If it were that simple, why didn’t she just tell me?

  My hands shake as I flip to the date when we had sex. September 15.

  Well, Hunter and I finally had sex for the first time last night. All those people who told me the first time might suck weren’t wrong. Mom told me that on her honeymoon with Dad, it was like the blind leading the blind. That’s what Hunter and I were like. Ordinarily we maul each other like two cats in heat, but trying to have sex was like trying to launch a space shuttle.

  Everything she says is true. In Chloe’s voice. Reading what she wrote is like hearing her whispering in my ear. Chloe’s spirit is all over those pages like her fingerprints. I’m so happy to hear her again.

  But we made it work. Eventually. So…it’s official! We’re no longer virgins. Yay!

  Seriously, Hunter was so great. Patient. Gentle. Loving. I’m so lucky to have done it with him when so many other girls have to do it with douchy guys the first time. And then you have to remember losing your virginity to a douche for the rest of your life.

  Thank God she remembered it that way.

  Maybe there’s nothing in the journal. Maybe Chloe doesn’t have any secrets.

  But ten days later, there’s an entry that leaves me cold.

  What happened today… There are no words. I feel like I must have dreamed it. Or it’s more like a nightmare. Did it really happen? Will things ever be the same?

  Will they?

  I want to scream at the pages: What happened?

  The next page has been torn out. Jagged edges of paper peek out of the binding like broken teeth. Why was this page torn out?

  Maybe she started writing, made a mistake, and ripped it out. She was writing by hand. She said at the beginning she knew she’d rip some pages out if she didn’t like the writing.

  It’s the middle of an entry. The page after the one torn out doesn’t follow from the page before. Which means it was probably taken out for a reason.

  But was it taken out by Chloe?

  There’s then a gap of about a week when nothing is written. The pages aren’t torn out—Chloe just wasn’t writing.

  Then the entries resume, but they’re shorter. All of them.

  I don’t think I enjoy writing anymore.

  I’m tired of thinking about all of this.

  And then she wrote:

  I need to tell Hunter what’s happening. But not sure how he will respond.

  Not sure at all.

  Sixty

  Respond to what?

  The entries aren’t coming every day. Sometimes she skips a day or two or three.

  But a feeling of doom has settled inside my gut like a rock. Heavy. Dense.

  Uncomfortable.

  And then:

  I’m just not sure who I can tell. A counselor. Should I tell my mom and dad?

  Would they even understand? Would anyone?

  “Fuck,” I say out loud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  Haley told us about the broken condom. The pregnancy hotline.

  “Fuck.”

  It has to be true:

  Chloe was pregnant.

  Sixty-One

  The rock in my gut feels like it’s growing. Like it’s going to push its way out of my throat.

  I stand, hands on knees. Breathing.

  The first wave of nausea passes. Slowly, but it passes.

  Everything is shaking when I sit on the bed again and flip ahead like a madman. Some of the entries are totally mundane, as though her crisis was the furthest thing from her mind.

  Went to lunch with Mom. Such a great time. It felt more like we were friends than mother and daughter.

  This physics lab is wiping me out.

  Found a dress today!

  But then:

  I can’t sleep thinking about it.

  I feel sick.

  I need to talk to someone.

  The Tuesday before homecoming, Chloe wrote:

  I’m going to tell Hunter after HoCo. I can’t wait. He has to know. And I don’t care what the consequences are—I can’t keep this from him. I know he’s going to be hurt. Confused. Maybe very angry. I hate this.

  The next day:

  I can’t believe Basher came over. And I can’t believe I wanted to talk to him.

  Basher?

  Did she really want to talk to Basher? Why?

  When I turn the page, there’s nothing there.

  The next two pages are ripped out.

  And the rest of the journal is blank.

  Sixty-Two

  Basher?

  There’s nothing else in the book.

  An idea grows in my mind like a poisonous weed. Basher was always hanging around Chloe’s house. Basher never got over Chloe. Basher is tight with Scott.

  He wanted her back. After Chloe and I had sex the first time, she pulled back. She didn’t want to do it again. She pulled back in every way and told Natasha it felt weird.

  The sex felt weird?

  Or sex with me felt weird?

  Does that mean she had sex with someone else? Did she have sex with Basher after me?

  Did she cheat on me—with Basher—and become pregnant? Is that what she wanted to tell me at homecoming?

  Is that why we were both so unhappy that night?

  Is that why Basher was there when we left the dance? Was he waiting for us? For her?

  Is that who ran us off the road?

  And then he killed Daniel because Daniel caught it all on film.

  Only one way to find out.

  Sixty-Three

  Olivia is in the kitchen eating a giant bowl of vanilla ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup. She sees the journal in my hand and drops her spoon onto the table.

  “Hunter, what are you doing?”

  “I’ve got to go somewhere.”

  She jumps up and puts her tiny body between me and the back door. “Did you find something? Something we need to talk about?”

  “I think I know what’s going on,” I say. “But I just want to make sure.”

