Only thing falling from the sky is snow, and it’s been the opposite of lucky.

  “Believe whatever you want, but it doesn’t make it true,” I tell Logan. I don’t tell him the devil story, because I don’t need another earful of his bullshit. I hold this thing the way I want. Tight.

  Logan mumbles something that I don’t hear and don’t care to hear. And Holly takes another step closer.

  “Where’s Meeka?” she asks.

  “The house,” I say. “She’s fine. For now.”

  “What’s that thing?” Holly asks, and she cocks her chin toward the backhoe attachment on the tractor.

  “You noticed it too?” I say.

  “It wasn’t on the tractor before,” she says. “I would’ve remembered.”

  She’s right. We were standing on the back of the tractor the night we buried Cole. We were all holding on to the frame. Would’ve been impossible to do that with a backhoe attached.

  I climb down and circle around to the backhoe. I tap the bucket with my horseshoe, which knocks some snow and dirt off the teeth. I look at them closely. “There’s rust,” I say.

  “Metal rusts,” Logan tells me.

  “You think I don’t know that? What I’m trying to tell you is that the bucket isn’t brand-new. Odds are, her family didn’t buy it in the last week.”

  “Which means Meeka owned it when we dug,” Holly says, catching on. “But she never told us. Makes you wonder.”

  Makes my back wonder too. It ached for days after we dug that hole. When this thing would’ve made easy work of it.

  “You’ll have to . . . to get me up to . . . to speed,” Logan says. “I’m not following.”

  “Meeka made us dig with shovels when we could’ve dug with this,” Holly says, and she’s obviously annoyed. “Why would she do that?”

  “So that after we left, she could use the backhoe to dig that son of a bitch up,” I say, though I hardly need to say it. Holly knows this shit is true. She has to.

  She’s probably going through all the evidence in her head right now. How Meeka has never really been on board with her plan. How when it came to actually getting shit done, Meeka did next to nothing. Like when we were digging, she was constantly taking breaks, sitting on a log with her chin in her hands, watching us sing and bust our asses. We let her, because she’s the smallest and weakest. And because she’s Meeka. Her only job was driving the tractor. So she obviously knew what the rest of us didn’t. That the goddamn thing had a backhoe attachment!

  “Hold on,” Logan says. “You’ve actually seen . . . seen Cole? Alive?”

  “We haven’t seen him,” Holly says. “But he’s been posting things. Texting. And I’ve been messaging with him.”

  Holly taps on her phone and starts to crouch down next to Logan so she can show the screen to him. But she stops midway. Springs right back up when she notices something.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  HOLLY

  IT’S A DICK PIC.

  And it’s not Cole’s dick. That’s clear enough.

  The wait is over. The guy who goes by @THEDLOM on Twitter has sent me a DM. It’s been there for the last thirty minutes, but I didn’t notice it. Which is understandable, given the circumstances.

  The message reads BEHOLD THE TRUTH. Then there’s a picture of a bespectacled, pasty, absolutely hairy dude. He’s probably in his thirties. He’s naked. And he’s, well, he’s holding it. And it is . . . it. I don’t have enough experience to say whether it’s big or small or weird-looking or what. It’s simply . . . it.

  At the bottom of the pic, there’s a signature.

  The Dirty Lova of Minneapolis

  Not the Dank Lord of Memes. Not even close. The penis—and the body that goes with it—belongs to the Dirty Lova of Minneapolis. In other words, there’s more than one Thedlom out there making the world an uglier place.

  Jesus. It never once occurred to me that whoever was behind this Twitter profile didn’t know what I was talking about. But now that I’m looking through his feed, I see that it’s filled with memes, sure, but they’re all filthy. And when I scroll back through our message thread, I realize that it might not seem all that threatening. It might even qualify as . . . flirty? For a pervert.

  “What did you wanna . . . wanna show me?” Logan asks.

  “Nothing,” I say, shielding my phone.

