4

I hurried to my locker before the bell rang.

Head down, I strode quickly down the hall with my arms crossed tightly over my chest. I’d never be described as outgoing, but that morning I was aiming for invisible.

One thing about me: I don’t make friends easily. Ability to Trust seems to be a prerequisite for lasting relationships, and I’m usually short on that count. I rarely share things about myself, and that self-imposed isolation has consequences.

Being honest, it’s probably more than just the murders. I know I see the world differently than others. I can be aloof. And at Fire Lake High School—where acceptance of quirks is always in short supply—that lands you on the outside looking in.

I’d become comfortable as an outcast. Relished it, almost.

So, of course, that morning I got cornered by the people I least wanted to see.

“Hey, Melinda!” Ethan called out, strolling down the hall in his letterman’s jacket. He had close-cut blond hair and a sharp-nosed face that was gorgeous until you realized what a prick he was. His small mouth was bent in a smile. He loved using my full name, because I hated it. A handful of kids followed on his heels.

My gaze flicked from face to face. Ethan. Sarah Harden, and her cheerleading BFF Jessica Cale. The Nolan twins, with their flaming red hair. Noah Livingston. Charlie Bell, acne scars and all. Toby Albertsson.

A group I would charitably describe as Worst-Case Scenario.

I’d known Ethan since third grade, and we’d never gotten along. The others were okay individually—like it or not, we’d grown up in a giant puppy pile our whole lives—but they could be ugly when forming a mob. Which they were doing right now.

Ethan leaned against the locker next to mine. The others fanned out with varying degrees of interest. Sarah and Jessica barely spared me a glance, chattering nervously about the latest Announcement predictions. A school-wide beauty contest would rank them one and two, though they’d knife each other over who got top billing.

Noah hung back, scrolling his phone. A handsome boy with light brown hair and green eyes, he rarely spoke around me, or much at all. His father owned the ski resort on the northern slopes and was the richest man in town. The other four boys, however—Chris and Mike Nolan, Charlie, and Toby—gave me their undivided attention.

“Can I help you, Ethan?” In as neutral a tone as I could manage.

“I was just wondering about your disaster preparedness.” His ice-blue eyes attempted an earnest look. “Is the trailer park ready for an Anvil strike?”

At mention of the asteroid, a wave of apprehension swept through the group—a subtle, dancing poltergeist of fear. I noticed little signs, things that most people might not pick up on but to me were practically shouts. Chris Nolan’s eyelids tightened, while his brother shuffled his feet. Charlie’s knuckles whitened on the textbook he was carrying. Sarah faltered in her gossiping, a hand shooting up to rake her strawberry-blond hair.

“Ready as anywhere,” I replied dully, closing my locker. “Since it doesn’t matter where the thing hits.”

Toby snorted. Chris nodded, as if I’d scored a point.

“Mobile homes aren’t really built for sturdiness,” Ethan said matter-of-factly, toying with a nearby lock. “One good thing is, you won’t lose much if it gets compacted.”

Heat rose to my face. I glanced at Noah, who was frowning at his Apple Watch. Not joining in, but not lifting a finger to help me, either.

My gaze dropped. Why look to him? Noah was good-looking— tall and wiry, with the build of a swimmer, and sporting the best car, clothes, and lifestyle of anyone in Fire Lake—but he never took a side on anything. Or even much interest, as far as I could tell.

Yet something about him always stuck in my brain. Maybe it was sharing a birthday. All those times we were forced to stand side by side in elementary school, listening to the other kids mumble that lame song. Celebrating a day I’d come to dread.

Fire Lake High was the only upper school in town, with just 220 students. The fault lines were mostly about money and sports. Pretty girls could cheerlead a path to popularity, of course. A quarter of the school’s parents employed the rest, a fact no one ever forgot. The fissures began appearing in middle school and never healed.

“Thanks for your concern,” I said calmly, pushing through the circle. “It never occurred to me that trailers aren’t built to survive asteroid impacts.”

Ethan smiled as I retreated. “On the other hand, you could tow your place inside a cave or something. For safekeeping.”

His joke drew a few chuckles, but I wasn’t worth the trouble. Ethan allowed me to escape down the hall and turned away.

Then a voice rang out. “Of course, your place is probably much safer.”

Tack was standing beside the door to first period. Ethan shot him an annoyed look. “Obviously, Thumbtack.” Ethan’s father owned the town’s only grocery store, and they lived in swanky Hillside Gardens.

