Luckily, it never came to that.

  Poetically, it came this.

  We were going to kill Cole with the exact same drugs that killed his mom.

  “Why do you have to burn or bury him?” Meeka asked.

  “Um . . . so that no one knows,” Grayson said.

  “Yeah,” Logan said. “No body means no investigation. People won’t miss him.”

  “But if he ODs, then what does it matter?” Meeka asked. “This is all so stupid. Who cares if the police find him? He could be at home, like always. Slumped in front of his screens. They don’t know he didn’t touch the stuff. They’ll think he did it to himself.”

  It’s not a bad point, but it seems too simple. Simple usually means sloppy.

  “There are too many other factors involved,” I said. “It’s better if they can’t find a body. And burning can still leave evidence. Bone fragments in the firebox. Burial is the only option.”

  “Fair enough,” Grayson conceded.

  “Fair enough,” Logan echoed.

  And Meeka threw her hands up. “Fine. Then bury him on my property. At least he’ll be safe there.”

  We discussed more details. Timing. Cleanup. Meeka stayed quiet, mostly listened. It must have been overwhelming for her.

  After a while, she said, “Well, it sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

  Which meant it was time to go.

  LOGAN

  THEY’RE FOLLOWING ME. I know it.

  They saw me in the parking lot and now they’re after me.

  I shouldn’t go to Gus’s house now. That’ll implicate him. I should go home, pretend like nothing happened. I should check—

  Crap. I didn’t wipe off the back windshield and it’s covered in snow. I look in the back seat for my snow brush and that’s when I notice the Heart is sticking out of my overstuffed backpack. It’s almost as if it’s trying to crawl home to the trailer where it belongs.

  I turn away from it, focus on the road. I can’t pull over now. I have to keep driving.

  My headlights must be covered in snow, too, because they barely cut through the dark. I love snow, but I hate the dark. I can’t stand that it’s getting so dark so early. It was the end of daylight saving on Sunday, which is the absolute worst. What is it, seven o’clock? It might as well be midnight. Driving in the dark always makes me feel like I’m up to no good. Add snow to that and it also feels like I’m risking my life.

  The worst of my hallucinations seems to come when I’m anxious and it’s dark. That thing on my bed last night wasn’t real. I suspected it then and I know it now. But what about other things? Have I been hallucinating and not realizing it?

  The roadkill I drove past, which looked like a deer, was it there? Or was it conjured by my tired mind? The woman on her dimly lit porch up ahead, placing jack-o’-lanterns in a Hefty bag. Is she a real person? Do I know her? Do I know that house? I’ve driven this route so many times, but would I notice if there was a new house along it, a new house that looked old? I’d have to assume it had always been there, right, that it’s my memory that’s faulty, not the part of my brain that processes reality?

  As I turn onto Gregson Drive, there’s an explosion of red light that shines through the film of snow on the back windshield. At first, I think it’s a fire truck, but now I see blue as well, and since the fire station is only a mile or so away, I’m guessing it’s an ambulance.

  I pull to the side of the road, because that’s what you’re supposed to do, but the vehicle doesn’t pass me. It eases up behind me, and I check my side mirror, and that’s when I realize it’s not an ambulance or a fire truck.

  It’s a police car.

  Or is it?

  I stare at the windshield and take some deep breaths. Here we go. It’s not real. This is only my brain, messing with me. It’s—

  Tap tap tap.

  There’s a badge, rapping against my window, and a man looking down at me through a veil of snow. He’s smiling, which is weird, and now he’s motioning downward with the badge. I can’t read it, but it reflects the flashing light, which should mean it’s not some fake plastic novelty.

  I close my eyes and shake my head because I want this vision to go away. I don’t need this now. I don’t—

  “Window,” a muffled voice says. “Engine.”

  He’s still there when I open my eyes. And now I have to make a choice. Do I drive away? Or do I open the window and turn off the engine? If he isn’t real, then what’s the harm in staying? If he is real, then there’s plenty of harm in leaving.

