“Ditto,” Meeka says.

  “We’ve been working on Grayson, however,” Holly says.

  “Civilizing him,” Meeka says.

  Please. Another bunch of bullshit. But I see what they’re doing, and it might even be working. Gus smiles.

  “Is that true?” he asks me. “Are you civilized now?”

  Having the girls on his side has boosted his confidence and I don’t like being the butt of his joke, but I’m not falling into the trap of getting all worked up about it. I shrug like it’s no big deal. “All I can say is that I’m sorry. I was emotional yesterday. Took it out on you.”

  “But you looked at the Cavalry?” he asks me. “You saw where it all started?”

  I nod.

  He nods.

  “I should go back,” he says.

  “Oh no,” Meeka pleads. “But then you’ll miss the party.”

  “What party?” he asks.

  “It was Holly’s last game,” Meeka says. “We’re having a few cocktails. Private party.”

  “But you’re welcome to join us,” Holly says. “Our way of paying you back . . . for the misunderstanding.”

  His eyes don’t move from the girls’ faces. “It’s a school night,” he says.

  “That’s what makes it fuuuuun,” Meeka says.

  I have absolutely nothing to add to this. If the girls can’t convince him to sit, then I’m not about to try.

  “I appreciate the invite,” he says, then he points over his shoulder with his thumb. “But homework awaits.”

  He’s lying. He’s dressed like he was about to go somewhere. Not that the lie proves anything. It’s the sort of lie we all tell every single day, but it’s still suspicious. Where was he going?

  He turns back to the house, and right when I think we’ve lost him, Holly jumps up, gets out of the front seat, and says, “Excuse me, Gus. I wanna switch seats with Grayson before we leave. Give the caveman a bit more leg room up front.”

  Again with the abuse, but I deal, follow her lead, get up and out, circle around the car to the front seat.

  Right away, Gus’s face changes. “You’re sitting in the back?” he asks Holly.

  As she slips in, she pats the seat. “Come on. Anyone who’s anyone will be at the party. That includes you.”

  Gus looks at his house, looks at me, looks at his phone, looks down the road. Then he says, “Fuck it, right?”

  The way he says “fuck it” is like he’s never sworn before, but Meeka echoes him.

  “Fuck it!” she says.

  “Fuck it,” Holly adds.

  “Yeah, fuck it,” I finish up.

  And then, like that, Gus is in the car, in the back, with Holly.

  I’m not sure where Meeka plans on taking us, but I’m making a suggestion. A place where I feel comfortable and safe. Where I can control this madness, and maybe even pull Logan back into the mix. Never thought I’d say this, but I could use him on my side.

  I shield my phone with my hand as I type out a text that I don’t want the girls to see. Then I tell them, “To the sugarhouse.”

  LOGAN

  “ARE YOU EXCITED?” Dad asks me.

  “Sure,” I say, though I don’t know what we’re talking about.

  “Good,” he replies. “You look it.”

  If being absolutely terrified that you’re going to unravel at any moment looks like excitement, then I must look excited. I got home a few minutes ago and I’ve been standing at the kitchen counter, tapping my foot on the cabinet and eyeing the driveway through the window, waiting for . . . I don’t know what.

  Something not good.

  Because I just got a text from Grayson. It said:

  The fuck? A cop? Keep quiet and get your ass to the sugarhouse and all will be forgiven—we need to talk and I need your help. Girls got Gus Drummond with us. Onto something big.

  I keep looking back at the words, hoping they’ll disappear. I’m surprised I haven’t fainted. They must already know about Gus. But they probably don’t understand, or empathize, like I do. Things have gone from really bad to entirely terrible.

  Dad walked in a few seconds ago and he’s all proud smiles. He’s wearing his pajamas already, which he slipped on after an extra-long day at the office. Right now, he’s standing next to me, mixing himself a rum and Coke.

