Can’t believe step two of plan A is happening—meeting back up at Trace’s car, victorious instead of shitting bricks, ready for further instructions. I race through the dark smokers’ woods and follow the footpath alone, glad when I come out on the sloping green behind the middle school, where moonlight can reach. A pair of dark shapes appear at the crest of the hill—Bree and Sage, running all out. I run to join them.

Their laughter’s infectious, as always, and it’s like their little difference of opinion over Landon on Monday never happened. Best friends forgive and forget pretty easily, I guess. But even as I lean against Sage, shoulder to shoulder, there’s no click. I don’t fit with them, not like before, walking the trails that night with jack-o’-lanterns in our arms and demon on our breath. Maybe secrets have changed my shape, made me different. I click with somebody else now, Bree’s boy. The one I’ve maybe stolen. And suddenly, it’s not so easy to laugh.

Speak of the devil: Kincaid’s already there when we reach the dirt athletic field lot, sitting on the hood of Trace’s car, grinning as if in private conversation. He points at something in the distance.

Way off beyond the baseball field, a pair of taillights glow, moving along at an uneven pace as the VW follows the grassy ridge along the woods’ edge.

“What’re they doing?” Bree steps forward, arms folded tightly against the cold. “There’s no road there.”

“I told him. . . .” Sage shakes her head. “They’re going to get stuck.”

We watch as the VW pulls a lazy, difficult right, the headlights now on, giving a glimpse of trees as they seem to turn directly into the woods. And disappear.

“Where’d they go?” I ask.

The only answer I get is Kincaid’s laughter.

When Trace and Moon reach us ten minutes later, it’s from out of the dark, the mask bouncing around Trace’s neck from its elasticized string. We pile into his car, all except for Kincaid, who shoves off down the hill in a slight crouch, tunneling into a speed that makes my heart rise in my throat, watching as he’s swallowed by the night. Wouldn’t be surprised if he makes the park before we do.

As Trace backs out, Sage, riding shotgun, says, “Did you really do it? The last part?”

Trace reaches into his pocket, pulls out a wrapper, shakes it. “Big enough to accommodate the larger man.”

Sage places a hand over her grin. “Oh, my.”

“What—?” Bree reaches forward, snatching it from him and holding it up under the dome light. The package reads Trustex Dual Color Orange & Black.