  I open the window.

  “Engine,” he says, flashing the smile again, which is weirding me out more than anything. But maybe that’s because I’ve never been pulled over before.

  I turn off the engine and ask, “Do you need my license and registration?”

  He considers this and then finally says, “Not today. I already know who you are.”

  Really? Because I don’t recognize him. He’s young for the job—twenties, probably—and good-looking, with a square jawline and dark wavy hair, like a movie version of a police officer. If we had reported Cole to the police, we might’ve reported him to this guy. Assuming this guy is real.

  And what would this real guy have done? Cole was eighteen. He had his independence and his rights. The police officer might’ve told us, “Don’t worry, we’ll check your pal out,” but then what? He would’ve driven to Cole’s trailer? He would have asked Cole if he’d made the threats? Cole would’ve denied it. Even with a search warrant, the police officer wouldn’t have found anything. Then the next day Cole, drunk and angry, would’ve waited for Meeka somewhere, pulled out a gun and—

  Yeah. We ditched the idea of going to the police because you can’t trust the police, ever or anywhere. And I can’t trust this handsome fascist, this possible figment of my imagination, who’s breathing down my neck right now, telling me he knows me.

  “Well, I don’t know who you are or what you want,” I say, which is probably not the best tone to strike.

  It doesn’t seem to bother him. The smile stays intact as he says something way too ominous for my liking. “That’s okay. I know all about you. We all do.”

  “You all do?” I ask, and I must sound terrified because I feel terrified and I look at the back seat and my backpack and the Heart.

  His eyes follow mine and linger for a moment on the Heart, then turn back to me.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No, sir.”

  He raises his fingers to his mouth to pantomime smoking a joint.

  I shake my head.

  Smiles again. “Good. But do you know why I pulled you over?”

  “No, sir. Was I speeding? I don’t think I was speeding.”

  He shakes his head and says, “No, but you should really wipe the snow off your car. Visibility is bad enough out here.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m . . . tired.”

  “Working too hard?” he asks, and he puts a hand on the frame of the open window. The other hand pulls out a . . . thank God . . . a flashlight.

  “It’s been a long week.”

  “It’s Tuesday,” he says with a little laugh, and then drums his fingers on the door. “I’m not here to give you a ticket, Logan.”

  He does know me. He knows my name.

  “Okay.”

  “But I do want to advise you to be careful and get some rest. Also, I want to thank you.”

  “Okay.”

  I should ask what he’s thanking me for, but all I want to do is get this conversation over with and move along.

  Again, his eyes move to the back seat, where they land on my backpack and the Heart. He flicks on the flashlight to get a closer look. “Is all the important stuff on that?”

  I spit out an “Excuse me?” and it’s way louder than I intend.

  “The Strawberry,” he says.

  The what?

  This isn’t real, is it? This is my brain rebelling against my body. This is all a warped fantasy, a world of ghosts. Lack of sleep. Death all around. It’s taunting me. Destroying me. I have to touch him. I need to confirm that he’s not real. I reach my hand up, and—

  A car passes slowly behind him. The police officer turns to check it out, giving me a view of the passenger.

  It’s Holly.

  Oh no.

  No.

  Crap.

  It’s her, Holly. And there’s Meeka too. She’s driving. And Grayson in the back. I wasn’t imagining it. They were following me. And on their faces? Pure disappointment.

  The police officer watches as the BMW recedes into the swirls of snow up ahead, and I pull my hand down to my lap, where I can hold it with my other hand to hide the trembling.

  Okay. I saw them and they obviously saw me and the police officer. Unless I’m hallucinating them and the trees and the snow and everything else around me, that proves he’s real, doesn’t it? But this conversation doesn’t feel real. It feels like I should be driving away.

  “Can I go now?” I ask. “You don’t have a warrant, do you?”

