I guess it’s fitting that I’m passing this way. One more reminder of what we did before I abandon this place.

  I pedal harder, and harder, and I’m wondering if I can outrun this snow cloud. Go faster than the police, and the others, the weather . . . my life. I’m feeling so energized for the first time in more than a week and I don’t think I ever need to sleep again.

  My phone buzzes.

  I’m tempted not to break my rhythm and look, but it could be Grayson again and maybe it’s best if I make up some lie so they don’t suspect I’m leaving. If it lengthens my head start, I’ll take it.

  I lift a hand off the grips and reach for my pocket, which makes one of the loose backpack straps start to slip off my arm. I reach back to try to grab it and—

  “Crap!”

  The front wheel turns and I’m—

  Bam! Crrunnccch.

  I hear it. I feel it!

  “Oh no, oh no, oh no . . .”

  In my shoulder. In my arm. Not pain . . . the feeling before pain.

  Blood in my mouth. Snowy dirt in my teeth. A tree up against me.

  My headlamp? Dead.

  It’s so black. So dark out here.

  “Ohhhh . . .”

  The pain comes. Searing. Biting.

  I reach with my left arm to touch my right arm. I feel a bump.

  Bone.

  GRAYSON

  MY HAND IS BLEEDING. The sugarhouse is a fucking mess. I have no idea where that came from.

  Okay, that isn’t true. I know exactly where that came from. There’s no trusting anyone or anything in this situation. Especially Meeka. She kept pushing the Gus angle, and when we had him where we wanted him, she goes and . . . sets him free?

  If she can’t see how fucked up that is it’s only because she’s too busy staring at my hand.

  I swing it behind my back, and I can hear the blood splash against the fire door and sizzle.

  Szzzzz . . .

  “Gray,” she says. “Calm down, please. You’re scaring me.”

  “This whole fucking situation is scaring me and I don’t know who or what or anything to believe,” I say, and now I’m crying. I can’t believe it, but I can’t stop. I’m blubbering.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she tells me. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  She moves and I reach to grab her. Fuck. I still have that goddamn horseshoe in my hand. My eyes lock onto it. One side of the aluminum is twisted and dented from my freak-out. Bloody too. In the dim firelight, the blood is maroon, almost purple.

  I must be staring at it for longer than I realize, because the sound of the door slamming shut breaks me out of a daze. Meeka is gone and I’m alone.

  I don’t follow her. Because what am I going to do? Try to bring her back here? Kidnap her? She might as well enjoy the freedom she has for as long as she has it. Who knows how long that will be, the way things are going.

  I move to the window. No sign of Holly or Gus, but I do see Meeka climbing into her car. Headlights on and engine on and she’s gone.

  My sleeve is rough on my face as I wipe away the tears. I’m not sure I’ve ever cried this much, at least not since I was a kid. To calm down, I sit on a bench and I take in the damage I caused.

  I broke a lot of shit. Some sugaring equipment, which Dad will rake me over the coals for, but mostly it’s my pieces. A coyote. A raccoon. The fucking stallion. All busted to hell. I destroyed hours of work in, like, one minute. Maybe less.

  There’s a water jug under the bench and I pick it up and pour it over my hand and the horseshoe, washing blood onto the floor. My knuckles are more scraped than cut, but the blood is still coming. Like groundwater or oil, seeping up through the earth. I let it come.

  I try to think like Cole. What’s his play? Did he actually want us to see the coordinates on Gus’s phone? Is he baiting us into a trap?

  When we were at the trailer on Sunday, Meeka talked about all his gadgets and games. Motion detectors and all that. Maybe he’s got something set up that will shoot a—

  No, it’s probably not that complicated. It never is. He’s waiting somewhere with a weapon. It’s as simple as that. We tried to kill him. We buried him! Why wouldn’t he bring us somewhere quiet and do to us what we tried to do to him? Then he and Gus can celebrate. Dance on our bones. Now that’s revenge.

  Well, I’m not going out like that. I pour water over my hand again. I wipe those last fucking tears from my face. I grab my horseshoe and I head outside.

