GRAYSON

  IT ISN’T WORTH chasing after her. Like I could catch Holly anyway. She’s faster than most guys in school, and I’m not exactly a runner. Besides, it’s so dark that as soon as she was out of the Jeep, I lost sight of her.

  I drive on.

  I’m not noticing any cars on the side of the road. Or any other footprints near, or on, the road. It’s hard to say where those other prints came from. The rail trail? The lot where it happened?

  Goddammit. It was so stupid for Holly to go out there. So fucking reckless.

  But now that I’m alone I can think for a moment.

  Gus and the maple syrup gangsters are headed to the trailer. Is that where the coordinates lead? Is Gus going there to conspire with Cole?

  No. Because why would Gus need coordinates? He would already know where the trailer is. I think Gus is checking up on Cole, making sure he’s okay. He suspected something happened, and Holly opened her big mouth and basically confirmed it. Now Gus is truly scared shitless.

  He’s guilty. He’s innocent.

  He’s so fucking guilty! He’s so clearly innocent!

  What is wrong with me? Why do I keep flip-flopping with this kid? I mean, why can’t he just show us who he truly is? Like have horns on his head and hoofed feet? Or little angel wings? Why does he have to look so . . . weak?

  Because he is weak. And that’s why Cole is using him. Those coordinates are a trap meant for us. But Gus didn’t design the trap. He’s doesn’t even know about it. He’s a pawn. Cole has obviously been watching us, and he knows we’ve been hounding Gus. So he sent the kid a text, knowing we’d read it. But I don’t have the coordinates, so I’m not falling for that shit.

  Something is still missing, though. If it wasn’t Gus, then who dug Cole up?

  Well, I think I’ve figured it out.

  When I reach Meeka’s house, the first thing I see is the tractor, parked next to the barn. And the first thing I notice about the tractor is there’s a backhoe attachment on it. Perfect for digging.

  You’ve gotta be kidding me.

  The lights are on inside the house. Checking the driveway, I spot fresh tire tracks leading to Meeka’s closed garage. Her parents are on vacation, so that confirms it. Meeka is home. And she’s alone.

  Or is she?

  Now’s a crucial moment. I have to figure out my strategy. Do I storm in there and fire away with accusations? Is it you, Meeka? Did you drive out there with the tractor and dig Cole up? Did you have second thoughts about the plan? Is that what this is? Or do you just enjoy fucking with us?

  I could do that . . . but what if he’s in there with her, waiting for me? I’d have to get violent, wouldn’t I?

  Holly made me promise not to hurt Meeka, but that’s because she didn’t think Meeka was capable of being so devious. Please. Look at what we’ve done so far. Each and every one of us is devious as fuck and getting more devious by the minute. And the most devious among us are the smartest ones. Case in point: Meeka. Not that I want to hurt her. I wouldn’t hurt any woman. I’m just not sure what the best approach is.

  I need more time to figure shit out, so I loop around the driveway. I park next to the barn, hoping she hasn’t noticed me yet. I watch the house in the rearview.

  Too late. I’m already spotted.

  I notice her silhouette, still and framed in an upstairs window, both shoulders visible, as if she’s looking out. It’s flawless, but that’s the thing about silhouettes. They hide so much. And for the billionth time in the last year, I wonder about another why. Why Cole?

  Not why did she dig him up. I mean, why him?

  I know the chronology. Meeka cared about Teri, and when Teri died, it was natural for her to care about Teri’s broken-hearted son. But still, without sounding weepy and jealous and all why not me, I have to ask, out of curiosity: Why not me?

  I’ve always done fine with girls. No virgin here, that’s for sure. And I’ve been told I’m not bad-looking. Plus, Meeka likes me. Throughout this madness, I think the girl has trusted me even more than she trusts Holly. It would’ve made sense to at least hook up with me at some point, right? I’m a natural fit.

  But now? Never gonna happen.

  Her silhouette moves away from the window. Since I’ve been spotted, I figure what the hell, and I pull out my phone. I text her.

  Meet me in your barn. Alone.

