I can’t tell the police this, I have no evidence. Would Sean even admit telling me about the fake alibi? I think of how I told Dad to lie to the police about the fight. Why would Sean tell the police if it implicated his brother? He’s not going to believe his brother or his father were murderers any more than I’d ever believe Dad had something to do with Greg’s death.

But Bella’s death wasn’t an accident. I believed it then, but I let myself be persuaded by what everyone else was saying. I let them convince me it was and it’s possible I would have gone the rest of my life thinking that if I hadn’t come back here. Or was I thinking it earlier? Was I thinking it when I took Rebecca’s phone to the police, convinced she was being abused?

My phone dings and I slow as I pull it out of my hoodie pocket. There’s a text from an unknown number—party at dean house! I frown and look up. I’m almost right outside Dean House and as I step closer to the gate, I see a light flash in one of the upstairs windows.

My heart races as I look at the house. The front door and windows are boarded up, warning signs still in place, police tape across the door. Did I imagine that light? The text must be a joke. Jack, probably. Or Lena. The police seem to have finished their searches at last. They’ve been digging for weeks, looking for more bones, sweeping through the house, looking for clues. Useless, though, surely—half the neighborhood kids have broken into Dean House on dares in the decade it’s been empty. The number of real parties that must have been held there—what evidence could they possibly hope to find?

My phone dings again and I gasp and almost drop it when Bella’s face pops up on the screen. partying allll night—i’ll sleep when i’m dead! flashes underneath the photo. My hand is shaking as I fumble with the phone. Of course, as I look more closely, I can see it’s not really Bella—someone’s snapped an old picture of her, laughing, spinning with a bottle in her hand. She’s in Dean House—I recognize the wood paneling from the living room, the striped wallpaper above. When was this taken and who took it? Greg? Jack, Sean?

My heart is galloping. I can imagine her over there now, dancing and laughing and drinking and even though I know it’s not real—there’s not going to be some time bubble of a decade-old party going on behind the boarded-up windows—I push the gate open and walk up the path.