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  When he gets in his truck, I hop on my bike and follow him down River Road. I pump the pedals, trying to keep up. We pass the baseball field, the quarry's entrance, and cross the Huguenot Bridge. He pulls away.

  I sail right through a yellow light on Cherokee Road, thighs burning. The white truck is moving faster. It crosses Chippenham Parkway. I stand, running on the pedals, and see his brake lights flash, right before he turns right. When I reach that corner, he's gone. There's a fire station on one side. Across the road, a shopping center. The parking lot is so well-lit I can see the bag boys pushing shopping carts out of Ukrop's grocery store, rattling down the parking lot. I ride over there, coasting the lot's aisles. My panting breath clouds up the air in front of me.

  I cover the entire parking lot, but see no white truck with a camper.

  I've lost him.

  Pulling to the parking lot's curb, I scan the cars again. The bag boys are chatting with customers, lifting groceries into trunks. I take a deep breath of cold air and close my eyes for one second. A desperate prayer is bubbling up and I can't decide whether the burning sensation in my chest is from riding or losing. I take another breath, and catch a scent of heaven.

  I open my eyes. French fries. Burgers.

  Behind me, a McDonald’s is tucked into the corner of the lot, disguised to blend in with the shopping center. Its drive-through lane opens onto the main road.

  My inner attorney opens the argument: You let your dad think you were going to McDonald’s for dinner.

  I scan the parking lot, searching for the white truck.

  My little lawyer objects: The truck is not here, and you need to eat.

  After a while, the arguments for eating grow so strong that I'm suddenly wondering if my entire hypothesis is wrong. So John the janitor cleaned late on Friday—maybe it was because of the dance. Or maybe because the plumbers had to repair the plumbing. Or maybe he always works late on Fridays and Parsnip didn't know because she pretty much ignores anybody who's not Ellis. Or Sandbag.

  My inner lawyer approaches the bench: If you don't get dinner at McDonald’s, you'll be lying to your dad. Again.

  I ride toward the small golden arches, my mouth watering like a faucet. When I pass in front of the drive-thru lane, car headlights sear my eyes. I climb off my bike, seeing purple spots, and have to blink rapidly to see the numbers on my bike lock. I'm still blinking when the drive-thru service window slides open and a chipper female voice says: "Here ya go!" I glance over, still blinking. Two white bags come out the window. I'm almost drooling with hunger. The driver leans out, takes the bags. The girl hands him two drinks and the truck pulls forward.

  A white truck. Camper on the back.

  And behind the wheel, a bald man.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I'm right behind him when he turns left on Stony Point Road, so close I can taste the gas coming from the tailpipe.

  But the road turns out to be two lanes with no street lights. His headlights are too far up for me to see the road, but he taps the brakes after about a quarter mile. The flash of red light is bright enough to show me the road's shoulder as I swerve around his back bumper. I feel my front wheel sink into gravel, my handlebars wobbling. I crank the pedals and spurt back onto the road, just in front of the truck.

  For a split second my shadow falls over my front wheel, thrown by his headlights.

  I want to glance back. But it's too dangerous. So I continue down the road as if I'm riding further, someplace else. When I reach the next curve, I hook a U-turn.

  The truck's gone.

  I ride back to where he stopped. It's a small intersection. I pull my flashlight from the pack and read the sign. Yukon Road. I shine the light down the street. It's only one direction, but there's no telling how far the road goes.

  Holding the flashlight in one hand, I push off. The houses are tucked back, anchoring long front yards. I search each driveway for a white truck.

  The road ends at a cul-de-sac.

  Terrific.

  I plant my feet, shining the flashlight. Did he see me? Maybe he pulled his own U-turn and zoomed back to Huguenot Road. My inner attorney starts making objections. This is such a crazy idea. John the janitor? He's the nicest guy. He covers for me and Drew whenever we—

  Hold it.

  I remember seeing him this morning, in the locker room. We both jumped. But why was he coming into the locker room? It was first hour; I didn't see any mess. In my stall, the toilet paper roll was full.