  He cracks up and I immediately wish the words could go back into my mouth.

  “Kid,” he says between laughs. “Don’t worry so much. I was only admiring the Strawberry you got there. Rock-solid, but an expensive piece of equipment. I hope you’re not wasting all those Logan’s Heroes donations on a server.”

  He knows my name. He knows Logan’s Heroes. He said “thank you” earlier.

  Of course.

  “You read the article in the paper, didn’t you?” I ask.

  He nods and says, “It’s nice to see a young man focused on improving the world in tangible, achievable ways. Everyone at the station thinks so. And we don’t need young men like that messing themselves up by falling asleep at the wheel on a snowy night. Get home, Logan.”

  “I will,” I say, and I spark the ignition.

  He takes his hand off the window and says, “Hold up for a sec.”

  He steps away from the car and circles around to the back. He uses the sleeve of his jacket to wipe the snow off the back windshield. Then he gives the bumper a tap with his flashlight.

  “Keep up the good work,” he says.

  And I put the car in drive, and I drive, away from the police officer with snow swirling around him. Goodbye to the flashing and accusing lights. I keep my eyes on the road, on the future.

  GRAYSON

  THAT SON OF A BITCH.

  I don’t know why Logan is talking to that cop, and I don’t know what he’s telling him, but I can’t imagine it’s good for us.

  “Keep driving,” Holly says to Meeka. “Don’t look back.”

  “Logan isn’t stupid enough to say anything, is he?” I ask. I know the answer is Yes, he is that stupid, but I want someone to convince me not to trust my gut.

  “I saw it,” Holly says. “The Heart. In his back seat.”

  “You didn’t?” I say.

  “I did.”

  “This is so fucked,” I say.

  “None of this is making sense, none of it,” Meeka says, and I watch her eyes in the rearview. How freaked is she right now? As freaked as I am?

  We bailed on the restaurant a few minutes ago. Meeka slapped down a wad of cash that would more than cover the bill and tip, then we followed her to the BMW.

  That text from Cole said, DID YOU STEAL MY HEART? GOOD THING I’VE GOT ANOTHER.

  It still has us reeling. He’s alive! ALIVE! That motherfucker is living and breathing. The message confirms it. We each called Cole’s number, hoping he’d answer. But the calls went straight to voice mail. I figure it’s because he’s hoping to string us along a little more before revealing himself.

  Holly wants to go to the gravesite to confirm that the Thule has been dug up. She likes to tick all the boxes and prove, as always, that she’s right. Seems like a waste of time. The kid is clearly out there somewhere. I want to go to the trailer, because if he knows his shit is stolen, then that’s where he probably is. But Meeka wants to go to Gus’s house and talk to him, because it’s all about that kid for her.

  Meeka is driving, so she has the ultimate say.

  I crane my neck to see what Holly is doing on her phone. She’s got Twitter going.

  “Why the fuck are you tweeting right now?” I ask from the back.

  “I’m not tweeting,” she says. “Since he won’t answer his phone, I’m sending Cole a DM. If this is how he wants to play his game, I’ll play. But the game is over. Police are involved now. Time to make a deal. He won’t tell the police what we did, and we won’t tell the police what he was planning to do. Quid pro quo. We’ll all be back to square one.”

  Meeka cranks the wheel to turn down Garrison Street and at the same time she turns to Holly and says, “Cole is dead. Will you just accept that?”

  “Dead guys don’t DM,” Holly says, and I watch her type the same thing over and over again into a Twitter message:

  RED PILL RED PILL RED PILL . . .

  “Please listen to me,” Meeka says. “I don’t know who you’re messaging with, but it isn’t Cole. The key to everything is Gus. And we have to pick him up before the police talk to him.”

  I wouldn’t usually say this, but I’m with Holly. And here’s the reason. We checked the timestamp on the original DM that Holly got from Thedlom (aka the Dank Lord of Memes). It was sent while Gus and I were in the workshop. There’s no way he’s the person behind that Twitter account. Another flashing sign that Cole is very much alive. And still very dangerous.