  LOGAN

  I’M BROKEN.

  I’m bloody and broken and my head is ringing. I could have a concussion, but that’s the least of my worries.

  My arm hurts so much. I try not to look at it, at the bulge of broken bone. It hasn’t pierced the skin, but it almost has. If it does, I might faint. My bike’s front rim is bent. Even if I could use both my arms, I couldn’t bend it back. The darkness is thick and there’s no way I could ride out of here.

  The only things that feel okay are my legs. I can walk. But the pain in my arm is so extreme that I can only get a few paces before I have to lean against a tree and catch my breath. Still, I can walk. That’s a start.

  The headlamp is smashed and I’m using its elastic as a sling. It barely works, so I’m also using my left hand to hold my right arm. Anything to fight the pain. Even gravity is killing me.

  There’s no one—darkness and snow, that’s it. I’ve abandoned my original route and I’m heading for the Malvern Loop. I reach the dirt parking lot and it’s empty, with no tire tracks in the snow.

  There aren’t many houses along this stretch. I’m guessing most people are in for the night. There might not be a car for a while. The plows will come eventually, but it’s getting colder. So very cold.

  I sit down with my back to a tree, the snow collecting on my legs. I rest my throbbing arm in my lap and the flakes fall on it too. Maybe they’ll numb it. I need something, anything.

  This is the spot where Cole died. In a puddle, with us watching. It’s so serene now. No one would ever know. There are so many places in the world that must look beautiful but were sites of horrible tragedies. Obvious places like Mount Everest and the Grand Canyon, but also flower-filled fields in the Alps and quiet beaches in Mexico and—

  I check my phone—the screen is smashed, but I can make out the message.

  It’s from Esther.

  Grayson lives on Parker Hill, right? What number?

  HOLLY

  “STOP IT!” a voice yells, and I feel hands on my shoulders.

  I also feel a rib cage on my foot.

  I’m kicking him. I’m stomping and kicking the ever living shit out of Gus Drummond. I can’t stop, even as the hands yank me away.

  “What are you doing?” the voice asks, and now I’ve got a face to go with it: Esther Green’s nauseatingly adorable mug.

  She pulls me off Gus. I push her away. And now we’re both standing in the middle of the road, in the middle of the tepid light that’s cast by some busted-up and idling van.

  “You don’t know!” I shout. “You have no idea what I’ve had to do!”

  She’s having none of it. The disgust on her face is palpable. “Get a friggin’ grip and stand back,” she says, and she rushes over to tend to Gus.

  He’s bent double on the road, hands protecting his crotch. I don’t see any blood, but I can’t guarantee I didn’t break any of his ribs. I don’t know how many times I kicked him. One time would be more than I’ve ever kicked anyone on purpose. Which is surprising, considering I have two annoying little brothers.

  As I watch Esther whisper “It’s going to be okay” to Gus, I remember that they know each other. And they know each other well. They’re both in hack club together, so if I think for a second that I can talk my way out of this, I’m mistaken. She will listen to him, and only him.

  Which means it’s time to run. I turn tail, and that’s when I spot Meeka’s BMW in the distance. But it’s not heading our way. In other words, she’s not going toward town. She’s headed toward the Malvern Loop, which means she’s going home. Without me.

  I want to text her to ask her to pick me up and get me away from what I’ve done, but obviously she has no interest in me right now. Is Grayson with her? Somehow, I doubt it. He’s as pissed and dangerous as I am. And she’s the one who got us all riled up about Gus in the first place. Now look at us.

  Now look at him.

  I don’t run, because I’m compelled to check on Gus. Out of sympathy? No. Out of a morbid desire to see how bad it is, how much worse I’ve made things for myself.

  He’s . . . okay. Good enough to be limping toward the van. That is, with Esther propping him up on her shoulder.

  “We don’t have room for another passenger,” a voice says, and someone climbs out from the driver’s side of the van. It’s a guy with dreadlocks. A white guy.

