The DUCK, DUCK, DUCK . . . GOOSE version of the meme is the most important one.

  Why?

  Because that version was posted by someone who goes by the name of Emperor Augustus.

  And who is Emperor Augustus?

  Well, he’s the meme-loving, hack-clubbing classics expert of our school, Augustus “Gus” Drummond.

  And who is Gus Drummond?

  He’s Cole’s old friend, of course. But he’s also Cole’s old enemy. Because Gus Drummond is the Boyatee.

  It’s not as crazy as it sounds, and I have the evidence to make the case. Starting with . . .

  1. The Boyatee video: The eyes of the Boyatee are Gus’s eyes, and your eyes are always your eyes. Even with colored contacts, you can’t hide that. I never noticed they were the same eyes because I’d only seen the video from afar, in the background, at Cole’s trailer. I never truly looked at it. Until today, and when I did, I saw Gus. A younger Gus, a chubbier Gus, a balder Gus, but Gus no less. The exact same eyes. Which brings us to . . .

  2. The Florida connection: According to Kameela Stokes’s email, the Boyatee goes to Plainview High with us. And according to Kameela Stokes’s article, the Boyatee lived in Florida, but left the state after his parents got a divorce. This describes Gus exactly. He moved to Vermont in sixth grade, with his mom and sister. No dad in the house. Once upon a time, I might’ve even known that Gus came from Florida, but have since forgotten it. After all, that was ages ago. It doesn’t matter what I knew then, because this is what I know now. I searched Augustus Drummond Florida and I found out that his father, Augustus Drummond Sr., lives in Kissimmee. That’s basically Disney World, where the Boyatee met Kameela Stokes. So now it’s time to map . . .

  3. The evolution: Let’s assume Gus made the video in fourth grade, when he was nine or ten. Then he lost some weight, grew out his hair, and ended up in Vermont two years later. Sixth grade, when I first met him. Maybe he still looked a bit like the Boyatee then, but no one would’ve noticed. It would be another three years until the Boyatee video went viral. Freshman year, when Gus and Cole were best friends, and a lot of our class had made it safely over the puberty hump. The boy in the video and the teen hanging out in Cole’s trailer would have been different species by that point. Therefore no one would make that connection, except maybe . . .

  4. Cole: He was Gus’s best friend. And he must have found the video. Or maybe Gus shared it with him. This also doesn’t matter. Cole must’ve betrayed his best friend, that’s the important point. I’m guessing he put the video on YouTube, Reddit, 4chan, everywhere he could think of. “Check out this stupid Boyatee,” he said, and it went viral. People ran with it, created their own versions, and that destroyed Gus’s well-fought and well-earned self-esteem, not to mention his friendship with Cole, so Gus wanted . . .

  5. Revenge: The flavor of the month, the year, and the century. But revenge takes time. A dish best served cold, right? Right? Right? So Gus joined the hack club and spent years learning some hacking skills. Esther even told me he was one of the best hackers in school. Talk about dedication! He got so good that he eventually hacked Cole’s computer, his little Heart thing, which maybe he planned to infect with a virus, or steal from, or, I don’t know, I’m not a genius at such treachery. Whatever his plans were, they changed as soon as he found my pics and videos in the Heart, the moment he watched our confession. And so what did Gus do? He took a screen cap of the video and created a meme: DUCK, DUCK, DUCK . . . GOOSE. He shared it at school and his version got lost in the sea of other versions and it drove us out of our minds and that . . . that . . . that brings us to now. And now is when someone like Holly would shout her . . .

  6. Objections: “No, Logan, no! You’re wrong, wrong, wrong! Why would Gus create the meme? How is the meme revenge against Cole? Cole is dead.” It seems like a good point, but it actually proves why I’m right, right, right. Because yes, Cole is dead. We did that! We saved Meeka, and ourselves, maybe dozens of people, and we gave the Boyatee the revenge he so desperately wanted, so what does he give us in return? He gives us . . . he gives us . . . he gives us . . .

