Cole didn’t believe in screensavers. Something about the barrage of images and text was like caffeine to him. I have no idea how much he slept, but it couldn’t have been much. I can’t say what specific games or sites he liked best, but I know he loved the infinity of stuff. He needed the world constantly shooting at him, going at light speed.

  Screens are packed with messages, like platoons of ants marching across bright flat deserts. Speakers chatter softly. A game is on pause, the image of an explosion blooming. A video clip is playing on a loop, his favorite one, showing that shrill kid singing “Walk Like a Man.” Thankfully, that one is muted. The stink in here is worse than ever—it’s as bad as roadkill—and we all wince when we first enter and catch a whiff.

  “Should we dump the trash?” Grayson asks. “Anyone comes in here and they’ll know he’s been gone a long time. No one can live with a stink like this.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Meeka grumbles as she stands in the doorway. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to step any farther inside, and I can’t blame her.

  “Don’t worry about the smell,” Holly says. “The important thing is that we touch as little as possible. They’ll always have ways of knowing the last time Cole was here. Evidence we can’t cover up. That’s ultimately unimportant. The important thing is to make sure the police never know we were here. Keep your hands to yourself. Unless absolutely necessary.”

  We’ve taken precautions. Gloves, hats that the girls can tuck their hair up into, dust masks. We know our fingerprints and DNA are probably already in the trailer, because we’ve all been in the trailer before, but we don’t want to leave anything fresh.

  And yet I worry about osmosis. There’s so much to see in here that I can’t help but wonder about what’s uploading to my brain. Maybe I’m filling my subconscious with images that will implicate me. The half-solved Rubik’s Cube on the oven? The rubber horse head mask draped over the back of the computer chair? Maybe they mean something. If I end up being questioned about Cole’s disappearance, I might let something slip that seems inconsequential, but will place me in this very trailer after Cole left it. I should probably close my eyes, but then I might fall asleep on my feet and crash into a web of computer cables.

  I hate this place so much.

  Grayson points and says, “There. That thing.”

  The trailer is a perpetual mess, but there’s one corner of a table that’s pristine. Set in that pristine corner is a red cube. Though everything else is dusty and grimy, it shines, radiates even. There’s a blinking blue light and a few buttons on the front, and a few cords running out the back. Cole called this thing his Heart.

  We’d discussed the Heart while we were walking the quarter mile to the trailer from the abandoned lumber mill where we parked our cars. We’d all noticed the Heart before, during our various visits to the trailer. We weren’t sure if it was a small server, some sort of computer or gaming console, or a hard drive. It was difficult to say because there were no labels on it, and while Cole had always been quick to point it out and brag about how important it was to him, he had also been unwilling to tell us what it actually did.

  That was typical. He liked to taunt and troll. And we all assumed the same thing: The Heart contained secrets—Cole’s secrets—whether they were in the form of programs he used or files he created or downloaded. Now I’m thinking it contains my secrets too, that the stuff from my cloud ended up there. It would explain why Cole was always drawing my attention to it. He was mocking me, keeping his treachery in plain sight. Gotchya! He had me dead to rights and he probably figured there was nothing I could do about it.

  Only problem was, I did do something. We all did.

  But someone else did something too. The big questions are: Who did something, and what exactly did they do?

  “The Heart is still here,” Holly says. “That’s good, right?”

  Meeka nods, takes a deep breath through her mask, and finally leaves her post by the door, making a beeline to the table. “He would’ve boned this thing if he could’ve. I tell you, the way he looked at it . . . he never looked at me that way.”

  “That’s exactly how he always left it?” Holly asks. “Confirm to me that nothing’s been stolen.”

  “Nothing’s been stolen,” Meeka says as she reaches forward to touch it. “Yet.”

  Holly lunges and pushes Meeka’s hand down. “Please!” she says, and her mask goes cockeyed, revealing half of her snarling mouth. “No touching.”