  “I can’t say this enough, but I was so impressed by how you handled yourself with Senator Barnes on Saturday,” he tells me as he takes a test sip. It isn’t strong enough for him, so he adds another splash of rum.

  I squeak out a “Thank you.”

  “Lots of work still to be done, right?” he says. “I have a feeling Logan’s Heroes is only getting started. Speaking of. How’d your little encounter go?”

  Wait. He doesn’t mean the police officer, does he? Or . . . ?

  “My . . . my . . . my . . . ?”

  Dad slides his glass from hand to hand across the granite countertop—like he’s playing tennis with his cocktail—and says, “With the girl. Emily?”

  “Oh, you mean Esther?”

  “Right, right. Old-lady name.”

  “It’s not an old-lady name.”

  Dad nods. Then he walks over to the cabinet and takes down a bag of almonds. He drops a few in his hand, then slides the bag across the counter to me. He says, “My grandma’s best friend was named Esther. They played canasta. Trust me, it’s an old-lady name.”

  It’s a beautiful name, for a lovely girl who broke my heart. That’s what I want to tell him, but instead I grab a few almonds and say, “She’s a good person.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Dad says. “Is she the adopted one?”

  I don’t put the almonds in my mouth. I rattle them in my hand like loose change. “No, that’s Meeka,” I say. “Esther is more . . . down on her luck.”

  “Does she have a business that Logan’s Heroes can help out?”

  She should. Esther has the potential to start a tech company and make enough money to do exactly what she wants, namely leave this town and start fresh. In fact, if I gave her some of the Logan’s Heroes funds, she’d probably create a billion-dollar behemoth and become a—

  That’s when it hits me, a notion so absolutely invigorating.

  Esther doesn’t need Logan’s Heroes. She’s bound to find her way on her own, without my help, as she’s already made abundantly clear. But what about me? What if I used the money? What if I got out of here? Because I’m the one who’s truly suffering. And isn’t that the point of Logan’s Heroes? To help out people in their time of need?

  I cashed out the Indiegogo over a week ago. All that money should be in the bank by now, ready to be withdrawn. All I’d have to do is take it and then . . . go.

  I’ve got a passport. That’s enough to get me into Mexico. I’ll have fifty-eight thousand dollars to work with. How long would that last in Mexico? I’m guessing years. I could start a new life there. Maybe even an NGO. Or farther south, in Argentina, where people look more like me. I take Spanish. I bet I could get a fake passport in Mexico for extra cheap and then move on to Argentina. Once the authorities come looking for me, they’ll never be able to find me. Because I’ll be a new person.

  But I’d have to go now, before it all comes completely apart. They already have Gus. There’s no saving that kid. I can only save myself.

  This can work. This will work.

  “Esther is helping me with some IT,” I tell Dad, which is essentially the truth. Then I say, “And I actually have an early morning meeting with her tomorrow,” which is essentially a lie.

  He points at me and makes a clicking sound with his mouth, then winks, which isn’t helping my nerves right now. I keep talking.

  “I should go to bed. I’ll probably be gone before you leave for work.”

  He takes the almonds back, grabs another handful, and tosses it in his mouth. He pulls his phone out of his pajama pocket—he’s never without it because he’s obsessed with the fitness app that counts his steps—and sets it on the counter as he chews. He taps away at it for a few seconds, sips his drink, and taps away a few seconds more.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He raises his drink and says, “Making a note to remember this day. Tuesday, November the Eighth, Two Thousand and Sixteen.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the day I toasted my son,” he says. “The man.”

  I have nothing to toast with, so I tap my knuckles against his glass. He gets a kick out of it. He smiles and sips, lowers his drink, then walks into the living room to watch TV with Mom.

  “My son, the man . . .” he says, his voice trailing off.

  My hand is clenched into a fist. I’ve been squeezing on to those almonds. I open my hand to find they’ve left indentations all over my palm. It looks like I have scales.

  HOLLY

  I WORRY ABOUT LOGAN. Worry, worry, worry. How could I not? He stole the Heart. I saw it. He had it. There in his back seat. And even though I don’t know exactly what was going on with that police officer, I can guess.