  7. Duck, duck, goose: Yes! A children’s game. Of course! Because what’s the point of that game? To have your friends chase you as you try to join their circle. That’s what we’ve been doing—we’ve been chasing Gus!—and he wants to sit down and join our circle. The meme is his sly way of saying: “I know what you did, I like what you did, I won’t get you in trouble for what you did, I just want to be a part of it.”

  Wow. I’m out of breath just thinking about it. And as I stand here with the snow falling and my head buzzing, and as I watch my friends talk and eat their appetizers, I am ready to present my evidence. I am prepared to pull Cole’s Heart out of my backpack, lay it on the table, and explain, “We’ve got all we need now. And everything will be fine. We’ve got our goose. Thanks to me.”

  Except I know everything won’t be fine, because I know what type of people my friends really are.

  GRAYSON

  THAT CHATTY-ASS WAITRESS is finally far enough away that we can get back to business. I push the plate of un-appetizers away from me and say, “So . . . ?”

  “So,” Holly says. “Enlighten us, Gray. Who do you think Thedlom is?”

  “The Dank Lord of Memes,” I say.

  And the moment the words leave my mouth, Meeka cries, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

  “Wait, what are you talking about?” Holly says, because her ass isn’t as clever as she thinks she is.

  “The D-L-O-M,” I say. “The Dank Lord of Memes. It’s sort of a . . . what-do-you-call-it?”

  “Acronym,” Meeka says. “And I don’t like where this is going.”

  “Where’s it going?” Holly asks.

  “It was Our Old Friend’s avatar,” Meeka says. “His online handle.”

  “And what he used when he posted to the Cavalry,” I say.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Meeka says again.

  “What’s the Cavalry?” Holly asks.

  “Nothing anymore,” I say, and I hold up my phone, show them the page and the 404 Error.

  “Come on, Gray,” Meeka says. “You weren’t reading that trash, were you?”

  “You know the Cavalry?” I ask.

  “Of it,” she says, and she takes a bite of Brussels sprouts. “I mean, it’s whiny red-pill, Pepe the Frog, alt-right bullshit. Why would I give that the time of day?”

  “But how do you know about it?” I ask. “Because of him?”

  Meeka shrugs. “Sure. I kind of blocked it out. Tried to ignore that that whole part of his life even existed.”

  Holly stares at my phone and says, “So this Cavalry site is . . . ? Was . . . ?”

  “Nothing special,” Meeka says. “There are hundreds of sites like it. Or thousands. Tens of thousands, probably.”

  “No,” I say. “This one is special. Because this is where it started. That’s where the pic first went up. Posted by . . .”

  “The Dank Lord of Memes?” Holly asks.

  “Bingo,” I say. “But the site’s been dead since yesterday. Like someone erased it.”

  “You said the Dank Lord of Memes was Our Old Friend, though,” Holly says. “And he posted the pic? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You’re tellin’ me,” I say.

  Then Holly leans forward, and her hair falls in front of her face as she whispers, “Especially since he’s been in contact with me.”

  Her tone makes it sound like it’s the worst thing she’s ever done. Okay, maybe second-worst.

  “Wait, what?” Meeka whispers back, but it’s a loud whisper, so it’s barely a whisper at all. “What did he say?”

  “Not much, but now I’m worried about something,” Holly says.

  Meeka lays the sarcasm on thick. “Oh, so now you’re worried?”

  Holly doesn’t bother with sarcasm. She’s totally serious when she leans forward and says, “Grayson. Tell us everything you know about this Dank Lord of Memes. Because now I’m worried that we might not have done . . . what we think we did.”

  LOGAN

  ANOTHER DEAD BODY. That’s the future we’re looking at. If I go in there and tell them about Gus, what will happen? At first, they’ll probably laugh at me. But then, when they see the evidence is undeniable, they’ll formulate a plan—Holly scheming, Grayson following orders, and Meeka sitting back and twiddling her thumbs.

  Their plan can only end one way. With Gus buried somewhere too.

  It’s written all over them, in how they talk and move. I can even see that right now from a distance. Grayson is gesturing wildly, undoubtedly telling some tall tale of his manliness. Holly has her fingers locked together and she’s watching him intently, sizing him up, waiting to pounce. Meeka seems embarrassed. She’s picking at her food and looking around the restaurant. I don’t blame her.