  All at once, my “Cole is alive!” argument begins to crumble. Like a wall coming down. Crash. Boom. Gone. But is it a load-bearing wall? And what about the other walls? The Cavalry and the text messages? The fact that whoever took the screenshot of the video knows what we did, but hasn’t told the police yet? It still points to Cole being alive, right?

  I think so. But now I don’t know so.

  We all keep fighting over who did what, and I’m starting to wonder if there are other possibilities we haven’t considered yet. More logical scenarios. It’s certainly conceivable, but I’m not about to throw another theory into the mix without confirming some facts.

  “We should dig,” I say, and I point to the backhoe. “With that.”

  “Hell no,” Grayson responds.

  I stomp over to a spot next to Logan. I’m fairly certain this is where the grave is. If someone did dig Cole up, then they also filled the grave back in. And now the ground is covered in snow. At this point, it’s difficult to tell exactly what happened.

  “Hear me out,” I say. “I could show Logan the messages and tell him about the texts, and we could all freeze to death tossing accusations around. But if we dig, we’ll have no doubts about Cole. Plus, we might even find some evidence to implicate his accomplice.”

  “We have all the evidence we need,” Grayson says. “Meeka dug. Isn’t that obvious? Now she’s back in the house with Cole and they’re laughing their asses off. They’ve made fools of us all.”

  I’m used to being seen as a fool. Not that I’m stupid. That’s impossible, of course. But I’ve always been surrounded by fools. Guilt by association. Because the teams I’ve been on have never been better than mediocre. We haven’t had a winning record since I was in eighth grade. And even then, we were barely above .500.

  But there was one game. One game this September. My best game. We were down two to nothing. Only fifteen minutes left. We needed a comeback, something we hardly ever pulled off. Except this time. We ended up winning four to two. No overtime. No last-second goal to win it. Four to two in regulation.

  And the reason we scored four goals? I took control. I didn’t expect any of the other girls to handle a thing. Was I passing? Hell no. I might’ve even challenged some of my teammates to fifty-fifty balls. Thrown a few shoulders to get them out of my way. Who cares? Because I scored four goals in the final fifteen minutes and we won decisively. Didn’t even need that fourth goal, but I scored it anyway.

  What I’m saying is that a game can feel entirely lost, and then turn around in the most striking way possible. You simply have to separate yourself from the fools.

  So how about this?

  “If we dig, and what we find confirms that you’re right about Meeka, then I’m through with her,” I tell Grayson.

  “Your friendship?” Grayson asks.

  “Through in every way,” I say. “I’m tired of speculation. We need action. No one will make a fool out of me. All I need you to do is assure me you know how to operate this thing.”

  Grayson stares at me. “My uncle has one.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’ll show you where to dig.”

  LOGAN

  I HAVEN’T MOVED. For the last however many minutes, I haven’t had to. Grayson has been handling that backhoe with more skill than I ever could. He’s not a pro exactly, but he’s been doing an admirable job. Trade school is probably the best route for him in life . . . if we’re being honest. Nothing wrong with that. Manual labor is a noble path . . . for some people. Go Gray Go.

  I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open. It doesn’t feel like sleep. It feels . . . different. I want to close my eyes. But I’m scared to keep them closed.

  It helps to watch Holly. She’s been pacing around the crater Grayson has been digging. She’s like a hyena. Back and forth . . . looking in . . . snarling orders. He’s not always listening to her, but he’s listening enough. She hasn’t taken over yet.

  The Thule is in there. Or so they tell me. I can’t it see from here. The bucket hit it, cracked the top . . . but didn’t open it. And Grayson isn’t skilled enough to scoop it out. So he’s digging around it. Not once have they asked if they should pause . . . take me to the hospital. Shows exactly what type of friends . . . and people . . . they really are.

  “Stop!” Holly calls out with a hand up. “I think there’s room now. I can probably get it open.”

  The box was more than gently used when we bought it. It was missing the lock. That worried us when we were driving it away from the lot. But now it’s a good thing. Means they don’t have to unlock it . . . or smash it open to . . . to find what’s inside.

