Richelle is dead. She’s not coming back.

With a moan, I lower my head and press the sides of my balled fists against my forehead. My eyes sting. My throat feels thick.

I thought it was a game. Luka called it that. I know he did. Tyrone treated it like one. Richelle said he wants to sell the rights. . . .

But Jackson said it was no game. He said it was real, and that what we did determined our survival. I thought he was crazy. I wanted to think he was crazy.

I’m shaking as I grab my phone. No more texts. No more evasions. I call Luka’s number and when it goes to voice mail, I start to babble, “She’s gone. Oh my God, she’s gone. She’s dead. For real dead. As in dead. I need to talk to you. Please, Luka. I need to talk to you.”

I hang up and pace the length of my room as I dial his number again, my hands shaking. My stomach churns and rolls.

Voice mail again. My babbling is even less coherent the second time. And by the third, I’m not even talking, just breathing hard, willing Luka to answer.

Panting, I stare at my phone. I want to call Carly. I need to call Carly. But I don’t dare drag her into this. I can’t put her in danger. The thought of Carly dead like Richelle is more than I can bear. What if one phone call seals her fate?

I hear the slam of a car door. I look out to see Dad pulling away. I stare blankly for a second before I recall that at breakfast he told me he planned to do the grocery shopping. I’m alone, all alone, which is both a bad and a good thing. I don’t trust myself at the moment. If Dad hadn’t left, if he’d walked into my room right now, I might have told all.

At which point he probably would have done a room search for drugs and then hauled me to the ER at Rochester General for a mental health assessment.

Hugging myself, I rub my palms up and down my upper arms. I feel like the walls are closing in on me, like my skin is too tight, my blood too thin. I turn and stare at my computer and see Richelle looking back at me.

I dial Luka again. “Luka, please. I’m begging you, pick up. I need to talk. I need—”

Anger surges and I disconnect the call. I’m alone, and the only person who can help me deal with this is me. Have I learned nothing? Everyone leaves. Gram. Sofu. Mom—

In the end, you can only rely on you.

I drag on running gear, lace my shoes, fill a small water bottle and tuck it into the holster at my waist. I’m moving on autopilot, not thinking, just doing.

I don’t usually—ever—run in the afternoons. I don’t run on Sundays. But this isn’t just any Sunday afternoon.

Richelle is dead. Richelle is dead. Richelle is dead.

The thought feels both immediate and distant at the same time. I stare at her picture on the screen and somewhere buried underneath my pain is the calm, cold voice of reason. I need to hide my tracks. The game can’t bleed into real life; Luka made that very clear.

At least this small thing I can control.

I stand up and walk over to my computer, double-check that I was set to private browsing, then close the window. I hit Reset. And then I say a silent word of thanks to Carly, who’s always trying to make certain that her multitude of brothers can’t find out what sites she’s been to. She’s the one who told me that my operating system could cache entries, even when I’m set to private browsing. And she’s the one who taught me the command to clear it. Not that I’ve ever needed it before, but she was insistent that one never knew when something like this would come in handy.

I type the command: Terminal: dscacheutil—flushcache.

All evidence wiped clean.

“Good-bye, Richelle,” I whisper.

I feel like a robot as I lock the front door, then run down the driveway. My music. I forgot it. I spin toward the house but can’t face going back inside. I spin back toward the road and slam into something hard. Hands close on my upper arms, steadying me. My head jerks back, I look up a good six inches, and my breath locks in my chest.

“Hey,” Jackson says.

CHAPTER NINE

I RUN. JACKSON RUNS BESIDE ME. WE DON’T TALK. WE DON’T even look at each other. No, that’s not quite true. I sneak sidelong glances, not trusting myself to speak yet.

He’s not wearing the aviator shades anymore. He’s switched them out for a pair of wraparound Oakleys, black on black, the lenses so dark that I wonder how he can see through them even in the sunlight.

We’ve done a mile before I ask, “What are you doing here?”

“Running.”

“Just once, can you be something other than an asshole?” I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to hurt anyone as much as I want to hurt Jackson Tate in that moment. I imagine punching him in the head.

“You want to punch me in the head,” he says, and when I stop dead and turn to stare at him, he shakes his head. “No, I can’t read your—”

“Mind,” I finish for him. “So you’ve said. More than once, I think. I’m not sure I believe you. After all, I could hear you in my mind. What’s to say you can’t hear me in yours?”

“Me. I’m saying it. And I’m telling you the truth.”

“The truth? Would you recognize it if it bit you on the ass?”

He smiles a little but says nothing.

I sigh. “Why are you here, Jackson?”

“I’m here for you, Miki. To try and help you figure things out.”

My breath catches, then rushes in to fill my lungs. “Only if I ask the right questions.”