  “This is my friend,” Esther tells the guy. “And he clearly needs help, Tweety.”

  Tweety, who looks like a Tweety—all floppy-clothed and twitchy—gives me the once-over.

  “And what about Abby Wambach over here?” he says.

  Esther doesn’t respond, simply tosses me another look of disgust. I’d love to snap back with something cruel, about how she wishes she had my life. But I can’t. I won’t. Instead, I stand here frozen by the realization that I don’t have anywhere to run to.

  “Don’t you move a muscle,” Esther finally says to me. “I’m calling the cops, you psycho.”

  “The hell you are,” Tweety responds as he rushes up to her. “No cops, no way. Bring the little man to the ER after the deal is done. Or else you’re not making your ten percent.”

  If there was a deal presented at some point, then I’m not aware of it. But I certainly appreciate Tweety’s “no cops, no way” position.

  “It was an assault,” Esther tells him. “We can’t turn a blind eye to that.”

  Gus is climbing into the passenger side of the van and he hasn’t said anything yet. He clearly wants to get out of here, which isn’t surprising. But he isn’t chiming in about the police.

  “Listen, man,” Tweety says, and he puts his hands on Esther’s shoulders.

  Esther immediately pulls away from him and says, “No, I’m asking you to listen, man. Gus needs our help.”

  “Does he?” Tweety asks. “I mean, does he really? We haven’t even asked this lady what’s up. Maybe this is, like, a self-defense situation.”

  Tweety’s eyes are pleading with me to cry wolf, and maybe I should. Maybe that’s the solution. Because if I cast some doubt on Gus’s character, then who’s going to believe him when he tells them what went on here this evening?

  But no, I can’t do it. Lies dig more holes, and I’ve got too many holes already to cover up.

  “There’s been . . . a misunderstanding,” I say. “I made a mistake.”

  “Pretty big friggin’ mistake,” Esther says.

  “Which we can talk about in a while,” Tweety tells her. “After the deal is done. And check it out. Maybe it’ll be done sooner rather than later.”

  A set of headlights approach, and for a moment I hope Meeka has turned around to come get me. But no, it’s Grayson in his Jeep.

  “What the hell is this?” he asks as he jumps down. He moves toward us, wincing as he pulls gloves over his hands. His face is red, and when he gets closer, I see his eyes are too. He scans the surroundings. Trying to figure this all out. Trying to find Gus.

  Before anyone can say anything else, Tweety is hounding Grayson. “You must be Mr. Hobbs. I’m angling for a lil’ tête-à-tête, my man.”

  “Excuse me?” Grayson asks.

  “It’s a classy way of saying we’re having a sit-down,” Tweety explains. “It’s French.”

  “Oh, in that case,” Grayson says with a groan. “But I don’t have time to sit down. Just tell me what the hell you want from me.”

  “The kid gets down to bidness,” Tweety says. “I like it.”

  Esther puts up a hand. “Let me preface things first. The only reason I came here is I promised to make an introduction. I tried to message you on Facebook, Gray, but you didn’t respond. So here I am, doing as I promised. Grayson, this is Tweety.”

  “Tweety as in tweet tweet like a bird?” Grayson asks.

  “Yeah, man, and this bird’s got something that’s gonna make your wings flap,” Tweety says. “Gonna make us all fly.”

  Then he laughs a horrid laugh. It sounds like he has a dying rodent in his throat.

  Is this, like . . . a drug deal? Is this how drug deals go? Grayson does a lot of idiotic things, but drug deals? I’ve never even heard him mention pot, and that’s basically legal.

  Esther still has her hand up. “I’d like the record to show that Tweety is talking about maple syrup.”

  “What else would you talk about outside a sugar shack?” Tweety says, and he points up the hill to where smoke swirls from the chimney and snow whites out the green metal roof.

  “Sugarhouse,” Grayson corrects him, but he’s not looking at him. He’s trying to get a look at Gus, whose head is poking up from the passenger side of the van. It’s an old van, with manual locks. Gus pushes his lock down.

  “You’re trying to buy maple syrup?” I ask Tweety.

