raises her brows. “That she doesn’t know where Ivy is. Bet you anything it’s like Clarabelle said.” I look over, surprised. “You know. That they got in a fight and now Landon’s having serious guilt spasms.”

“I didn’t say that.” Only I kind of did. “That’s not what I meant.”

Bree shrugs. “Then maybe Landon’s helping her hide out so they can stick it to Ivy’s stepmom. Cops will probably find her in Landon’s attic, like, living off Hot Pockets and bottled water or something.”

Sage focuses on adjusting her gloves. “I believe her.” Her calm, immovable stubbornness hangs in the air, something I’ve never heard before. Bree looks at her, but Sage won’t acknowledge it. Trace watches them, says nothing.

I grab Kincaid’s board before we have a chance to spiral any deeper. “Your turn.” Hold it out to Bree.

She pulls her attention from Sage. “Yeah, right.”