  It was a confession. An exchange. A deal. Maybe Logan stopped by the restaurant to check if we were still there. Then he called the police and arranged a rendezvous along the road. To turn us in. The traitor.

  Good thing we left. But before long, the police will show up here at Grayson’s sugarhouse. They’ll see that Gus is our hostage. And then what?

  Not that Gus knows he’s our hostage. We haven’t explained that unfortunate reality quite yet. For now, he thinks we’re only hanging out, celebrating. And we’re doing a pretty good job selling that reality. On the outside, everything is casual. On the inside? Another story. We have to get this solved right now, though. Of course, the others are taking their sweet time.

  Meeka is poking around, examining the sugaring equipment. “You’re gonna have to tell us how to make maple syrup someday. Always good to know a trade.”

  “What’s to tell?” Grayson says. “Tap the trees right on the cusp of spring when the nights are cold and the days are mild. Drain the sap into tanks. Get some of the water out by putting the sap in the RO machine.”

  “RO machine?”

  “Reverse osmosis,” he says, and he points to some contraption made of tubes and cylinders. “You plan on becoming competition or something?”

  She snorts.

  Gus is sitting on a bench near the window, and his feet don’t touch the ground. He’s tapping his heels against the wood behind him. He’s obviously nervous, so I smile at him.

  Which prompts him to smile back and ask, “Are we getting our drink on, or is everyone watchin’ their carbs?”

  God, he’s trying so hard to sound cool and it simply isn’t working. The more I watch him, the more I’m sure he’s hiding something. Or someone. Namely, Cole.

  Grayson reaches behind a stack of boxes and pulls out a bottle of gin. He holds it by the neck and points it at Gus.

  “You first,” Gus says.

  “Why not?” Grayson replies, and he unscrews the top. He takes a big swig and I can see he’s successfully fighting the urge to wince. When he’s done, he thrusts it toward Gus again, but Meeka intercepts it. She takes an even bigger swig. And definitely winces.

  She looks at me. I shake my head, because no thank you. Gin is so not my thing; it tastes like how I imagine pine tree air fresheners would taste. Besides, someone needs to keep their head on straight.

  The bottle finally ends up in Gus’s hands and he sips the tiniest of sips.

  “Come on,” Meeka says. “You can do better than that.”

  Gus gives me a sideways glance and says, “She’s not drinking.”

  “She’s going to be driving you home later,” I say.

  “You let her drive your fancy car?” Gus asks Meeka.

  Meeka shrugs. “We’re all friends here. We share. I trust her.”

  A creepy little smile curls up on Gus’s face, and he says, “Maybe you shouldn’t.” Then he takes another swig, this time a bigger one. It hits him hard—his face tightens like it’s in a sandstorm—and that pleases me. Because, really, what the hell was that?

  “Why shouldn’t she trust me, Gus?” I ask.

  He gulps and breathes and says, “Because you’re you.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  He hands the bottle back to Grayson and replies, “You’re a win-at-all-costs sort of person. That’s a good thing.”

  He’s damn right it’s a good thing. “But you don’t trust me because of that?”

  He shrugs. “A lot of times I don’t trust myself.”

  “Cheers to that,” Grayson says as he takes another swig.

  Meeka has made her way over to the firebox, which is what Grayson’s family uses to heat the vast quantities of sap they turn into maple syrup. It’s wood-fired—in other words, old-school—but that’s part of their gimmick. In March, tourists will show up to watch sugaring demonstrations. The more authentic, the better. My parents still bring Oran and Carter for “Sugar on Snow” days, though I’m no longer obliged to tag along.

  “Can we get this thing going?” Meeka asks. “It’s chilly as fuck.”

  Grayson sets the bottle down and grabs a cardboard tube full of long matches. He unsheathes one and he opens the door to the firebox.

