“Hunter made a video,” Olivia says. “The quality is terrible. He should’ve picked a different background. It’s like some low-budget terrorist group made it.” She looks up from her phone. “You should have at least sat in front of your bookshelf. That would be interesting. Here you just look really pasty and pale. I mean I know you’re hurt and everything.”

  “What video?” Dad asks, pushing away from the counter and moving toward Olivia.

  “Why did you put this on YouTube and not TikTok?” Olivia asks.

  “It’s not really right for TikTok—”

  “Oh, I see,” Olivia says. “You shared this on the creative writing club channel. Ex Libris. Clever. Then people at school can see it and start to share.”

  “What video?” Dad asks.

  “You should at least do a TikTok telling everyone you posted on YouTube,” Olivia says. “Although the comments tell me people are seeing it already. Yikes.”

  “What is this video?” Dad asks.

  “It’s about Chloe,” Olivia says. “What else?” She hands her phone to Dad and pushes the play button for him because he pretty much can’t do anything on his phone without help.

  My voice comes across the kitchen, tinny and small.

  Hi, my name is Hunter Gifford…

  Dad watches with an open mouth and Olivia turns to me. “Have you read the comments?”

  “Some.”

  Oliva makes a face. “Nasty. People are so rude. They get online and totally stop acting like human beings.” She breezes across the kitchen and peers into the pan on the stove. “Blech. Who made this?”

  “Dad did,” I say, pushing away my bowl.

  “Dad made it? Professor Benjamin Gifford cooked?”

  We both look at him as the video ends. Dad takes a deep breath. He hands the phone back to Olivia like it’s a dead bird. He goes over to his bag and picks it up. Dad doesn’t like conflict, and he never tells us what he’s feeling. We just have to guess when he’s unhappy with us. And it’s pretty obvious he’s unhappy right now. All the goodwill that went into him trying to make breakfast and offering to homeschool me seems gone.

  “This is a mistake, Hunter,” he says, his voice level. For him this comment amounts to the Gettysburg Address.

  “I’m trying to find Chloe,” I say. The ache in my head gets more intense.

  “Things just started to quiet down a little,” he says. “The crank calls. The dog crap on the porch. We just got some peace.”

  “You said they’re done searching,” I say. “Maybe this will motivate them to try again.”

  “It’s a mistake. The lawyer told you to keep a low profile when you left the hospital. And you posted that on a school channel?”

  “Dad—”

  “It’s not a school channel,” Olivia says. “It’s a club channel. Hunter and Chloe created it, and this livens it up a little. Usually, Ex Libris posts boring poetry readings. Snooze.”

  “Oh, jeez,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Okay, I’m late. Are you sure you’re okay to drive to school?”

  “The doctor said I could.”

  “Okay. Just be safe.”

  And then he goes to the door without looking back.

  “What are you so pissed about, Dad?” Olivia asks.

  “Livvy, it’s okay,” I say.

  “No,” she says. “He’s trying to help find Chloe. He has the right to do that, even if his presentation is ass.”

  Dad stops in the open doorway. He doesn’t go out and doesn’t come back in. He just stands there, a man caught in-between. He doesn’t look over his shoulder when he speaks. “The cops said to keep a low profile. There are a lot of raw emotions. People get…” He pauses and lifts his free hand to his forehead. “Hunter’s going back to school today and that…It’s going to be tough.”

  “What if the video helps us find her?” Oliva asks, her voice rising.

  Dad stands in the doorway a few moments longer. He looks like he’s going to say something but stops. Then he says, “Just be careful driving, okay? And if you don’t feel well, go tell the nurse.”

  And he’s out the door and off to work.

  Olivia throws her hands in the air in an overly theatrical gesture. She wants me to be just as outraged. Which I am, in a way, but I’m also trying to understand. Dad doesn’t like talking about things. He doesn’t like emotions being on display.

  As Chloe used to say, “The apple doesn’t fall far.”

  Used to say? No. Says. Chloe says that about me.

  “It’s okay, Livvy. Maybe I shouldn’t have made it. Maybe it’s just going to make things worse. All the things people will say…all the things they’re posting.”

  Oliva stares at me with her mouth wide open, her braces gleaming beneath the kitchen light.

  “What people say? What people say? Is what people say or post worse than the fact that nobody knows where Chloe is? Or people harassing us by smearing dog shit on the porch? Or knocking over the trash cans? Come on, Hunter. Think. Is that stuff worse?” She stomps off, but as she goes up the stairs, her voice floats back to me over the sound of her heavy steps. “I think it’s beautiful how much you love Chloe, Hunter. I really do.”

  And she’s right. I do love Chloe.

  And I love my lunatic sister, too.