  She texts back. No. I’m done.

  Done with what? With your game?

  ????

  Come to the barn.

  No. Come to the house. There are things I need to tell you. I can prove Cole isn’t alive. I’ll show you something.

  I don’t want to go into the house and into a trap. The barn feels safer. It’s also where this started, and so this is where we should finish it.

  Come to the barn.

  Her response isn’t as quick this time. Her silhouette appears in the window again. She’s there for a few moments. Then moves away.

  Where’s Holly?

  In the woods, with who the hell knows. The more I think about those footprints, the more I think they have to be Cole’s. Maybe he’s not in the house with Meeka. Maybe he’s returning to the scene of our crime. And the coordinates he sent to Gus? Maybe those are for the grave. That would get everyone’s attention.

  Goddammit. Why did I let Holly go out there alone?

  Change of plans.

  Stay put, I text to Meeka, because I can deal with her in a few minutes. I may not be Holly’s biggest fan, but I’m not about to hang her out to dry.

  I get out of the Jeep and jog to the barn. First thing I see when I pull the doors open is the dark shape of the Trans Am. How much is this car is worth? Twenty-five K? Fifty K? A hundred K? Knowing Meeka’s dad, he wouldn’t skimp on parts. And I’m no classic car expert, but I’m guessing this one’s a rare model. Why else would he put so much time into it?

  I flip on the lights, which hang from the ceiling by braided cords. The whole place is yellow now, like there’s sunshine pouring through the windows. The opposite of reality. There’s a ring of keys hanging from a peg on the back wall. I pull it down and look for the key that has John Deere etched on it. But I stop on the one for the Trans Am.

  There are two types of rich people: the type who keep everything locked and secure and the type who don’t give a shit if you steal from them because they can always buy more stuff. Meeka’s parents are the kind who don’t give a shit. Still, the man loves this car. It would break his heart if someone took it.

  Now, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m tempted to be that someone. Drive through the night without a destination in mind. See ya later, suckas. But that’s not who I am. I don’t run. This is home. I’m not even the type who’d take off for a few years and live in a city, only to come back when I’m married and ready to raise kids because I’m afraid to do it anywhere else. That’s not to say I’ll be here forever. But I’m never leaving only to get out. I need something to chase.

  I stop for a moment to catch my breath. Ever since I smashed up the sugarhouse, my heart has been on an absolute tear, seizing and shaking, and it hasn’t slowed down. I sit on the hood of the Trans Am and breathe deep.

  The barn smells . . . clean. Once upon a time, I’m sure it stank of manure and hay, but it’s been forever since this was a working farm. Meeka’s parents have held carnivals here, though. Real-deal carnivals with bouncy houses, hayrides, and petting zoos full of animals trucked in from actual farms. They were always fully sanitized and monetized, a way to raise cash for local charities. Food banks, addiction therapy, good shit like that. Tons of these organizations would fail without the Millers.

  For most of the year, the barn is basically a guesthouse. There’s a fridge and a sink. A futon in the corner. There’s a photo of Meeka’s mom, Sara, hung on one of the knotty walls. It’s one of those printed wraparound canvases. A winter shot. Sara is skiing in knee-deep powder in the backcountry. Her blond hair is fanning out from the back of her helmet and she’s smiling so fucking wide.

  I wonder what she’d think about how we tried to help her daughter. It’d be a safe bet to say she’d act horrified by what we did. But would she really be horrified? Every parent wants to protect their kids. And when they can’t do it themselves, they sure as hell want someone else to, right?

  Her dad would understand. Any dad would. There’s a picture of him too. His name is Mason Miller and it fits. Stubble-faced. Streaks of gray in his dark hair. Always in sunglasses. I know he’s a climber and ultramarathoner, but his ruggedness isn’t entirely authentic. Handsome, though. I’ll admit it, because all the girls think it. His picture is a summer shot. It’s from the reservoir and he’s smiling, wearing a T-shirt and board shorts. He’s sporting sunglasses, holding a beer in one hand, and in the other, a horseshoe he’s about to toss.

