She chews on her lower lip, breathing, breathing, and I think my heart might rise up into my throat. And then she nods.

NORA

Oliver is so close—too close—I can smell the wintergreen scent of his skin. See the soft waves of dark hair along his temples, snow melting in the strands. I could touch a single snowflake and let it rest at the tip of my finger; I could graze his cheek, his collarbone. I could press my hand to his chest and feel the cadence of his heart, listen for the thrum of someone capable of murder. Someone who has pushed another boy beneath the surface of the lake and watched him drown.

But I don’t.

I don’t because I’m afraid of what I will feel. I’m afraid of letting myself sink closer, closer, into him.

So I let him take my hand in his—the hands he may have used to press the life from Max’s lungs—and he pulls me to the open window.

In one swift, effortless motion, he hoists me through the window and onto the roof.

The wind is at our backs and Oliver goes first, scaling down the corner of the house. I should be terrified, knowing we could fall, but with his hands on me, bracing footholds, I feel safe.

My fingers start to go numb where they grip the rain gutter, my feet barely touching the top of a first-floor window, and the final drop is another six feet below me. I hesitate and Oliver whispers, “Let go.” I squeeze my eyes closed and release my hands, feeling only a half second of weightlessness before Oliver catches me. His hands tighten around my torso, my ribs, and he lowers me to the ground.

Fin licks my palm. “I’m okay,” I whisper, running a hand down his coat. He must have sensed something was wrong, heard my cries echoing through the trees. He found me.

Oliver gives me a look, and I know we need to get away from the house. We move up into the trees, into the dark where we won’t be seen, weaving along the backside of summer homes until we reach my house.

I let Oliver follow me inside and I lock the door behind us, sliding the dead bolt into place. I close the curtains over the front windows.

I keep out the things I fear. But I lock Oliver inside with me, who perhaps I should fear the most.

“Maybe we shouldn’t stay here,” he says, drawing back a curtain to look out into the dark. He thinks the boys will come for me. That once they discover I’m gone from that room, they will come beat their fists against the door and drag me out into the snow.

“Where would we go?” I ask.

“We could hide in one of the other homes?”