  And what about how Parsnip and Ellis knew I left school without permission. I assumed it meant Tinsley narced on me. But now my dad's wisdom starts coming back to me. Blame-shifting. He said liars always point the finger at somebody else, to divert attention.

  If the janitor wasn't supposed to be in the locker room, and my noisy exit drew attention to him, he had to shift the blame.

  And what about when I was examining that baseball field soil? John came in to clean Teddy's classroom. Right after school. Nothing odd about that, but could that explain how Ellis knew Teddy was helping me? In my mind, I hear the conversation between Teddy and John that afternoon, while I worked the soil through the sieves.

  They talked about . . . baseball.

  I run the flashlight around the cul-de-sac. Two mailboxes. One rotting on its post. The driveway so long I can't see the end. In the other house, blue light glows from a window. It outlines someone's head. And their hair. Parked beside the house is a four-door sedan.

  The other driveway is longer. I can't see the house from the street. I roll over to the mailbox and open it, while my inner attorney mentions the penalties for tampering with U.S. mail. I counter that looking at the envelopes is not tampering.

  Three pieces of junk mail are addressed to "Resident/Occupant." One white envelope from the power company is addressed to J. Quinlan. But I've never heard John's last name before, maybe Quinlan, maybe not.

  I stuff the mail back in the box and shine the light down the gravel drive. A brown stripe of grass grows down the middle. I climb off my bike, walking it forward.

  A. Quinlan.

  J could stand for Joseph, insists my attorney. Or Jill. Or Jemima, Jackie, Jordan. . .

  I set my bike to the side. The house is visible now. I keep the beam pointed toward the ground but I can see the windows. They're shiny, black. One light's on inside. That window sits low, almost even with the ground.

  The grass is brittle, snapping under my steps. I pause, listening beside the lighted window. Dirt freckles the glass, rain-splashed mud from the ground. I yank down my sweatshirt sleeve and rub a section of the window clean.

  There's a gray floor—probably concrete, and the one light is a bulb, hanging from the ceiling. I follow its electrical cord back to the wall. It snakes behind a large white box, the top of which is propped open. With a thick stick. I lean into the glass, breathing condensation on it and rubbing it again. Now I see the white is a freezer. And it's not a stick propping open the top. It's a baseball bat.

  "Find what you're looking for?"

  For several moments, I don't turn around. My heart is slamming into my ribcage and my shadow falls against the house. When I turn around, he points the flashlight in my eyes.

  "Followed me, did ya?" he says.

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I—I—"

  I close my mouth. Something about this moment feels eerily familiar. Like that lipstick kiss, only worse. Fear, I realize. It's the fear I feel, rising up, just like it does when my crazy mom pulls a fast one, surprising me. When there's no right answer. When anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of lies. Even the truth.

  "I wanted to talk to you," I say.

  "That so."

  "Yes, I lost something. At school. Maybe you have it."

  Behind the flashlight, I see his head lift, as though he's sniffing the air. It brings back the image of that sweater. Is he a scent freak?

  "What'd you lose?" he asks.

  "A swea
ter."

  "And you came all this way to find it, here?" He pronounces here, hee-yah. New York, I decide.

  "It's my lucky sweater. I've got two tests tomorrow and I'm going to fail without that sweater. "

  "You check lost and found?"

  "I went by the school. Tonight. But you were already driving away. I tried to catch you, didn't you see me?"

  He lowers the flashlight, the beam striking my chest. I'm afraid he's going to see my heart it's beating so hard against my ribs.

  "I saw a sweater," he says.

  "I think I left it in Mrs. Weston's room."

  "That's where I saw it."

  "You found it!" My voice is so high it's not mine.

  "Yeah, I picked it up." Above the flashlight, his eyes are hollow caverns. "I got it inside. C'mon, let's go get it."

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I can't feel my feet. But every other sense is on high alert. I hear the grass crunching. The back door creaking open. When I step inside the house, my head floats off my shoulders, a helium balloon tethered to my spine.

  "Right over here," he says.

  Hee-yah.

