Allister ambles up the steps of a gazebo, swinging his arms and twirling. Fiona follows, so I do too, into the gazebo, which forms a platform in the forest and provides a 360 of it.

There’s a death loop happening about a hundred yards away. A man digging a hole. There’s a giant garbage bag next to him. He’s taking a break, leaning on his shovel, wiping sweat off his forehead.

Fiona sits and opens her bag. Then she takes out a smaller bag, of something green. Weed?

Back to the man. He’s picking up the bag. There’s hair spilling out of the top. A wife, probably.

“Your brother gives me the best stuff,” Fiona says.

I cringe. It’s an embarrassing reminder my brother is St. Clair’s most renowned and trusted weed dealer.

Allister’s up and down in his seat. “Light me up, light me up.”

“Are y’all really about to smoke right here?”

“Of course we are,” Allister says. “This has been the worst day ever. Mr. Shaw nearly gave me an aneurysm in chemistry. Asked me for the formula for ammonium. Who the fuck knows that? I hate when teachers ask you things just to embarrass you. I deserve this treat.”

“What if someone comes?” I ask.

“We are not offering them any,” Fiona says, and they both laugh as she rolls a joint. I look frantically around me. No one’s out here except for the ghost man, who’s almost finished his hole.

If Sawyer really is responsible for the death of Kieran Waters, it means he killed him and brought his body out to hide it. That means he’s upgraded his abilities since Matteo’s murder, which happened sloppily and ended right there, in his bedroom.

Even a living person has trouble moving a body. But Sawyer seemed to do it without a problem. Maybe he hangs out at Heritage High because it’s his source of power. Maybe that power comes from his memory of the shooting.

How can I remove his memory?

Fiona’s handing me the joint.

“I’m second?”

“Hit it slow,” she says.

I bring the j to my lips, inhale, and start coughing. And coughing. My throat feels like someone threw ashes into it. “Is it supposed to feel like you’re—um—dying?”

Allister takes it off my hands. “Try not to take too much at one time, friend.” He leans back, pulls, and then blows his smoke into the frigid air, with no trace of respiratory struggle.

“Sorry.” I look down at the tassels on my loafers. “I know I’m not cool like my brother.”

“Please.” Fiona waves a hand. “You’re actually very cool. Just in a different, kind of brooding to yourself, zoned-out sort of way. More than one way to be cool.”

“Our parents always let us do our own thing. Probably why I came out so different.”