  “Then I’m coming with you,” she says.

  “No. Don’t. I’m fine.”

  “I’m not letting you do this alone. Whatever it is. You look…not right.”

  “I have to do this alone, Livvy.” I look down at her bare feet. “And you don’t even have shoes on. And I have to go. Now. Just tell Dad I’ll be right back.”

  She tries to put her hands on me, but I easily brush past her.

  “Hunter…”

  Basher’s house isn’t far. Back in January, right before Chloe and I started dating, he had a party when his parents went on a cruise. It was one of those epic parties that starts with a small group of people, but then everybody texts their friends, and pretty soon the whole school is there. I went with Chad and Hector. We couldn’t get close to the beer, but we hung out in the basement, shooting pool. Basher’s parents had a whole shrine devoted to his lousy football career. You’d have thought he’d won the Heisman Trophy instead of mostly being a backup quarterback on a mediocre high school team.

  On the drive to Basher’s, I make a call.

  It takes a few rings, but Detective Haley eventually answers, his voice clipped and efficient.

  I say, “I need you to meet me at Mike Basher’s house right now. I have to show you something that could be the most important thing in the whole case.”

  “You want me to go to Mike Basher’s house?” Haley asks. “Right now?”

  “Yes, I do. You’ll see when—”

  “Whoa,” Haley says, sounding surprised. “Are you on your way there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Haley says. “I’ll meet you outside. I’m already at the Basher residence, but I don’t want you coming in until we talk.”

  I want to ask why he’s there, but he hangs up.

  I let myself believe I’m right.

  Why else would Haley be there unless he’s reached the same conclusion I did?

  At the Basher residence, there’s Haley, standing on the lawn, hands on hips, looking like a statue.

  Sixty-Four

  The Basher’s house glows like a giant spaceship. Every window shines with light that spills across the lawn.

  The journal is in my hand, and Haley watches me with his hands on hips, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows like always.

  “Look at this, Detective.”

  Haley eyes me the way someone watches an unfamiliar dog—one they think might bite. But Haley extends his hand and takes the journal. He examines it in the light that spills from the house, turning it first one way and then the other as though it just fell out of the sky, an artifact from another world.

  “What is this?” he asks.

  “It’s Chloe’s journal. Remember, you couldn’t find it?”

  Haley looks up at me, his brown eyes tough to read. “Oh, I remember. But how did you come up with it? Did you have this in your possession the whole time, Hunter? That’s obstruct—”

  “Can we just hold off on that for a moment?” I ask. “What matters is what’s inside. Or maybe what matters even more is what’s not inside. See, this journal tells us what was going on right before she disappeared. Something was on her mind, something she didn’t think she could share with anybody. Not even me. Maybe she was pregnant.”

  “Does the journal say she was pregnant?”

  “It doesn’t. But it does say there was a problem. And she felt like she couldn’t say anything to anyone.” I point at the journal, which is still in Haley’s hands. “And then, right before homecoming, Chloe says she talked to Basher. He came to their house. You know he used to hang around there and work on cars with Scott.”

  “I know that.”

  “Why did she talk to him? Why not me? Or her parents? Maybe he was the cause of the problem. Maybe he got her pregnant. That’s why he followed us on the night of the dance. He was outside the school when we were leaving.”

  Haley flips through the pages, the paper making a rustling sound. He stops where a page has been torn out.

  “Did you do this?” he asks.

  “No. No way.”

  He keeps flipping, and I know nothing I’ve done has been very well thought out. And that Haley may not see things the way I want him to.

  “But the journal doesn’t say any of that?” he asks. “And you don’t know that. Chloe didn’t say Mike Basher did anything to her. And no one else did, either. Right?”

  “But something was wrong at the dance. Something made her upset.”

  “You had a fight.”

  “Stop saying that. You don’t know for sure.”

  “Do you know why I’m at this house tonight?”

  It starts to dawn on me that Haley knows something. This has happened to me in class before. I think I know more than one of my teachers only to find out they possess knowledge I hadn’t even anticipated. I feel that way now, standing face-to-face with Haley. He seems to know more than I do. And he’s just waiting for the right moment to prove it to me.

  That moment is now.

  “I’m here, Hunter, because we’ve been investigating—”

  The front door opens, and Basher steps into the rectangle of yellow light on the porch. He wears a smirk on his face, the kind guys like him always wear. It’s a look that says, You can’t touch me. No matter what I do, you can’t touch me.

  “Hunter, stay here—”

  No. Someone’s going to touch you.

  I run past Haley and across the lawn, heading for the front door. Basher struts out into the yard, still wearing the stupid smirk. He’s almost a head taller than me and twice as broad. He may be a terrible football player, but he lifts weights and runs and stretches and does all the athletic things I don’t.

  But I don’t care.

  “What did you do to her?” I ask. “What did you do?”

  Basher crouches, ready for battle, shaking his head as if I’m the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

  When we come together, I swing both my fists like windmills, hoping to connect. Mostly I miss.