  The fist of my heart pounds the wall of my ribs. In his kitchen, I do the cop thing. Keep my head still while my eyes take in every detail. The stove, wiped so clean the numbers are gone from the black knobs. A fridge: white, humming. A door: scuffed at the bottom. And at the top, a deadbolt with its key sticking from the lock like a metal tongue.

  "C'mon, I'll show you." He twists that tongue-key in the lock, opens the door. Holds it for me.

  I don't move.

  "What's the matter?" he asks.

  "My sweater is down there?"

  "Yeah. The lost-and-found gets full. I have to bring stuff home, to keep it safe."

  I still don't move.

  "I'll show ya."

  He starts down the stairs ahead of me, shining his flashlight, which is still in his hand, though he told me to leave mine outside. I step on the first stair. The wood bounces, the step so thin it might crack in half. When I slip my right hand inside my sweatshirt pocket, my fingers tingle.

  He glances back, making sure I'm following him down the steps. "See? No problem."

  I take the second step. The tingling moves from my fingers to my stomach. The phone. Set on vibrate;--so my mother won't hear it ring. I move my numb fingers over the buttons.

  "The stuff you girls leave behind," he says. "Winds up everywhere."

  At the bottom of the stairs, the bare bulb in the ceiling barely lights the cellar. The corners of the room are dark as night. When we pass the freezer, with the baseball bat propping open the lid, I glance inside. More baseball bats, bags of baseballs. Bottles of water. Canned food, stacked.

  "Come have a look-see." He's over on the other side of the freezer, where it's dark. He shines his flashlight on a door, opens it.

  Something's on the floor.

  "See?"

  I come forward, gazing into the murky gloom. My fingers are touching the phone.

  He shifts the flashlight on the object on the ground. I see blue plaid, our school uniform. A white shirt. Moss? Brown moss?

  Then it moves.

  I step back. Dark hair. Skin white as that freezer. The eyes, partially opened but unfocused. I hear a low moan.

  My heart attacks my chest.

  He spins toward me, shining the light in my eyes. "That's what you're looking for, isn't it?"

  I stumble back, sinking fingers into the phone, searching for a button, any button.

  He reaches out, grabs my elbow and yanks me to him. I try to close my fingers around the phone but he's shaking me. My arm flops around like a ragdoll's. The phone flies out of my pocket, hits the concrete floor.

  He stops. "What was that?"

  "My—my—"

  My mind can't think of an excuse.

  He looks down, sweeping the beam across the floor. It catches an object. He drags me to it and together we stare down at the cell phone. I want to punch. Kick. Run. But I can't. Not after what I just saw.

  He stomps his heel into the phone, grinding it.

  My knees feel like water.

  "Think you're smart." He is shaking me again. "How'd you know? How did you know she was here?"

  Hee-yah. Get me out of hee-yah.

  "I didn't know, I—"

  He shakes harder. My head feels like it's going to snap off.

  "Don't lie to me!"

  The balloon cuts its tether. My head floats and floats and everything slows down. Time stands still. I can see now, so clearly it feels like a dream. I recognize this moment, this fracture in time. Life splits. My mother loses contact with reality and a raging river rushes in, destroying every bridge that connected us. It's the moment when Helen leaves, refusing to drown, and when I always try to paddle harder, hoping to reach the other side before we go under forever. It's when words climb up my tight throat, trip on my tongue, and expire on the air.

  "You wanted to help," I gasp.

  He stops shaking. My head rolls to a stop. He looks confused.

  "You wanted to help, didn't you?" Unable to look at her again, I tilt my head toward that door he's opened.

  His eyes are darting. Like my mother's when her mind can't keep track of all her thoughts.

  "They were taking her away," he says. "Making her move. Far away. I told her she could hide. See, she's hiding?"

  I see. I see a man gripping my arm so tightly the bones ache. A man killing Drew. And I wonder if we'll ever leave this cellar. The words land and drop off my tongue. "If she moved away, I don't know what I'd do."

  "So you see?" He turns his head, evaluating me, still suspicious. "You see why we had to do this?"