  “Chill,” Meeka says as she pulls her hand back. “I don’t know if forensics people can tell old DNA from new DNA, but there’s so much of me in here already that it shouldn’t matter if I touch anything. And why should it matter if I move anything? The trailer is a sty.”

  All true, but Holly still insists. “No touching. That’s what we agreed on.”

  “Well, at least we can breathe easier,” Meeka says. “Because no one has stolen Cole’s Heart.”

  She laughs a little, but it doesn’t seem to be at her own joke. It’s a nervous laughter, flavored with a hint of relief. I don’t want to throw water on that relief, but someone has to state the obvious.

  “Do I have to remind you all that no one had to physically take anything to access whatever information is on there?”

  “That’s right!” Grayson replies, as if this were the most mind-blowing revelation. “They could’ve hacked the shit out of it!”

  Holly rolls her eyes and says, “Everyone loves to talk about ‘hacking,’ but do you know the first thing about it? Do you really think it’s as simple as saying ‘Hey, I’mma hack that guy’ and then start tapping a few keys and you’re in? How do we even know that device is networked? If it was so important to Cole, then leaving it vulnerable to exterior threats seems pretty damn stupid.”

  Maybe Cole was pretty damn stupid—he fell for our trap, after all—or maybe . . .

  “What about Bluetooth?” I say. “Or things you’re not even considering? I’m sorry, but what do you know about hacking? We’ve already proven that even though we’re smart, it doesn’t mean we can spot all our vulnerabilities.”

  “Your vulnerabilities,” Holly reminds me.

  Okay, fine. I deserve a little salt in my wounds. But picking on people doesn’t get us any closer to figuring out who’s exploiting my mistake.

  “My mom writes all her important shit on paper,” Grayson says as he crouches down next to the refrigerator. “Goes right on a Post-it stuck to the fridge. No one’s gonna hack a Post-it.”

  Holly moves closer to Grayson. She’s obviously playing defense, getting ready to swat his hand away if he reaches for something. It’s a tiny fridge, the type that college kids have in their dorm rooms, but it’s still big enough for magnets to hold up photos and mail, things posted as reminders. There’s a faded receipt from Best Buy, but I can’t read what it’s for. There’s a postcard from somewhere thick with palm trees. There’s a photo—I think it’s what you call a Polaroid—of a woman. It’s blurry, but it looks like Cole’s mom, Teri.

  Teri’s half-cocked smile hits me harder than I’d expect. Like everyone, I was devastated when she died. Because she wasn’t a bad person. She was . . . damaged. The single good thing to come out of her death was that at least she didn’t live to see what became of her son. An awful thought, I know, but I can’t help it.

  My lungs seize for a second. I can hold back the tears—and I will hold them back—but the tears might help. My body needs something to keep it going.

  “We didn’t come here for a Post-it. We came here for that,” Meeka says, and she reaches a hand forward again and this time she snags that little red box. I almost cheer for her. Holding it and bending forward, she studies the tangle of cords behind it.

  “Unplug that shit and let’s bounce,” Grayson says.

  But Holly, as enraged as I’ve ever seen her, hip-checks Meeka, causing her to drop the Heart back onto the table. Frankly, it’s a bit shocking. Holly is not a violent person, and this is clearly violence. It’s basically assault.

  “What the—?” Meeka says as she gains her balance.

  “Don’t touch it!” Holly barks.

  She doesn’t listen. Instead, Meeka moves back over and grabs the Heart again. She can wrap her fingers around one side of it. It’s bigger than a human heart, but not by much. Maybe horse heart size? It’s still plugged in, but the cords are long enough that she can present it to Holly without unplugging it.

  “Take it,” she says.

  Holly hesitates for a moment, and then peels it from Meeka’s gloved hands like it’s contaminated. “You shouldn’t have done that,” Holly tells her as she carefully examines all sides of the thing.

  “There’s a lot that shouldn’t have been done,” Meeka replies. “But this is where we are. So unplug it. Bring it home. Find out what’s on it. Or destroy it. You started this. Now see it through. Or else things are only gonna get worse and worse.”