“Tack!” I tugged him toward the safety of class. “Don’t sta—”

“No, no! That’s not it.” Tack pulled free of my grasp, his voice carrying so that others stopped to listen. “You see, God always favors the drunk and stupid. And your dad is blessed on both counts. So the Fletcher home is practically a safe haven.”

Ethan blinked, his neck and cheeks flushing red. Then his face went still.

Sarah rolled her eyes. Jessica giggled, covering her mouth.

The bell rang, startling everyone.

“Catch ya later, E-Dawg.” Tack slipped through the door. Ethan stared at the empty space, then looked at me, as if I were guilty by association. His smirk returned. “Tell your friend he made a mistake.”

Inside the room, I scurried to where Tack was calmly arranging his things on the table we shared. The Nolan twins entered a beat later—Chris with a shoulder-length ponytail, Mike’s red hair cut short and spiked with gel. Chris was a chatterbox who loved stirring the pot, although he wasn’t a disaster by himself. Mike rarely spoke.

Chris chuckled, shaking his head as he sat. “You’re ballsy, kid. I’ll give you that much. But if I were you, I’d find a new route home after school.”

“Thanks, Mike,” Tack replied, knowing full well he was speaking to the other twin.

Chris snorted, unzipping his backpack. “Freaking death wish,” I heard him mutter.

I wheeled on Tack. “Why’d you do that? Ethan’s not gonna let it go.”

Tack was digging through his bag, seemingly unperturbed. “Because I felt like it. And screw Ethan, he’s a jackass. Maybe next time he’ll think before he yaps.”

“What he’s going to do is beat the crap out of you.”

Tack shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve taken worse.” Unconsciously, his hand rose to the bruise on his face. We both fell silent. Maybe Tack did have a death wish.

Then I couldn’t help but laugh. “You called his dad a stupid drunk.”

“I sure did.” Tack shot me an exhilarated glance. “He looked really mad, didn’t he? Chris is right, I’d better dig a tunnel out of here this afternoon.”

English passed uneventfully. At the bell, Tack fired out the door at warp speed. Our next class was directly across the hall, but no sense taking chances. I was following on his heels when my name boomed down the corridor.

“Min Wilder!”

I glanced left. Principal Myers was slowly emerging from the main office.

“Wonderful.” Under my breath, as our school’s fearless leader made his way toward me, his right knee locked and unbending, the result of a shrapnel wound he’d suffered in the first Iraq War. I would’ve hurried down to shorten the distance, but every student in Fire Lake knew you didn’t acknowledge the principal’s disability. Not unless you wanted a twenty-minute lecture on how little the injury affected him.

“Yes, Mr. Myers?”

“You have an appointment with Dr. Lowell today,” he said sternly, a burly, broad-shouldered man in his mid-sixties, with thinning gray hair framing a round face. He wore pleated gray pants and a plaid button-down every single day. Leaning on his cane, Myers scrutinized me over the rims of bronze-framed bifocals.

“Yes, I know, sir.”

He gave me a severe look. “Your special session is not canceled, despite all this Announcement hubbub and . . . and . . . whatnot. I was told to inform you of this specifically.”

A sigh escaped before I could stifle it. “Yes, Mr. Myers.”

“You had a birthday over the weekend, did you not?”

I stiffened in surprise. “I did.” Cautious. Why are you keeping track?

Myers eyed me closely, as if expecting me to say more. I had zero intention of doing so. “Well,” he said finally, his non-cane hand rising to scratch a wrinkled ear. “Okay, then. See to it you’re on time.”

“I will.” Dismissed, I beat a hasty retreat into second period.

Tack was sitting at his desk, twirling a pen in his fingers. “That looked fun. What’d the Big Man want?”

“Just a friendly reminder to visit my psychiatrist.” I collapsed into the seat beside him. We stuck together in our classes whenever possible.

“From our freaking principal. I hate this inbred town.”

I nodded, more disturbed than I was letting on. Myers often seemed interested in my therapy sessions, and this wasn’t the first time he’d delivered a message from Dr. Lowell. The connection didn’t feel right. And why did he ask about my birthday?

“You think he’ll try to go to college with us?” Tack asked.

An old joke, but I snorted anyway. Andrew E. Myers had been our principal-for-life, moving up through the system in lockstep with my class. The uncanny timing of his promotions meant I’d never had another administrator, despite attending three different schools.

