He follows me out of the school and then grabs my shoulders to steer me away from the yard and down the wide stone steps to the rugby field.

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me,” he says.

We end up under the bleachers. Grady’s looking around like he’s about to do a drug deal.

“I don’t want any crack,” I announce.

“It’s not crack.” He pulls a silver flask from inside his jacket. “Just a little something to get you started. We gotta get you doing cool stuff, Jake. You’re too timid. This is the perfect pregame recipe.”

I’m on the fence on whether or not I even want to hold that while on school grounds. “What is it?”

“Just a little Tennessee whiskey. Take it, bro. You need it. You’re so uptight.”

I hesitate. Alcohol? Me? It’s never been a thing. Why would it be?

Then again, I don’t want to be an Amanda, throwing a fit just because Fiona wanted to go to a party. I don’t want to be all prudish. I’ve never tried alcohol, but maybe it’s time. Maybe it’ll take the edge off the dread that’s been in my stomach.

I accept the flask and drop it in my hoodie’s kangaroo pocket. Grady smiles.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” he says. “See you tonight.”

I’m not sure I should be seeing anyone. My mind seems even more off than usual.

I spend most of the late afternoon sketching things. I’ve been drawing obsessively lately. Triangles and lightning mostly—puzzles of clouds, fire, and chaos rather than characters.

Sawyer followed me to school. The thought keeps running through my mind, blossoming more dire thoughts. Sawyer could kill everybody. Amanda, Fiona, Grady, Benji . . . everybody.

The flask Grady gave me watches me from my nightstand like something that’s not supposed to be here. Something I have to get rid of before it gets rid of me.

I’ve been practically shaking ever since what I saw at Redruth Road, and now I can’t even go to school in peace. This ghost killed Matteo Mooney. And I could be next.

But why? What do you want?

I toss my notebook and pencil aside. The flask ends up in my hand; I screw off the top and chug. I keep chugging even as the warm, toxic liquid burns my chest.

Gross, gross, gross.

The prospect of Sawyer murdering me in the middle of the night seems much more likely than him doing it in daylight. There would be fewer witnesses to run in, flip on lights, and gather around me to extinguish my panic.

So maybe my first answer is catching some Z’s before the sun has set completely.

I curl up on the bed, hug the flask like a baby’s bottle, and pour the contents into my mouth.

And pour it.

And pour it.

And . . .

Sawyer