  Let it be clear: We all started this. But Meeka has a point. Holly has been the lead decision-maker, which is a role she’s always been comfortable with. It’s something I’ve always been comfortable with too. Until now. Now Holly is freaking me out a little.

  Her teeth clenched, Meeka pushes past me and Grayson, and sits down in a mesh camping chair near the door. I notice there’s a folded tarp beneath it, like the one we wrapped Cole in, and I don’t doubt she notices it too. Reminders of what we did, everywhere. She closes her eyes and lowers her head. She’s done with this, with us, with everything.

  “What the fuck was that?” Grayson says to Holly.

  “No kidding,” Holly answers. “She’s being so reckless, huh?”

  “I’m talking about you,” Grayson says. “Meeka’s right, you know.”

  “About what?” Holly asks. “That we should see what’s on that thing? What if it’s password-protected? What if it’s teeming with viruses that will infect whatever I plug it into, or leaves some sort of digital mark behind, something we can’t see but detectives can find?”

  “Smash it to bits, then,” Grayson says. “Or bury it with Cole.”

  “It stays here,” she says, and Holly places it back on its neat little corner of the table.

  “But we haven’t figured anything out,” I protest. “Who the hell has been in my cloud? Who’s seen the video? We’ve got nothing.”

  “Damn straight, because there’s still some guy out there somewhere,” Grayson adds. “And he still has us by the balls.”

  “First, how do you know it’s a guy?” Holly says. “And second, we’re the ones who are holding the metaphorical balls in this situation.”

  Meeka perks up. Her posture straightens and her eyes open. Her eyebrows are fully cocked.

  “Keep telling yourself that,” Grayson says.

  Holly nods confidently. “I will. Because let’s not forget an important fact. This person knows what we’re capable of. Which means they’re probably scared. In fact, I bet they’re terrified of us.”

  I’m not sure if I should call it irony or coincidence, but the moment Holly speaks, an image appears on the scrolling feed of one of Cole’s laptops. It’s us, our four faces.

  The meme.

  It’s there for a few seconds and then scrolls up and off the screen. But that’s long enough for me read the caption.

  SQUAD GOALS:

  SNIFF SOME GLUE

  GRAYSON

  WE’RE AT THE OLD LUMBER MILL, standing in the muck next to my Jeep as Holly’s and Logan’s cars squeal and splatter their way out of here. Meeka puts a hand on my back. She rubs.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “For what?” I say. “We didn’t find shit.”

  “For being there. When I needed you. That was the last place I wanted to be.”

  There’s a glow down the road. Cole’s trailer. “I can go back by myself and get that thing,” I tell her. “The Heart. You were right. And what Holly said was BS. It’s too important.”

  “Maybe,” Meeka says. “But what was the other thing she said? About having this person by the balls?”

  “It’s definitely a dude,” I say. “Chicks don’t fuck around like this. Spreading a meme is some cocky little shit’s way of thinking he’s being clever and sneaky. Chicks aren’t sneaky like that.”

  Meeka snorts and says, “Oh, Gray, don’t ever change.”

  I’m not totally sure what she means by that, but I shrug it off. Meeka’s always saying stuff that can either be taken as an insult or a compliment. Best to take it as neither.

  “Think about it, though,” she tells me. “This . . . guy . . . has a reason to fear us. Let’s make him fear us. Or fear you. You’re the scary one in the bunch.”

  Again, I don’t say shit.

  “That’s a good thing, by the way,” she says, and she grabs my wrist and holds it up so my arm is in a flexing position. “You’re friggin’ tough, Gray. No one at school would ever think of messing with you.”

  “Yeah, but this guy doesn’t go to school with us,” I say, pulling my arm back.

  “Are you sure about that?” she asks.

  “Why would he? Memes are, like, a national thing. International.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but even though memes spread quickly, it’s been what, eight days? If the meme started somewhere else, it got to Plainview High around Thursday. So maybe it took five days to reach our shores. At the most. Probably less than that. Especially fast for a picture that’s nothing special.”

