“Now that’s what I’m talking about. Finally showing some taste.” We smile a little, but the moment fades fast. “They’re sure it was this girl’s jacket? It couldn’t be a mistake?”

I shake my head. “It was hers. One of a kind.” After the chaos and the crying and the general evacuation of the skate park precipitated by the word “cops,” Bree and I led the officers back to Ivy’s jacket. It seemed to take no time at all, as if the doom creature carried me there, releasing its talons and dropping me back to earth like a flailing fish not worth the trouble. Then questions, a million of them, and a call to Ma, who has the night off and came to pick me up.

Ma reaches out, squeezing my hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t really know her.” But that’s a cop-out, an easy trapdoor to avoid all these awful feelings, to avoid thinking about how Ivy seemed like a really cool person, somebody I would’ve liked to get to know better. “She seemed nice. And funny.”

Ma squeezes tighter, her eyes glistening a little. “God. Her parents. I can’t even imagine.” Sighing, she puts the mug in my hands. “Here. Drink. Pretend it’s got marshmallows, because we don’t have any.” She sits forward, as if to stand, then stops with her hands spread on her thighs, gaze on the carpet. “Promise me you and your friends won’t go out there. To that marsh. It sounds dangerous as hell, and if one kid drowned . . .”

This may not be the time to mention Ricky Sartain and Dabney Kirk. “We won’t go.” Tiptoeing around so many lies with careful word choice, and hating myself for it—not actually saying promise, because I can’t swear I won’t go back into the woods. Like it or not, the woods are Kincaid.

Ma’s sharp. She fixes me with a hard look, and thank God Dad chooses that moment to come down the hall and look in on me. “How’re you doing? Need anything?”

I lift the mug. “Got it covered. Thanks.” Though I don’t think I can touch these snacks. Ten-year-old Clara earned them; the current version has spent this day hurting people and telling half-truths. I watch as Ma gets up and goes over to him, the way his arm finds its way around her shoulders like it belongs there. She doesn’t push me for more answers, not now, but she lets her gaze linger on me as they go.

I read for a while, soothed by the sound of my parents’ quiet conversation from behind their bedroom door, even though they’re most likely talking about how worried they are, how next time, it could be our family, their kid.