  Where I don’t agree with Holly is on the visiting Gus front. She thinks it’s worthwhile to talk to him, so she’s okay with Meeka bringing us to his place. Someone helped Cole, and he seems to be a likely suspect. Seems. To her. But not to me. I was the only one in the shop with Gus and I could tell, like I can always tell, that he wasn’t giving me even an ounce of bullshit. Digging someone up in the woods? Please. The kid isn’t that fiendish.

  But what can I do? Meeka gets what she wants. Holly gets what she takes. And once again, I’m along for the ride.

  “How are we planning to get Gus to come with us?” Holly asks Meeka.

  And Meeka says, “Gray is gonna convince him.”

  That’s some bullshit.

  “I’m not convincing him of anything. If you think it’s so important, why don’t you do it?”

  “Because I’m not the one who owes the kid an apology,” Meeka says. “That’ll be your excuse for stopping by. Besides, he probably thinks you’re too stupid to really suspect him anymore.”

  Low blow, considering I’m the guy who found where the meme started, and I’m the guy who’s gotten us closer to the bottom of this than anyone.

  “He doesn’t think I’m stupid,” I say. “I had that little shit cornered, and I could tell he respected my strength and my smarts.”

  “He was playing you,” Meeka says. “So play him. Tell him we’re going to a party. To make up for what you did. See how he reacts.”

  “He’ll turn me down,” I say. “Then what?”

  “Then—” Meeka starts to say.

  And Holly fills in the blank. “You grab him.”

  “Fuck no.”

  “It might be our only choice,” Meeka says.

  “It might be your only choice,” I tell her. “Because I’m not saying shit. I’m not doing shit. Let’s just go to the trailer.”

  “No, we need Gus with us,” Meeka says.

  “We need Gus with us,” Holly echoes.

  I swear, if these two try to grab him, then things will get real bad real quick. But I’m not about to win this argument with words. My best option is to sit here and do nothing until I have to step in and handle shit. Bide my time.

  Meeka stops the car. The snow is coming down harder, so I open my window to get a better look at where we’re at. We’re parked in front of the town houses on Garrison Street, at the edge of the golf course. Seems nice enough, if that’s your idea of a home.

  This is where Gus lives and—wouldn’t you know it?—Gus is here right now. He’s stepping out onto the front porch of town house number three. He has a coat and boots on and he’s staring at his phone as he closes the door behind him.

  Meeka taps on the horn.

  BEEP!

  It makes me and Holly jump, but all it makes Gus do is put his hand to his forehead like a visor. “Hello?” he calls out as he steps off the porch.

  Holly opens her window, and yells, “Hey, Gus. Isn’t this the best luck? You’re here!”

  With his hand still on his forehead, he walks slowly toward the car. “Oh . . . it’s all three of you,” he says when he sees me. Disappointed? You bet.

  “Great to see you, Gus,” Holly says in her sunniest voice. It’s amazing how she can turn it on so fast.

  Meeka can too, and she leans over from the driver’s seat and flutters her eyelids. “We were out for a ride and Grayson mentioned that you two had a bit of a misunderstanding yesterday.”

  “About the meme,” Holly says.

  “That silly, stupid meme,” Meeka says with sigh.

  “I’m sorry things got so confused,” Holly says. “Can we make it up to you?”

  The two of them are a perfect team. Both so damn charming. I can’t compete, but I feel obliged to play along. Baiting him into the car is better than grabbing him, that’s for sure.

  “Hop on in, my man,” I say, and I flash him a thumbs-up, which is something I never do. Feels false down to the core.

  It isn’t surprising that he doesn’t bite. He waits, snow sticking on his shoulders, and then he says, “I’m . . . not so sure that’s something I want to do.”

  “And I don’t blame you,” Holly says.