  A horseshoe.

  I reach into my pocket. My horseshoe is still there. Dented. Bloody. Lucky?

  I give it a squeeze.

  Then I search through the keys, find the John Deere one, and take it off the ring. I pocket it and hang the ring back on the peg. I flip off the lights and pull the doors shut and step back out into the snow.

  No more silhouette in the window or response from Meeka on my phone. I can deal with her later. As I walk past my Jeep, I stop to look in the back. The rifle is gone.

  HOLLY

  I’M MOVING AS FAST I CAN, my phone in an outstretched hand casting a bouncing light on my snowy path. The towel-wrapped rifle is over my shoulder. I feel like a soldier. And I don’t hate the feeling.

  A text arrives. It’s from Meeka. Where are you?

  I don’t answer, but it reminds me I’m glad I have the rifle. Grayson was definitely suspicious of Meeka, and I’m not sure what he’s willing to do. Because I’m not even sure what I’m willing to do. And I might have to do more awful things before the night is out.

  I keep moving, following the tracks.

  After a few minutes, I’m in the orchard, which means it’s not far to the wall. There are still a couple of wrinkled apples hanging on to the branches. They’ve survived the wind and frost all the way into November. I doubt they can hold on much longer. The snow will eventually bring them down. Or the freezing rain that’s inevitable this time of year. That’ll finish them off, leaving behind the icy fruit-shaped shells known as ghost apples.

  This is the first real snow of the year, so there’s no crunch of my footsteps on any icy stuff beneath. It’s all soft. Feathery. Silent. I bet there are people waxing their boards and skis, getting their skins ready to earn their first turns tomorrow morning. This is what many live for: fresh powder.

  Right now, I’m not among those people. My feet are freezing, and I pause to dig snow out of my sneakers. That’s when I notice drops of blood. I check myself to make sure I’m not hurt. Nope. It’s the person who made these prints who’s hurt. They say that injured animals are the most dangerous animals. I wonder if the same is true of people.

  I hold my phone in my mouth as I unwrap the rifle. I toss the towel to the side and I get a good grip on the weapon. I place the back of the stock firmly under my armpit. I raise the barrel and point it out in front of me, like I’ve seen people do in movies so many times before. I hold my phone against the front of the stock with my left hand. The light will follow wherever I point the barrel.

  I disengage the safety. I take a deep breath. I follow the footsteps.

  LOGAN

  THERE ARE BOYATEES EVERYWHERE. They’re identical. They’re dancing in a circle in the snow, like a cult or a coven, and they’re singing.

  Walk like a man, talk like a man, walk like a man, my son.

  It’s lovely. So I’m humming along as I sit . . . my back to the stone wall, my body . . . getting covered in flakes. No, I’m not walking like anything anymore.

  My legs are buried. My torso might be buried soon. For the moment, I feel . . . okay. I’m not sure if the pain is receding. Or if I’m numb to it.

  I’m at peace, possibly?

  Hypothermic, probably.

  My mind isn’t all gone. If it were, I might give in completely, accept this world around me as . . . real? I could live in a world like this. Or die in it.

  Cole is underground, only a few feet away. I’ll probably be joining him, sooner rather than later. Especially since Holly is pointing a rifle at me.

  “Logan?” she says as steps out of the trees, enveloped in a globe of light cast by her phone. The barrel of the gun is like an accusing finger.

  I wave my good arm. “Here to finish me off?” I ask, only half joking.

  She lowers the rifle and raises the light. “Of course not. Are you okay, Logan? Did someone do this to you? Is someone else here?”

  She checks the forest, head darting back and forth like she’s on the soccer field. I simply check in front of me. My boyatee friends have . . . escaped into the ether.

  I take as deep a breath as I can and say, “Sadly, no.”

  “What are you doing out here?” she asks.

  “Long story. You?”

  “Short story. I saw footprints and I followed.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not here to . . . to dig him up,” I say. I cradle my arm against my chest. I doubt I’ll ever have the strength to dig . . . or do anything with it again.