  If I go in there, they’ll take the Heart from me, and they’ll go after Gus. That’s the type of people they are. With Cole, it was justified, so I helped. But going after Gus is not about the greater good. It’s selfish.

  I need to warn him. I should call him, or text him, or . . . no. He probably won’t respond because he’s smarter than that. He doesn’t want to leave a digital trail either. He hasn’t turned us in and that means he could be implicated too. An accessory after the fact is what they call it. I learned that in law class last year.

  The best plan is to go to his house. I know where it is. I’ll go there, we’ll chat, and we’ll figure this out. I’ll save another life. As for the others, they’ll—

  Oh crap.

  HOLLY

  “THAT’S LOGAN,” I say, standing up.

  “Where?” Grayson asks, standing too.

  I point to the back window and the parking lot, where a shadowy figure is tossing a backpack into a Hyundai and climbing into the driver’s seat. There’s a thin layer of snow on the windows and he doesn’t even bother to brush it off. He starts the engine, engages the wipers, and drives away.

  “Logan was here?” Meeka asks.

  “And Logan left,” I say as I watch his car disappear down the road.

  I wonder what scared him off. I also have to wonder what the hell Grayson was thinking. He’s just finished telling us a gut-churning tale about cornering Gus Drummond in the shop and threatening him with a table saw. Absolutely ridiculous. I’m surprised SWAT teams didn’t kick down our doors last night after such foolishness.

  Silver lining: That stupid encounter led him to the Cavalry and to the posts by the Dank Lord of Memes. Those posts are gone now, which is more than a little suspicious. But their very existence confirms what I’ve been thinking.

  I sit back down and motion for Grayson to sit too. “Let’s forget about Logan for a second and focus on you. You don’t think Gus is behind this, do you?”

  “I do not,” Grayson says as he takes his seat.

  “Um, I do,” Meeka says, raising her hand. It’s an accusation she was pushing throughout Grayson’s story and he wasn’t buying it. Neither was I, at least not her version, where Gus is a mastermind who’s cooked up some elaborate scheme to mess with our heads. He’s got more of a henchman vibe.

  “Let’s forget about Gus for a second too,” I say. “Because I have a question for Grayson.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did you check for a pulse?”

  Grayson’s right eyebrow twitches, almost imperceptibly, but I notice. He’s worried.

  “Check for a pulse on . . . ?”

  “You put your hand in front of his nose,” I say. “I saw it. That’s the only way you checked to see if he was . . . still with us. But people can hold their breath, you know? For at least a minute.”

  Instead of looking offended, Grayson looks worried. And his response—“What are you saying?”—isn’t laden with swears, which means he’s not being defensive. He realizes I’m right. And I keep on being right.

  “There was a green tarp in his trailer. Like the one we used. It was folded up under a camp chair. Logan saw it. I noticed that you saw it too,” I say to Meeka.

  “Yeah, so?” Meeka says. “He had a tarp. Lots of people have those tarps. So what?”

  “The Thule box,” I go on. “It’s like six hundred liters. There would be enough air in there to breathe for at least a few hours.”

  Now it’s Meeka who stands up. “This is crazy. You’re not suggesting . . . ?”

  Then I’m back on my feet again. “If someone brought some heavy equipment out there, they could’ve dug up that box in ten minutes.”

  Grayson remains seated. “Wait . . . so you’re actually saying . . . ?”

  “She’s being insane,” Meeka tells him. “How would someone know where to dig him up?”

  Grayson puts his head in his hands and mutters, “Oh shit. His phone.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “We were so focused on our phones that we didn’t take his phone,” he says.

  News to me. Jesus. Jesus! “We buried him with his phone?”

  Grayson nods. “Wasn’t in the stuff I burned. Never saw you or Logan take it from him.”

  “Perfect plan, huh?” Meeka says.

