She’s standing at the edge of the flats, looking down. It’s low tide, the water receded far beyond my line of sight. “Yeah?” She doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn. It strikes a cold note. I start to hurry, skidding on my heels, falling on my ass at one point, smearing mud up the back of my coat, wet and cursing and miserable by the time I reach her. “What?”

When I see what she’s looking at, I stop, staring, transfixed, just like Bree.

It’s caked in mud, the denim jacket, like it’s been submerged for some time and was only recently dislodged by the tide. Stiff, the embroidered band patches barely legible, one sleeve up, the other down, both bent at the elbows like there could be arms inside, like that’s how she fell, and was swept away.

Eighteen

IT ISN’T UNTIL after, long after, when I’m in bed, Ma down in the kitchen making me undeserved hot chocolate and peanut butter crackers, like she used to when I was little and played outside in the cold too long—that I realize Kincaid managed to disappear himself again.

I can’t say exactly when. Sometime after Bree and I raced back, panic calling a truce between us as she led the way to the trail—turned out I was the only one who was lost—and told everyone what we found. Landon got hysterical, the girlfriends actually surrendering their bench so she could huddle there, weeping, her head in her hands while Sage rubbed her back, murmuring comfort as we waited on the cops to answer our call. By the time they arrived, Kincaid was gone.

“You good?” Ma’s in the doorway, watching me.

“Yeah.” I sit up. “Just reading.” A Clockwork Orange lies open on my lap. Alex is being strapped to a chair in the screening room, eyelids forced open, ready to begin his treatment.

She nudges the origami jack-o’-lantern aside with the mug and plate, not sparing it more than a glance. Part of me wants her to see the message on the back, ask who wrote it, who would be giving me October gifts, while the other part of me doesn’t have the first clue how to begin the subject of Kincaid. I won’t kid myself that he’s the kind of guy my parents would love seeing me with. His brand is anti-school, anti-authority, and that would get Ma’s back up about as far as it can go. I’d never get her to believe that anarchy isn’t contagious. She checks out the cover of Clockwork. Flames, a screaming mouth. “Looks fun.”

“Caught me. I was trying to throw you off. I’ve got a stash of your Harlequins under my mattress.”