  Holly sets down the rifle—Grayson’s rifle?—in the snow. She says, “I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you.” Then she approaches me with an outstretched hand. I don’t want to get up, so I don’t take it.

  “I’ll be . . . I don’t know . . . what I’ll be,” I say.

  “Did Cole do this to you?” she asks.

  I laugh. Or try to. My lungs feel empty.

  Maybe Cole did do this to me. What if Cole’s ghost knocked me down? One more gotchya before he descends to the fiery depths. Wouldn’t that be something?

  “Fell off my bike,” I tell her, and I shake my head. “That’s funny, though. Cole. Will he . . . ever . . . ever stop haunting us?”

  Holly places a cold hand on my cheek. “I’m not joking. Because he’s out there.”

  Sure. Why not? With everything that’s happened so far, I’ll accept that too. Zombie Cole is in the forest with us, growling and stomping . . . ready to eat our brains. In fact, he’s so loud, I can hear him from a hundred yards off.

  “That him?” I ask.

  There’s a rumbling and grinding sound in the woods. It’s getting closer. Headlights too, which doesn’t make much sense. Closest road is hundreds of yards away. But hey, maybe Zombie Cole can drive a zombie car . . . through these zombie woods.

  Holly jumps up and she paws at the ground to find the rifle. But she placed it in the fluffy snow and now it’s buried. Lost . . . like a detached ski.

  The noise gets louder. Holly gets more frantic. She doesn’t find the gun, but she tries to find a tree to hide behind. They’re all too young and thin, so she dives behind the stone wall.

  I stay put and through the swirl of flakes I watch it appear. A big green tractor. A John Deere . . . Meeka’s tractor.

  My muddled mind goes back to the night we did it. We held that tractor tight. We let Meeka drive us away from our greatest sin. I wish I’d never seen that tractor. I wish . . . I wish I’d never met Meeka. I’d like to warp to some alternate reality, where her parents adopted some other unfortunate kid, a person who wouldn’t end up messing up the lives of good people . . . like me. Maybe even Cole would be at peace in that reality. Perhaps his mom would be alive too. I hate that I’m thinking this . . . but it’s honest thinking. That’s not my brain playing tricks. That’s the curse of being . . . an exceedingly honest person.

  I’d like to tell Meeka what I’m thinking, to . . . to . . . to get it off my chest. But I can’t. Meeka isn’t driving the tractor.

  Grayson is. And no, Esther isn’t sitting on his lap, twirling a finger through his hair. That’s the one silver lining in this sky full of storm clouds. Grayson arrived alone . . . holding something in his hand.

  GRAYSON

  I CLING TO THE HORSESHOE. It’s the only real thing I have left to hold on to. My rifle is gone. Must’ve fallen out of the back of the Jeep while we were hauling ass toward Meeka’s. Call it karma? I don’t know. It’s something.

  My fingers are aching and I didn’t even realize it. I’ve been gripping this thing so damn hard. And I’m holding it up, like it’s going to protect me. I feel like a fool, because what was I afraid of? It’s only . . .

  “Logan?” I say.

  And as soon as I say it, Holly is here too. She pops up from behind the stone wall. “Oh, thank god,” she says, and she rushes over to the tractor.

  “Is he nearby?” I ask.

  Holly shakes her head. “Just Logan.”

  Logan is looking beat to hell. Blood and snow all over him. “Who did that to you?” I ask him.

  “Would it surprise you to hear that he did it to himself?” Holly says.

  It would not.

  “You okay, man?” I ask.

  He shrugs, and snow slides off his shoulders into his lap, which is completely buried. He takes a breath and asks in a soft voice, “What’s the . . . horseshoe for?”

  Like it isn’t obvious. “Luck,” I say.

  “We all need that, but you’re supposed to . . . to . . . to hold it the other way around,” Logan says, because even in his sorry state, he has to get a word in.

  “I hold it however I want to hold it,” I say.

  “The two ends have to be . . . pointing up,” Logan says, and he coughs and winces, and then smiles. “Horseshoes collect luck. Like, like, like rain. Luck falling down from the sky.”