  “Filled it with paper, kindling, and wood this morning, in case I wanted to work out here tonight. This is a lot more fun, though, huh?” he says, the comment directed at Gus.

  When Gus doesn’t respond, Grayson sparks the match. Then he bends over, cupping the flame, before dipping it onto a knot of newspaper.

  The fire bursts to life.

  “I’m not stupid, you know,” Gus finally says.

  No one responds right away. Grayson simply shuts the door to the firebox and steps back from it. There’s a glass window on the front, so we can all see it’s already raging. But Grayson isn’t watching the flames. He’s staring at Gus.

  Meeka, on the other hand, is crouching down next to the glass, warming her hands. She smells like oranges. I noticed it earlier, but in here, with the fresh air coming through the cracks in the wall, it smells even stronger. That and the smell of smoke remind me that winter is around the corner. There’s also the snow, of course. Through the window I can see the flakes coming faster. I know some had been forecast, but no one thought it would stick. A couple of inches have built up already. Probably more on the way.

  “We know you’re not stupid, Gus,” Meeka finally says. “Quite the opposite, in fact.”

  “So why exactly am I here?” he says. “It’s not really about a party, is it? Or an apology?”

  “No,” Meeka admits.

  “It’s about that meme, right?” he asks.

  “It is,” she says.

  And I want to get it all out there. I want to ask, Where’s Cole? Where’s he’s hiding? What’s his plan? But I’m also curious to hear how Gus spins things.

  I once saw an interview with a documentary filmmaker. He said his subjects would reveal themselves a lot more when he didn’t ask them questions. They gave themselves up when he gave them silence. And they felt the need to fill the silence.

  So I give Gus silence.

  And he fills it.

  “Cole started it,” he says. “He posted the picture on the Cavalry. Just like all the other pictures he posts.”

  “See, we don’t know about any other pictures, because that site doesn’t work anymore,” Grayson says.

  Gus nods, like he knows that already. Then he says, “Pictures of you. I figured you’d catch on at some point. Cole is always posting pictures of you on the Cavalry. A steady stream. He’s hoping they’ll inspire memes. This was the first one that actually worked.”

  “And where did he get these pictures?” Meeka asks.

  Gus pauses. He surveys the room and our faces. “He steals them from Logan.”

  “And how do you know that?” Grayson asks.

  “I helped him,” Gus answers, but he doesn’t sound so sheepish anymore. He sounds proud.

  And things are fitting together for me. “You created GOTCHYA?”

  Gus nods a big nod. “It only worked on Logan, but that’s all Cole cared about. I created everything for Cole. The programs. The site. His beacons.”

  “Beacons?” I ask.

  Instead of telling us what he means by that, Gus looks down at his phone for a moment. Then he looks around the room, as if he’s expecting someone to pop out at any moment.

  “Where is Cole right now?” he asks.

  LOGAN

  COLE IS DEAD.

  Gus is the Boyatee and the Boyatee knows Cole is dead.

  The police have seen the Heart.

  The others have seen me talking to the police and they’re going after Gus.

  Everything and everyone are closing in.

  But I have money. Thank god for that. Because it’s time to run.

  I’m sitting on my bed. I have my backpack loaded with my passport and a few days’ worth of clothes. An account summary from TD Bank is on my laptop screen. The grand total is $58,481. It would be a crime to withdraw the funds and use them for my own purposes, but in the grand scheme of crimes I’ve already committed, it’s relatively minor.

  I send a text to my parents: Early to bed, early to rise. Getting picked up by Esther before dawn to work on LH stuff. See you tomorrow at dinner.

  Two identical responses ping back: Sleep tight. Love you.

  I try not to think about how this might be the only communication I have with them in the next few months—maybe even years if there’s a lot of heat on my back. Instead, I concentrate on getting out the door. I slip the Heart into my backpack, because I can’t leave it here. Then I grab my Marmot puffer and a headlamp, and I sneak from my room to the stairway, which leads directly to the garage.