  "I see."

  He looks at me with such tenderness, my throat convulses.

  "You two, always sticking together." He glances over at that creature trapped behind the door. "She was calling for you."

  I force my lips to move. "I was worried. I'm so glad she's okay."

  "If I'd have known," his grip loosens, "if I'd known you'd understand, I would've told you."

  "You saved her." I bend my elbow, placing my right hand over my heart like I'm reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. "Thank you. I owe you."

  "Naw." He smiles. "You don't owe me."

  "Yes, I do."

  "You hungry?" he asks suddenly. "We was just going to eat dinner. Cheeseburgers."

  "I'm starving." I smile so hard my lips crack.

  He's still holding my left arm as he leads me back to the stairs. I follow him but as we pass the freezer, my right hand grabs the bat. The heavy lid falls. He turns, startled.

  And I swing.

  I swing the way Drew taught me.

  The bat strikes his side. I hear the air, shoved from his lungs, and a cry that's a mixture of pain and surprise. I wind up for a second swing. It sends him to the floor.

  I want to hit him again. And again. But that closet, the thought of her.

  I can't stand it.

  When I rush over, her legs are splayed in front of her, ankles duct-taped together. A rag is stuffed in her mouth. Her head droops forward.

  "Drew!"

  Her heads shifts. She's drugged. Or dying.

  "Oh, my God!" I drop the bat and grab her arms, pulling. She tips forward. Her hands are behind her back, taped together. I can't lift her; she's dead weight.

  I grab her shoulders. "Drew—look at me!"

  She finds my face. Her dark eyes widen with recognition—just a split-second—and then she recoils. A whimper, high and plaintive, leaks around the rag in her mouth. I stare into the brown eyes I knew so well and see the look of a terrified animal, blind with fear.

  "Drew." I lower my voice to a hoarse whisper. "It's me, Raleigh. You're okay."

  There's another flicker of recognition. And just as quickly it's gone. She pulls her head back, screaming into the rag, head shaking, the wild hair electrified, clinging to the closet walls.

  "I won't hurt you—"

/>   Suddenly pain shoots through my back, doubles me over.

  "You got that right." He jabs. The sharp pain scissors my side. "You won't hurt her. Because you won't touch her."

  I am staring into her eyes. My best friend. Her eyes are full of unspeakable sadness. She is right here. And a world away.

  He yanks both of my arms, spins me around. A knife. The serrated tip cutting into my sweatshirt. Serrated for cutting meat.

  I look at his face. The crazy fury, I recognize it.

  "Now I'm going to show you who's boss," he says.

  He drags me to the stairs. Drew's whimper rises behind me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  I stare at the precise creases in the paper, each one folded by the person who wrapped this cheeseburger, dropped it in an anonymous white bag and handed it to a man who will kill me. Kill Drew.

  "Eat it," he says.

  A bitter taste climbs up my throat.

  "G'on." He shoves my head. "Eat it. Now."

  At a small kitchen table, he stands over me, holding the knife to my throat. I can smell the burger, the meat gone cold, and something else hovering over the food. A human oil, stinking of rage and hate. His sickness. I shift my eyes to the right. He's wincing from where the baseball bat hit him. His ribs, I decide. Probably broken. Good.

  Only the pain seems to make him even meaner.

  He grabs my hair, pulling my face into the food.

  "Yum. Yum."

  I open my lips. My teeth nibble at the bun. The bread tastes stale, like dead grease. And there's no saliva left in my mouth. Fear has dried up every drop. I try to chew the food. But it refuses to slide down my throat. I cough.

  He shoves me down for another bite.

  Do not cry.

  "Are you crying?" he demands.

  Do. Not. Cry.

  "Stop it!"

  I nod, chew. My throat closes. The food, it refuses to go down.

  "Water," I cough. "Please. Water."

  He yanks me out of the chair—I hear it crash to the floor—and drags me to the sink. A glass of clear fluid is waiting. I stare at it, his grip on my arm so tight my knees begin to buckle. He sets down the knife, picks up the glass, and lifts it to my mouth.