  My instinct is to start pacing, because that’s what I do when I’m figuring things out. But we’re drawing enough attention to ourselves as it is. I put my hands on the table to hold myself in place and calmly say, “Okay, so here’s what happened. Our Old Friend figured out our plan when he saw something on Logan’s stupid GOTCHYA account. He faked drinking the whiskey, or swapped it out with something that’d make him puke. Fooled us, in other words. He loosened the tarp while he was in the Thule. And when he was underground, he called someone. Or maybe that person did the ‘Find My iPhone’ thing, then came and dug him up.”

  “So who’s the digger?” Grayson asks.

  “Well, Logan told me he saw something on the night we did it,” I say. “I didn’t believe it at the time, but now it seems plausible. He thinks he saw a kid. Crossing the road. In the woods. Near your house.”

  “Kids don’t hang out in the woods near my house at night,” Meeka says.

  “True, but what about a smaller teenager who might be mistaken for a kid?” I say. “What about Gus? I think we have to find him. Because that’s where you might be on the right track, Meeka. If Our Old Friend needed help, then who better than His Old—”

  Ding.

  There’s a notification on someone’s phone that stops me midsentence. It’s a bell like mine, so I check my phone thinking it might be Logan. Nope. Grayson doesn’t check his, because his notifications don’t sound like that—they’re more of a chime.

  When Meeka steals a glance at her phone, she flinches. Literally jumps back from it.

  “What the hell’s that about?” Grayson asks.

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .” Meeka starts to say. But rather than listen to her explain, I grab her wrist and turn the phone so I can see it.

  There’s a text.

  From Cole.

  DID YOU STEAL MY HEART? GOOD THING I’VE GOT ANOTHER.

  * * *

  • • •

  “We can’t make any mistakes,” Logan said, his hands crossed over his lap, trying to cover himself. “We might not trust the police to fix this, but we can surely trust them to investigate.”

  We were in the barn. On a blanket. Empty vodka bottle. A circle of naked bodies. Logan’s. Grayson’s. Meeka’s. Mine. Hair. Nipples. Flesh, flushed.

  I was the first to take my clothes off. Why? Because I was scared. Does that make sense? I was scared, so I did something else that was scary. Like when you’re in pain and you pinch yourself to redirect the pain somewhere else. Or maybe it’s like when you’re in pain and you want others to feel the pain too. So you don’t feel alone. Does that make more sense?

  Our nakedness wasn’t sexual. I got a glimpse at the guys before they sat down. I saw what was happening. Zilch.

  “We can, and will, get away with this,” I assured Logan. “We have to be smart, though.”

  “Shoot him, burn him, dump his ashes in the Winooski,” Grayson said.

  “That’s a bit barbaric, don’t you think?” I said.

  “You do realize what we’re talking about here, right?” Grayson said. His hands were strategically placed too. That’s all guys need to cover up, strategically placed hands. They have it easier in terms of nudity too, don’t they?

  “What about drugs?” I asked. “Like an OD.”

  “Cole doesn’t do drugs,” Meeka said.

  “Then we slip it into something,” Logan said. “He loves his Wild Turkey, right?”

  “And once it’s over, we bury him,” I added. “Gentle. Respectful.”

  “I don’t give two shits about gentleness or respect,” Grayson said. “Quick. Easy. Destroy all the evidence.”

  “I prefer the other way,” I said. “It’s clean. I want to keep things clean. I might be able to get something we can use. There’s . . . stuff I can take from my mom’s office without anyone noticing.”

  This was the easiest way to convince them, but it wasn’t exactly the truth. The truth was that I already had some “stuff.” Fentanyl. Enough to take down an elephant. I wasn’t going to tell them where I got it, though. Because Cole gave it to me. After Teri died.

  “Not sure of the best way to dispose of this stuff, without it contaminating the groundwater,” Cole said. “And I’m not going to the cops with it. Maybe your mom has some use for it with her practice. I sure as hell don’t want it around anymore.”

  My mom definitely didn’t have any use for it, but I held on to it. In case I got injured this season. I was willing to self-medicate if it meant I wouldn’t have a doctor—or my parents—telling me I couldn’t go for the record.