they’d hold out a phone, dial 911, let it ring—
let it say what is the nature of your emergency—
watch him collapse and lie and say he did it, all tears and relief, because a weak scared boy like Porter would rather hide in prison for the rest of his worthless life than see the wolves circling him the way they circled Connor on the roof—
“But he was already dead,” says Mads. “I could see it in his eyes. He backed up and gunned it so hard Summer barely cleared out of the way and he went around that curve straight onto the freeway and—”
She doesn’t need to finish.
“Jenny and Summer left. I parked higher up and waited until they cleared off the road. They took the truck driver out in an ambulance. Porter’s dead.”
The little knife of air spins back out of my lungs.
Porter is dead.
I’m almost disappointed. I knew he’d never dare crawl back to the pack that was ready to let Mack dole out justice with a dirty knife. He’d cave. He’d take the phone and tell the police he killed Duncan all on his own. Plead insanity. Believe it. Wonder about texts he didn’t remember and birds I couldn’t see. Remember Connor’s empty eyes and the rough red letters: Who’s next?
Remember that he knew too much.
Remember the guilt.
Remember the fear.
He’d confess so well he’d make the tabloids. Hide behind iron bars, safe from the pack and from himself if he did do it—
—and from whoever really did it if he didn’t.
Dead someday. Probably not soon enough, but soon. And tortured until then.
But I never thought he’d die today, without confessing.
It leaves me feeling nothing at all.
Mads says, “That’s it.”
I say, “Good.”
We hang up. I pick up my clothes. They’re almost dry and absolutely clean.
I dress in the bathroom where Mack and I stood together covered in Duncan’s blood. Smooth my hair and put on enough makeup to look as innocence-pretty as I need to look, but not too perfect for a lip-bitingly brave girl who wakes up in a house from a horror film. Trail through the room, looking for anything out of place. Leave the bed unmade and slept-in. Wipe the dried blood off the sink. Slide the bookcase over the stained-dark spot where Mack sat trembling.
When everything is spotless I slip back out. The baby-faced cop nods, sicker than before. Duncan’s door is open now, leaking shadows—
—and a man in worn gray steps out.
He says, eyes on me, “What’s she doing up here?”
The baby-faced cop stammers and the man in gray waves him away. The detective, the one who stood at the back of the chapel for Connor’s service and shook dead Duncan’s hand. “Your name?” he asks. His voice sheds gravel and blame.
“Jade Khanjara.” I give him the same drawn smile I gave the rest of them downstairs. “If you have any questions, you’ll need to speak with my attorney. Ji-Hwan Kim.”
The detective’s eyes fade grayer when I say Jenny’s father’s name. He hates me the way he hates all of them: haughty rich boys and their numb mindless girls, untouchable behind defense teams only the guilty can afford. “Jade Khanjara,” he says. “Good lawyer your parents have.”
“My parents would do anything to keep me safe,” I say with a quaver that matches the girl he thinks I am. A girl like Lilia, ghostly and gone.
He nods. Hating me still, but toothless, because I’m just a girl.
“I’ll go,” I say, and I smile innocent again, and I pull the door shut—
—and his eyes lock onto the space just above my hand.
I shouldn’t look, but I do.
There on Mack’s door is a streak of dried blood, grasping toward the handle, one long drip trailing down to the floor.
I look up again and his eyes are back on mine. Hungrier now. “Miss Khanjara,” he says. “Who slept in that room last night?”
“I did,” I tell him, and my gaze darts away on purpose. Behind him, the baby-faced baby-cop shifts another step away from Duncan’s door. The smell of blood floats out so strong it almost makes me dizzy.
“Only you?” asks the man in gray.
Duncan is dead and his blood is in my lungs and I want to stay here and savor it until he rots to bone.
“Miss Khanjara,” the detective says. “Was there anyone with you last night?”
My lips pull at a smile. I hide it with a shuddering breath and one hand brushing at the corner of my eyes. “Just—a boy.”
“Name?”
I shudder-breathe again. “He didn’t do anything. He was with me.”
He says, “His name, Miss Khanjara.”
Duncan’s blood curls against my skin and my hair and my teeth. I see Mack with his knife, killing for me—
Mack in his bed, mine—
Mack in the dark, whispering betrayal: You shouldn’t have let him kiss you.
I smile sweet and fragile. I say, “Andrew Mack.”
Sunset
We meet at Mads’s on Saturday afternoon. Jenny and Summer and Mads and me.
I still haven’t slept.
They’re waiting for me when I drive through the gate. Standing in line in front of the door. My shoes are black arrows on the short bright grass, pointing the way to where we’ll breathe our secrets to life.
We go to the training room like always. Everything shines lemon-fresh.
Jenny swings herself up into the boxing ring and ducks under the ropes. She grabs Mads’s brother’s gloves and hides her hands inside. “Damn, it’s dark,” she says, and she shadowboxes the ghost blocking the light from the windows.
“You said it would storm,” says Summer, watching Jenny with enough longing in her eyes that it almost makes up for the strange heavy clouds blotting out the sun.
Jenny grins and throws three more punches: right-left-right.
“That’s not a storm now,” says Mads. She’s right. Last night was thunder and lightning and rain. Today the clouds are still and sagging. Hanging like the stinging haze in August the year the wildfires burned so close to the city that men stood on Mads’s roof three hours past midnight drowning it with water. “That’s smoke.”
“There’s no fire,” says Summer. She jumps up to join Jenny, clawed grace.
I say, “There is.”
“God, so dramatic,” says Jenny. “SoCal girls. It rains once and you think it’s the fucking apocalypse.” She swings at Summer but Summer slips past her, dancer-light. Her dress flares out and her necklace catches the only sunbeam in the room and throws it onto the wall. She hooks one arm around Jenny’s neck, but Jenny twists fast and suddenly they’re face-to-face.
They stay frozen for just long enough that it means what Summer wants it to mean—
—but then they spin away, exactly at the same time, and drop against the ropes on opposite sides of the ring. Mads and I climb up, too. We sit so each of us takes one side of the ring around the dim square of light in the middle.
“So,” says Summer, still breathing quick. “Murderess.”
I bow my head, but I can’t keep the smile from playing along my lips.
“Look at you,” says Jenny. She’s all shining ecstasy. “You love it. You fucking psychopath.”