  Holly slowly lowers herself into the hole until I can only see her head. Grayson turns off the tractor’s engine but keeps the lights on. Then he climbs down from the tractor and stands at the edge.

  It’s quieter now. I can hear Holly’s breathing. It’s long and deep. Almost meditative. I try to copy her rhythm . . . but I can’t. I’m fading.

  “Anything seem weird?” Grayson asks.

  “The bottom is stuck in the ground, so I can’t move it,” Holly says. “And the handle is jammed because there’s dirt and stones where the lock should be.”

  “Use this to clean it out,” Grayson says as he tosses her a key.

  I can hear the key against the Thule. Scrr, scrr, scrr . . .

  The sound of metal scraping plastic makes me think of . . . fingernails. I imagine being buried alive.

  Horror. Awful. Nightmare.

  Even with someone planning to dig you up, how do you stay calm? The lack of air. The cold. You can’t even begin to . . . to sit up. Forget about trusting a person to save you. Think of the . . . the . . . of the darkness.

  “Almost got it,” Holly says.

  There’s no way we buried Cole alive. No way. No one would do that to themselves. Doesn’t matter how sick in the head you are. Or whether you’re determined to . . . to trick someone. You wouldn’t do it.

  So when Holly opens the box, she’ll, she’ll, she’ll . . . have to look at . . . Cole. Cold. Dead. A lifeless, soulless thing. Because of . . . us.

  On the night we buried him, I told her that she would get over what we did. If she hasn’t gotten over it already, now would be a good time. Though I wonder if it ever really affected her . . . the way it affected me.

  I close my eyes. I shouldn’t . . . but I do. I wait for . . . for . . . for . . .

  The hinges on the Thule box creak and . . .

  “It’s . . . wow.”

  “I fuckin’ knew it.”

  “What are you doing?”

  There are three voices talking. I recognize the first two. Holly and Grayson. The third one isn’t my voice . . . I think. It’s grumbly and low.

  I open my eyes.

  There . . . standing in front of me is . . . a creature.

  That’s the only way I can describe it. Not a boyatee. Those were cute. This thing is ugly. It’s like some mythological beast. It has the body of a man . . . and the head of a horse.

  It must be here to bury me in that hole.

  GRAYSON

  THE THULE IS EMPTY.

  No body, no phones, no tarp, nothing. It’s as empty as the day we bought it. I was already sure it would be empty, but it still surprises me. All that arguing and wondering and digging and here we are. We buried Cole. And Meeka dug him up. All the proof we need.

  And there’s more proof in the woods. They’re full of snow, and dark, and a guy wearing a rubber horse mask. Seriously, there’s this guy (at least he sounds like one) and he’s standing there in one of those stupid rubber horse masks.

  “Don’t move,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t. Just asks in a gruff voice, “Did you find it?”

  Holly climbs out of the hole. Then she almost falls back in it when she sees the guy.

  “I don’t th-th-think it’s buried that deep,” the guy says, his gruff voice now stuttering. “It’s prob-prob-probably in the wall.”

  He starts to walk toward Logan and I shout, “I told you not to move!”

  He doesn’t listen. He moves faster and becomes more frantic. He’s saying, “I need it. You don’t, don’t, you don’t need it. I do. I do.”

  It’s like he’s Gollum or some shit, and I’m thinking this is Cole. It’s got to be. But what’s he after? And what’s with the fake voice and goofy mask? I’d assume he’d want to reveal himself and laugh his ass off. “Ta-da, suckers!”

  But no, he goes straight over to the wall, and starts brushing off the snow and pulling rocks away.

  “Stop him, Gray,” Holly says, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to me. But I don’t know if he’s got a weapon on him or what. Because this is Cole we’re talking about. And all I know is that this spot—this spot we’re at right now—it means everything to him.

  This is where he and Meeka first kissed.

  This is where he threatened Meeka. And us.

  This is where we buried him.

  This is where Meeka dug him up.