  “Maybe someone who knows us was dicking around on Reddit or whatever and found it. It’s possible.”

  “Possible is far different from likely. So what’s the likely scenario?”

  “That . . . ?”

  “The meme wasn’t found by someone in our school. It was created by someone in our school. Someone Cole knew, and probably knew well.”

  This makes some sense. No one needed to hack Cole. “So what you’re saying is that Cole gave some dude all the stuff that’s on the Heart?”

  “Not necessarily,” Meeka says. “Maybe the Heart has nothing to do with it. Red herring, as they say. Maybe this other guy has controlled access to GOTCHYA all along. And Cole was nothing but a salesman for his phony cloud service. Cole convinces Logan to use GOTCHYA, the other guy pays Cole a commission, and now the other guy can sell Logan’s identity. Or steal money from Logan’s Heroes.”

  “But the other guy saw the video,” I say. “Why not turn us in? Why fuck with us like this?”

  Meeka shrugs. “Because people are jealous and want to embarrass us?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Really? Think it through. I hate to say it, but we’re simply better than most. Smarter. Cuter. More talented. Since we merged with Foxbury, there are now what . . . two hundred kids in our class alone? That includes plenty of people who know us even though we don’t know them.”

  “I know a shit ton of people,” I say, because I do.

  “Yeah, but not everyone. That’s the problem with popularity. The faceless, nameless kids who walk the halls or sit in the back of classrooms are the ones you have to watch out for. They lust and they plot. The dumb among them are usually harmless. But the smart ones? Better be careful.”

  Sounds like she’s talking about kids just like . . .

  “Like Cole,” I say.

  “Like Cole.”

  Makes a lot of sense, actually. In mysteries—real mysteries—it’s never the complicated answer. It’s always the obvious one.

  “So Cole sells Logan out to another kid at school, right?” I say.

  “Why not?”

  “And that guy goes into the cloud, sees the video, makes that meme, and spreads it?”

  “Got another explanation?”

  “No. But I’m not buying that he did it because he was jealous of us.”

  “Fine. Then why?”

  The answer is right in front of me: Meeka’s BMW.

  “Blackmail,” I say.

  My family does all right—at least we have been since we upgraded our site and started shipping orders nationally about five years ago. Logan’s folks do okay too. But Meeka? Holly? Their parents have real cash. Christmas at their houses is insane. New skis every winter. Cashmere everything. Checks in amounts more than I earn in a year. So when it comes to blackmailing, they’re definitely the targets. If it were only me who did this, my ass would already be in jail.

  “Okay,” Meeka says. “I guess I can see that.”

  “But I can’t figure out what he’s waiting for,” I say. “Why isn’t he reaching out and asking us to pay up?”

  And Meeka says, “Hard thing to know when we don’t know who he is. But I have a pretty good guess.”

  Suddenly I do too. It’s better than a pretty good guess. There’s only one person it can possibly be. The same little dude who tried to throw down with me at Becca’s party. Who called me a “stupid duck.” The one who told me I’d be “sorry.”

  “Gus Drummond?” I say.

  That’s right. Gus Fucking Drummond. Of all the people. It seems nuts to say it, but then I think about it. Really think. It makes sense. More sense than anyone else. I mean, he and Cole were boys for a while, before I became friends with Cole. Always gaming or talking DC vs. Marvel or whatever. Nerd shit. That’s not saying it was bad shit. Hey, I like Call of Duty and Avengers movies and all that too—but they were intense about it.

  Also memes. The two of them were always fucking around with memes.

  But that was mostly freshman year. Then they quit hanging out. I never heard anyone trash the kid, so I always figured he wasn’t much trouble. But who knows? Maybe Gus is a bigger dick than Cole. Maybe he’s one of those jealous kids Meeka is talking about. Maybe he cares more about getting paid than getting justice for an old pal. Yeah, he seems harmless, but how do I know for sure? All I know is that he’s our guy. I can feel it all the way down to my core.