  My fists harmlessly connect with his shoulder, his back, his sides. I’m not really sure what’s happening, but Basher lowers his head and torso, his gorilla-like arms wrapping around me. They clasp me tight, and all of a sudden, I’m seeing the ink-black sky, the pinpricks of stars. I’m upside down.

  Then the grass slams against me so hard that all the air leaves my body.

  More hands are all over me. And voices reach me.

  “Break it up, guys.”

  “Knock it off.”

  “Did you see that? The kid’s violent..”

  My breath is gone. No words come.

  Basher has been pulled off me after executing a perfect tackle. And there are more people in the yard than just Basher and Haley.

  Dew seeps into my shirt. My wind comes back. Painfully.

  And my head…it hurts again…a dull thump…

  Will the concussion symptoms roar back?

  Please, no. No.

  “Just go inside, Mike,” Haley says. “I’ve got this.”

  “I want to press charges for the way he went after my son.”

  “Forget it, Dad. I’ve got this.” And then Basher is close to me, leaning over my body. “You shouldn’t be mad at me, dude. You think her family is all into me. Let me tell you, they haven’t even talked to me. I went over there to try to work with Scott, to take his mind off things, and he told me he isn’t even going into the garage anymore. He acted offended—pissed really—at the idea that he or anyone else would go in the garage and work on a stupid car. So quit thinking about me.”

  The door slams. A satellite blinks overhead next to the half-moon.

  Haley’s face enters the sky above me. “When you can get up, you and I are going to have a little talk.”

  Sixty-Five

  We’re in the front seat of Haley’s car, and my breathing returns to normal. Haley is holding the journal again, riffling the pages with his thumb.

  He says, “You never let me finish. I was going to explain why I was here when you ran off like Usain Bolt and got dumped on your ass.”

  “I don’t know why I’m the one in the car,” I say. “I know I shouldn’t have gone after him that way, Detective. I should’ve let you handle it. But why aren’t you questioning him?” I point to the journal. “It’s all in there.”

  “In here?” Haley asks. “In this book you gave me? Which you still haven’t told me how you got.”

  “If I tell you, will you arrest Basher?”

  “No. And do you know why? Because I came over here tonight to tell the Bashers that we looked into Mike’s alibi, and it’s rock solid. You know how someone saw Mike and his friends outside the dance that night?”

  “Yeah. What were they doing?”

  “They were getting a ride from Mike’s mother. She picked up those guys because they’d had a little to drink, and she drove them back to this house. All four of them. And they met up here with some other friends.”

  “So she’s lying for them.”

  Haley shakes his head. “She’s not. There are texts. And the other three guys, Mike’s friends, they all tell the same story. So do all the parents. They came back here when they left the dance. They weren’t anywhere near where Chloe disappeared.”

  I slump back against the seat. “But in the journal…he was still hung up on Chloe… He was at their house a lot…”

  Haley tosses the journal onto the dashboard. “Where did you get it, Hunter?”

  A car pulls up behind us. The headlights blind us for a moment, and then both doors open and close, one on each side. Haley rolls down his window, and Dad’s face appears, leaning down to see inside the car.

  What is he doing here?

  “Mr. Gifford,” Haley says. “Your son put on quite a display tonight.”

  Someone taps on my window, and I lower it. Olivia. She looks a little worried and a lot embarrassed.

  “Are you okay, Hunter? This detective guy called the house and said you were coming over here. So Dad was worried you were going to do something dumb, like get in a fight.”

  “It wasn’t much of a fight,” Haley says.

  Dad looks concerned. Really concerned. And I’m the cause of it. Again.

  “Can I take him home?” he asks.

  Haley shakes his head. “Not a chance. You see, Hunter here was just about to explain to me how he ended up with a journal the police haven’t been able to find since Chloe disappeared. So if you’d like to stick around for that revelation…”

  “I did it.”

  My head whips back to the window. “Livvy. No.”

  “I did it,” Olivia says again. “I knew about Chloe’s hiding place. So I went into her house and found the journal. I gave it to Hunter. It was me the whole time.”

  “Livvy,” I say. “Just stop. Don’t say anything else.”

  “Well, it kind of was my idea.”

  Haley pretends Olivia isn’t here and says to me, “Are you saying you went into the Summerses’ house without their permission and stole this journal?”

  “It sounds a lot worse when you say it that way. But, yes, I did go into their house and find the journal. And I always intended to bring it to you, Detective.”

  Dad’s face still fills the driver’s side window. His mouth hangs open, and his forehead is more wrinkled than I’ve ever seen it. But he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at me like he doesn’t know me.

  “You’d better tell me the whole story,” Haley says.

  Video #3

  The red light glows.

  It burns like an angry eye. One that sees me. And judges me.

  Unlike the other times, I have no idea what I’m going to say. I’m not even sure I want to make the video. But something compels me to do it. Something makes me want to say…something. Anything.