Biology. Spanish. Then lunch. Tack wisely avoided the cafeteria, leaving me to eat by myself. Students bunched together in knots, whispering about the Announcement, each striving to outdo the last with how little they pretended to care.

But their laughter rang hollow, betrayed by tapping feet and dry-washed hands.

The afternoon proved more painful than the morning.

In Algebra II, Mr. Fumo assigned a worksheet we’d completed the week before, then spent the whole period refreshing his phone and glancing at the clock. In seventh period, Mrs. Cameron kept losing her place and repeating herself. After her third attempt to explain the siege of Acre, she gave up, blessed us all, and dismissed class.

I packed up quickly, hoping for a stealth sprint through the parking lot. I hadn’t seen Tack since math—our schedules had Gym and Health flip-flopped, and Tack couldn’t care less about European History, electing to take Home Economics instead.

But my hopes for a clean getaway were dashed. Exiting the main building, I heard laughter reverberate across the courtyard. A crowd was forming in the corner near the parking lot. Crap.

I sprinted over and wormed through the ring of onlookers. Ethan had levered one of Tack’s arms behind his back and was forcing his face down toward the concrete. Flailing, my friend fought to free himself, but he was giving up at least fifty pounds. Toby and Chris were grinning, egging Ethan on, while Jessica and other members of the cheerleading squad pretended to protest. Sarah watched impassively, seemed bored. Beyond the circle, Noah was leaning against a walkway post, eyes drifting. The more Tack struggled, the more the mob swelled.

“Ethan, let him go!”

He glanced at me and smiled. “Oh, hey, Melinda. Glad you’re here. Tack’s about to sing ‘Bad Blood’ for us, and you shouldn’t miss it.”

Seeing me watching, Tack thrashed twice as hard, his eyes narrowing to slits in a way I’d seen many times before. “Let me go, you douchebag! I’m warning you!”

“Or what?” Ethan asked with a lilt. “You said some nasty things about my family, so now we’re in a feud. I want you to sing about it. We all do, right?” Laughter erupted all around. Faces bore hungry expressions, as if seeking a violent release to the day’s unbearable tension. This was getting ugly fast.

Ethan yanked Tack’s arm higher, eliciting a painful yelp. “Have any more funny jokes, Thomas? I’d love to hear them. Or maybe you’re all tapped out for now.”

“That’s not what your mother said!” Tack kicked out a foot. Missed.

A low ooh rose from the spectators. Chris Nolan giggled. Toby danced and hooted.

Ethan’s eyes went flat.

Damn it, Tack.

I seized Ethan’s arm. Felt his muscles ripple. He looked down at my hand, then back up, blinking rapidly. For a split second, I wasn’t sure he recognized me.

“Take it easy! Tack’s just running his mouth, like always.”

Ethan shook his head, shrugging off my hand. He spun Tack around and grabbed him by the shirt, pulling him close. “You can’t talk to me like that, Thomas. Not ever.”

“Kiss my ass!” Tack’s head rocketed forward, catching Ethan across the nose.

Ethan’s hold loosened and Tack wriggled free.

But he didn’t run, the idiot. To everyone’s astonishment, Tack leapt at Ethan and swung.

Damn it, Tack.

Ethan blocked instinctively, then slugged Tack full in the face.

A second, louder ooh rose from the crowd.

Tack dropped to the ground like a boneless chicken breast.

“Stop!” I jumped to stand between Ethan and my friend. “That’s enough!”

Voices yelled for me to move. Chris and Toby were laughing, encouraging Ethan with cries of “Finish him!” and “There can only be one!”

Tack had pulled himself up against a post, hacking and spitting. “That all you got?” he wheezed, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, then calmly regarding a red smear on his wrist. “You hit like a bitch.”

“Don’t!” I shouted at Ethan, arms shooting wide. “He’s down! You won, okay?”

Ethan looked me in the eye. Blinked. Then he stepped around me and stomped on Tack’s hand. My friend howled as Ethan squatted down to eye level. “Ready to channel Taylor Swift, Thomas? Warm up that pretty voice.”

Hands balling into fists, I was about to do something stupid when a voice carried from beyond the circle. “Yo, Ethan!”

Ethan looked up, annoyed. He spotted Noah, who tapped his watch and pointed toward the parking lot. “Let’s get out of here, man. I’m starving.”

