I yank my journal out of my backpack. Writing makes me feel strong. It helps me dig through the rubble in my head—bits and pieces of memories that don’t fit together yet. I want to be strong enough to stand up to my dad and prove him wrong.

Strong enough to face the past and remember.

For Noah and me, one moment changed everything. It took his life and altered mine. Broke his body and my memory.

I’ve asked myself a thousand times if Noah would still be alive if either of us had done just one thing differently.

If we had left the house a half hour earlier or later.

If we had picked a different club or danced to one more song.

If I had gone out to the parking lot with him.

Playing what if will drive you crazy, but I can’t help it.

Abel still plays it when he thinks about the night his dad OD’d. What if his father hadn’t been alone? What if someone had called an ambulance when it happened? Would Tommy Ryder still be alive?

Those questions won’t bring back the people we loved.

But figuring out who killed Noah might bring me back. The answer is somewhere inside me.

I just need a way to drag it out.

An old episode of VH1’S Behind the Music flashes through my mind—the one about Tommy Ryder. Abel made me watch it with him a dozen times.

An interviewer with teased hair sits across from a leather-clad Tommy and asks the rock legend about his writing process. Tommy talks about the lists of words and phrases he makes, free association, and unlocking his subconscious. “The ideas are already in there, man. I’ve just gotta listen.”

Maybe I just have to listen, too?

It’s worth a try.

I open my journal and flip to a clean page, picturing the inside of the club just before I went out to the parking lot.

White mist from the smoke machine smells like strawberries and burnt matches.

The deejay in a room with a big window above the dance floor.

A bottle breaking.

Couples making out.

“Titanium” starts playing.

The soles of my wedges stick to the floor.

I have a headache and I want to leave.

The velvety texture of the black fabric in front of the door leading outside and static electricity in my hair.

Cars. Streetlights. The parking lot.

Cool air and the stench of stale beer.

More sticky stuff on the ground. My soles make a suction cup noise every time I take a step.

Where is he?

Noah’s baby-blue polo shirt.

A figure. Slim but muscular, average height, wearing untied work boots and dark jeans.

Noah sees me and subtly shakes his head.

A fist to Noah’s face, and my pulse races.

I duck between two cars and peer around the back. Liquid seeps through the knees of my jeans.

A voice that doesn’t belong to Noah. “We can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.”

“Screw you,” Noah says.

The next thing I see is a fist.

Noah’s head snaps back.

Blood—thick and viscous, like red maple syrup.

Noah’s body falling …

I hear his killer’s voice in the fuzzy way you hear things when there’s water in your ears or a pillow over your head.

We can do this the easy way, the hard way, or my way.

My hand shakes and I drop the pen.

During the last flashback, I didn’t remember the conversation between Noah and his attacker. Am I imagining it?

No.… What the killer said was too specific, and I’ve never heard anyone say that before.

Realization settles over me, and my next thought seems impossible. After all this time—all the pain, the guilt, and the what-ifs—I remembered something.

CHAPTER 30

DEAD-END DREAMS

Mornings are the hardest. I fall asleep and Marco takes over my dreams. The first moments after I wake up—when my lids are still heavy—those dreams feel real. Dad isn’t investigating Marco, and he isn’t stealing cars. Spending time with Marco doesn’t require sneaking around, and no one is watching our every move.

Then reality sets in, and I have another day of lying and hiding ahead of me.

Thanks to Lex, the next week takes on a predictable pattern. She picks me up early to help me with chemistry before school—at least that’s the story we tell Dad. Marco meets me in the basement near the Shop classroom, and we steal some time alone before Chief shows up. Then we spend another twenty minutes in the Shop room, where chemistry tutoring takes place, along with hand holding under the worktable.

Chief isn’t stupid. He knows Marco and I are together. He seems almost hopeful every time Marco shows me how to balance an equation, as if he thinks Marco is a step away from getting back on the AP track.

Being so close to Marco makes me desperate for a repeat performance of our make-out session in Lex’s pool house. I want to run my hands over his skin and feel his hands on mine.

It’s Friday, one week since Marco told me he loved me, and I finally remembered an important detail from the night Noah died. My heart and my mind are getting stronger. That’s the reason I haven’t shared my breakthrough with anyone yet. I need to see the killer’s face, and I’m close.

The steps creak above me, and my heart leaps. But instead of the sound of high-tops pounding the steps, these footfalls belong to someone moving more slowly. Chief rounds the corner of the landing a moment later. This morning he’s wearing a Pennzoil cap and a NASCAR jacket over his short-sleeved button-down. He spots me and adjusts his cap.

“Where’s your other half?” He walks past me and unlocks the door.

“He’s not here yet.” I fail at hiding my disappointment.

Chief puts a travel mug on his desk and thumbs through a stack of papers. I settle into my usual seat—the same place I sit during Shop class—and check my text messages.

Nothing.

Without Marco, my chemistry homework reads like a secret code. I draw circles in the margin of my paper. I hate the way we have to sneak around to spend time together. But the fact that he steals cars bothers me even more. I understand why he’s doing it, but I still think Marco should tell the police what he knows. If he’s so determined to save Deacon, they could go in together.

“Something bothering you?” Chief leans back in his chair and tugs on the bill of his hat. “You haven’t done much writing.”

I rub my forehead. “I know.”