  “You can pick up a gallon at the Mercantile tomorrow,” Grayson tells him. “They always have our stuff. We don’t sell wholesale to customers.”

  Tweety picks his teeth with a fingernail and says, “I’m not buying, friend. I’m selling.”

  Grayson’s brow is as furrowed as a brow can get. A skier could catch some serious air off it. “Not sure you know how this works. We make the syrup. We don’t buy it. This isn’t a middleman situation.”

  “Why make it, when you can get it cheap?” Tweety says. “Name a price that would make it worth your while.”

  “So what, you, like, stole a few gallons from the grocery store and you want me to resell it for you?” Grayson asks.

  Of all the things I’ve been a witness to in the last two weeks, I would not have guessed this. But I’m hoping Grayson throws the guy some cash so he’ll look the other way about what I did.

  “We’ve got more than a few gallons, my man,” Tweety says.

  “How much more?” Grayson asks.

  Another laugh from Tweety, which is so, so gross. “Three hundred. Give or take. Six fifty-five-gallon plastic barrels worth. Each mostly full.”

  “Wait . . . how much?” Grayson asks.

  “Three hundie gallons of Quebecoise gold, my friend,” Tweety says as he circles to the back of the van. “Clean and untraceable, all ready to get up in them flapjacks.”

  I can’t help it. I start cracking up. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so weird. And I’m so scared. My laughing, of course, pisses Esther off.

  She sighs. And glares. And heads toward the van. “Final thing I have to say is this: I’m outta here. Grayson heard the pitch, and so I’ve fulfilled my end of the deal. But there is a kid—a friend—who needs my help. I’m giving it to him. This ridiculousness can wait for another time.”

  Esther climbs into the driver’s side of the van to check on Gus. I move closer, trying to stay in the mirror’s blind spot. I press my ear against the side of the van so I can hear what he says to her. But I can’t hear anything until Tweety opens the back doors of the vehicle. That’s when Gus asks Esther a question.

  “Can you drive me to Cole Weston’s?”

  GRAYSON

  THEY REALLY HAVE three hundred gallons of the shit. This Tweety guy is showing us these huge plastic barrels weighing his van down so much that the bumper is almost scraping the ground. The van is a total pile. Rust up to its roof. I’m surprised it made the trip here.

  “Retail market for a gallon of syrup is about fifty bucks,” Tweety says. “Three hundred times fifty is fifteen thousand dollars. It’s worth even more than that if you split it up into pints. But of course you know this. Here’s what you don’t know. I’ll let you have it all for the low, low price of six thousand. Which puts six hundred bucks in your pal Esther’s pocket for her finder’s fee. Everyone’s happy. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy.”

  I don’t know all the financials of the family business, but it actually doesn’t seem like a bad deal. If the syrup is 100 percent real, then we could have it in containers and ready to ship by the end of the week. Even if the stuff is stolen, and I’m betting it is, there would be no way of tracking it. Can’t microchip syrup.

  “Not interested,” I tell him, and I slam the van doors shut. It may be a good deal, but I’m not about to stack more shit onto my life.

  “Oh, come on, man,” Tweety says, and he puts his hand on his chest like he’s doing the Pledge of Allegiance. “I know you don’t know me from Adam, but you know Esther. She can vouch. And she’s making a few bucks on the deal.”

  Esther doesn’t vouch. She stays in the van. Everyone knows her family doesn’t have much cash, and a few hundred dollars would probably make a difference. While I wish I could set her up with that, this isn’t the time.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “If you still have some in the summer, let me know. Besides, I bet you’d be able to find someone else to take it off your hands for even more than six thousand.”

  Tweety is swaying, hands in pockets. “Reason I came to Esther to help make an introduction is because I’d already made the rounds. No luck.”

  “Wish I had better news for you, but no luck here either,” I say.

  Tweety seems like a chill dude, so it hits me by surprise when his face gets all nasty and he raises his fists to his bony chest. “What the fuck, man?” he says. “I’m giving you the deal of a lifetime.”