Someone behind me honks, and I realize I’m holding up traffic and drawing attention to myself. When I start driving again, I catch a glimpse of movement in the parking lot beside the house. Oh fates, I think, is it possible the tides have turned? That for once in the past miserable few weeks, something could work in my favor? I turn into the parking lot with my head low, a watchful eye on the windows, and roll up right next to him.

“Get in,” I hiss.

Tripp flinches. By the way he ducks his head, it’s clear he’s startled but not entirely surprised to see me. And if I had any doubt that he was Amy’s blond praying mantis, it’s erased by the resigned slump of his shoulders and his own paranoid glances back at the house.

I speed off before his door closes, and he sits low in his seat, legs folded ridiculously underneath him, so his ass is almost touching the floorboard and his chin’s tucked between his knees. I smirk, but I get it. Neither of us wants to be seen together.

I tear down Milledge and in another small miracle actually make the Five Points light. I swing left onto East Campus, worried that if we drive as far as the botanical gardens he might think I’m abducting him. It’s raining harder now, so I can’t hear what he’s muttering under the sound of the windshield wipers. The brown fenced-in grass of the intramural fields flashes above his head and reminds me of hot summer days spent by a lakeside beach, flag football, and drunken nights tempting death on the train tracks. It seems like a safe enough choice for a rainy day.

But the empty fields feel open and exposed, so I drive deeper into the park until the leafless trees close around us and the tennis courts come into view. A pair of women run with rackets over their heads, laughing. A man lounges in his car, a cell phone at his ear, but when I pull up next to him, he glares at me and drives off. On the courts, a guy in rain-streaked glasses dutifully throws up balls and hammers them at the green tarp that lines the side of the court, completely oblivious to us.

“Coast is clear,” I tell Tripp.

He emerges from his floorboard cocoon with a groan and blinks out the window.

“Where are we?”

“What is this?” I ask, and wave the flash drive in his face.

His shoulders creep up around his ears.

“I just”—he gives a self-conscious shrug—“I thought you should know.”

“Why? Is this supposed to keep me quiet? Blackmail?”

“No, I—” Tripp’s gone white. “It was so you knew there was footage—of the basement.” He gestures helplessly to the car roof. “The camera’s linked to a motion detector. So there’s video whenever someone goes down there.”