  And this is where he’s reaching into the stone wall and pulling out . . . a metal toolbox?

  That’s right. There’s a hollow section in the wall, a chamber where a dirty metal toolbox was hidden. Damn. I’m impressed. It’s like a book with a hole cut out in the middle of the pages so a kid can hide his weed.

  Logan is closest to him and he’s looking up and saying in a soft voice, “I wish you two could see . . . Mister Horse Man. He’s really . . . something.”

  Fucking Logan. Is it terrible to wish that he was in that hole? Looks all set to go, why not roll him in? Not because he’s annoying, which he is, but because he’s so hypocritical. He thinks he’s such a selfless, innocent soul. Please. He may not be violent, but he’ll be hurting plenty of people for years to come. Count on it.

  Right now, his glassy eyes are fixed on that toolbox, entranced by it like it’s the sword in the stone. Maybe it is the sword in the stone. Or in this case, the gun in the stone wall. The toolbox is big enough to hold a .45, or even something bigger.

  “What’s in the box?” Holly asks, her voice quivering in a way I’ve never heard it before.

  Horse head doesn’t answer. He doesn’t open the box, either. He wraps his arms around it, like it’s a girlfriend he’s trying to protect. And that’s when I realize I’ll never understand how Cole and Meeka’s relationship worked. How a guy can treat a girl like such shit, how she can dump him, and then . . . well, I’m not about to dive into Meeka’s mind. She was never like the rest of us anyway.

  Holly steps toward him and he makes a growling sound to keep her back. I grip my horseshoe tight and my thoughts shift to the devil and how that story isn’t actually about a blacksmith beating the devil, is it? Because the devil lives on and still gets to do his devilish things. All that the blacksmith did was protect his own. The rest of the world is fucked, right?

  And as he starts running, I remember that meme, the one with the DUCK, DUCK, GOOSE. A game like that doesn’t have an end, does it? Everyone runs in circles over and over again until someone says, “I’m sick of this shit.”

  Yeah, I’m not chasing him. He can run away, and he can try to keep torturing us, but I’m—

  Bam!

  A gunshot.

  Shit.

  He’s down.

  HOLLY

  HE TRIPPED OVER THE RIFLE, causing it to fire. My bad. I should’ve put the safety back on.

  We’re all frozen in place for what feels like a lifetime. Until he slowly stands up.

  He’s not hit. None of us are. But he’s patting his trembling body to make sure. Everything is intact. (The only broken one among us is Logan.)

  The rifle is still hidden in the snow. The toolbox too, because the guy dropped it when he fell. The horse mask flew off his head and now sits atop the snow. Crumpled, deflated.

  “Am I . . . the only one . . . who heard that?” Logan says with a wheezing breath. “Am I . . . the only one . . . who sees him? It was the Boyatee . . . all along.”

  The boy-a-what? Logan’s body is in bad shape, but I fear his mind might be worse. Because all I see is Gus. As in GUS! The kid who keeps coming back for more.

  “I’m sorry. Plea-plea-please don’t shoot. Is it Meeka? Why does she keep . . . ? Is she? Is she hiding somewhere?” Gus whimpers. Whatever weird gravelly voice he was using under his mask isn’t necessary now. His identity is clear.

  But he clearly doesn’t know he’s the one who triggered the rifle. Maybe he thought he tripped on a stick and then Meeka fired a shot at him. Like she’s a sniper. It’s a bit extreme, but that’s the last few weeks in a nutshell. Extremely extreme. And, honestly, Meeka is probably capable of it. At this point, I’m wondering if I could put anything past her.

  The best thing for me to do is play along. Keep Gus afraid and in place, until we can figure out why he’s here. So that’s what I do.

  “The butt of Meeka’s rifle worked wonders on Logan, didn’t it?” I say, motioning to the googly-eyed mess resting against the wall. “Just think about what one of her bullets might do to you, Gus. That was simply a warning shot. But she has you in her sights. So it’s probably best for you to stay put and tell us what’s in the box.”