“But Tack hasn’t sung yet.”

Across the courtyard, a door swung open.

Principal Myers stepped outside. “What’s going on out here?”

The crowd dissolved like smoke, Ethan and his friends hustling away with the others. In moments, the only people left were me, Tack, and our principal.

Myers trudged over and stared down at Tack, frown lines creasing his forehead. “Bit off more than you could chew again, didn’t you, son?”

“Inner ear infection.” Tack rose unsteadily to his feet. “I fall down a lot.”

“Who did this?” Myers asked sharply.

Tack remained silent, eyes on his sneakers.

Myers grunted, then turned to me. “Ms. Wilder? Care to share who just pummeled Mr. Russo? Although I bet I can guess.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. This was Tack’s call.

“I see.” Myers removed his glasses, began cleaning them with a handkerchief. “Well, normally we’d all go to my office until I had this sorted out, but today is not a normal day. If things go well tonight . . . assuming we get good news . . .” He shook his head testily, as if unsure how to continue. “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

Myers pierced me with the glare of a disappointed father. “Can you see that Mr. Russo’s injuries are properly attended to? Without missing your appointment?”

“Of course.” I scooped up our packs. Tack straightened his clothes with exaggerated dignity and began limping toward the parking lot. Myers watched us for a long moment before heading back inside.

I caught up with Tack by the curb. “Hey!”

He halted with his back to me. I put a hand on his shoulder. Felt him tense. Ignoring the reaction, I gently but firmly spun him around. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“That I was going to get my ass kicked anyway, so I might as well take the first shot.”

“Well, mission accomplished. How’s the hand?”

He flexed his fingers painfully. “I don’t think anything broke. Hurts like hell, though. Got any Advil?”

I dug some from my bag, along with a package of tissues. As Tack downed three pills, I began dabbing his right eye, which was already swollen. His hand was a puffy mess.

Ethan had met my eye before delivering the stomp. That one was for me.

Inside, something snapped.

Ethan’s smirk. His casual violence.

Or maybe yesterday had been one murder too many.

Releasing Tack, I spotted Ethan’s Wrangler at the back of the parking lot, a dozen spots from the next closest vehicle. Everyone had fled on foot, probably down to the cafés on Main Street, intending to return for their cars after the smoke cleared.

We were all alone.

“Come on.” I hurried toward the Wrangler.

Tack followed, confusion plain on his face. “What? Why?”

After checking to make sure the coast was clear, I reached inside and pulled the gas tank release. Circling to the passenger side, I spotted an oily rag and a can of WD-40 on the floor of the backseat.

“What are you doing?” Tack whispered. “Ethan loves this Jeep, maybe physically.”

“He shouldn’t have stomped your hand.” I ripped the rag in two and doused the larger piece with oil. Then I unscrewed the gas cap and shoved it inside.

Tack’s eyes nearly popped from his skull. He ducked behind the hood, eyes darting with new intensity. “Holy crap, Min! This may be a little out of proportion.”

“So was crushing your fingers.” I tapped my lips, stymied, ignoring the voice of reason screaming inside my head. Then I spotted a book of matches in Ethan’s ashtray. It’s almost like he wants me to do it.

Beads of sweat rolled down my back. I lit a match, used it to ignite the smaller rag. The oil-soaked cloth caught easily, orange tendrils curling and twisting like greedy fingers. Pivoting carefully, I held the flames under the larger rag hanging from the gas tank.

Poof.

Tack was bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come on! We gotta bail!”

“Not too fast, though.” I rose, walked casually down the aisle. “Don’t attract attention.”

“Attention. Right.” He could barely keep from sprinting. “Wouldn’t want that.”

Thirty paces to the sidewalk. Ten more out of the parking lot. Roughly thirty seconds had passed, with no effect. As we crossed the street, I worried that my plan had failed and we’d have to go back and ditch the evidence.

A jarring boom. The ground shook. Glancing over my shoulder, I spotted a black plume billowing above the trees, angry shadows dancing just beneath.

Tack swallowed audibly. “Oh, man. We really did it this time. If Ethan ever finds out—”

“I almost hope he does.” Then I turned my back on the mounting inferno.

Here’s another thing about me.

I’m not afraid of much. Not after what I’ve been through.

And I forgive as little as I forget.

Hitching both our packs, I led Tack away down the street, my blood pumping mile-a-minute. Somewhere far off, a siren began to wail.