  Four

  Dad would be happy. I drive so slowly it feels like the car is standing still. Old ladies in giant cars pass us—that’s how slow we go. I barely notice my headache.

  The accident on homecoming night is still under investigation. They tested my blood, and they know I wasn’t drunk or high. The police say it’s possible another car might have been involved—either accidentally or on purpose—because otherwise how did we just randomly plow into a tree?

  They checked both our phones, so they know we weren’t texting. They took paint scrapings off her dad’s nearly new Charger to see if someone else rammed into us. Why they think someone would do that, I have no clue.

  Even though it was her dad’s car—which is nicer than the gray 2010 Corolla I drive—it appears I was driving, and Chloe was in the passenger seat. Her shoes, phone, and purse were found on that side. My blood was on the steering wheel. A trace of Chloe’s blood was on the inside of the passenger door. They have a whole team of cops trying to figure it all out.

  Since I can’t remember a single thing about the accident, I’m not any help. But the police turned my life inside out. They took hair and saliva samples. They went all through my room—my closet, my desk, my computer. They took the clothes I wore that night and went through my locker at school. If I had any secrets, the cops know every one of them now.

  The lawyer Dad called—a middle-aged woman who looks more like a librarian—allowed the police to do those things, and then privately told me I’d be fine as long as I told the truth.

  But it all raises the question—why would someone want to run us off the road?

  And if it was just an accident, why did they leave the scene? And take Chloe?

  And why did I wander around until someone found me? Why didn’t I stay?

  Why didn’t I try to help Chloe?

  Maybe my head was too messed up. Or maybe…that’s where I start to look suspicious.

  It turns out the hospital has security cameras outside the emergency room doors. No car dropped me off that night. I just came wandering up. The cops showed me the grainy video that looked like something from a found footage horror film, and I saw myself stumbling to the door, my hand held to my bloody forehead. I look like the guy in the movie who brings the virus into the hospital. Either someone dumped me in the lot and stayed out of sight. Or they didn’t want their car to be seen for some reason.

  Or maybe I faked the whole thing. That’s what some people say. I drove into a tree and bashed my own head and did something terrible to Chloe. Then walked five miles to the hospital in the dark. With a concussion.

  As we make the drive to school, my hands grip the wheel tight. This is only the second time I’ve driven since…since that night. I stop extra long at every stop sign. I look both ways even when a light turns green. I’m wrong to make fun of the old ladies. Their behavior makes sense to me now.

  Olivia is in the passenger seat, texting away, her feet tucked underneath her. She’s clearly not worried about my driving. Her thumbs move over her phone like a video in fast-forward.

  She spends every ride to school texting this way. But I want to talk. Maybe I’m more anxious than I realize. Maybe dad is right. Maybe I should lay low. After those comments on YouTube, who knows what people will say in person?

  “Aren’t you going to see Gabriela in less than five minutes?” I ask.

  “I need to plan where we’re meeting. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

  “Wow. So long.”

  She lowers the phone to her lap. “Oh, shit. Am I being an asshole for texting Gabby while Chloe’s missing? I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

  “I wasn’t saying that.” And I wasn’t. “I was just teasing you. You know, the way I always do.”

  “Are you sure? I’ll stop.”

  “You don’t have to stop. I’m glad you have Gabriela. You’re lucky.”

  “I know,” she says dreamily. “And it’s almost our three-month anniversary. So let’s talk about something happy.” Olivia turns and looks out the window. We’re driving through a neighborhood near ours. Rows and rows of brick ranch houses that Chloe called midcentury modern. The yards are full of leaves, and a lot of the porches have been taken over by pumpkins and cornstalks and plastic skeletons. “Look at all the Halloween stuff. Isn’t it awesome? Gabriela and I are taking her little cousin trick-or-treating. Did I tell you that?”

  “No, you didn’t. Or maybe you did, and I can’t remember.”

  “No worries. We’re all going to dress like zombies. You know, all pale and deathly and shit.”

  Pale and deathly. That makes me think of something…

  “Livvy, about the video…”

  “Don’t worry about Dad, Hunter. He can be such an asshole sometimes. It’s like when I try to talk to him about Mom, and he’s all like, ‘I just don’t want to think about that, Livvy.’ Can you believe he says that to me? By the way, I told him fifty times to stop calling me Livvy. I’m not a little kid.”

  “I call you Livvy all the time.”

  “You’re allowed to. You’re my brother, and I give you permission. But not Dad.”

  “Give him a break. He’s just…private.”

  “I hate that word. Private. ‘It’s private, Livvy.’ ‘Some things are meant to be private, Livvy.’ Mom never said that shit to me.”

  “Is the video bad?” I ask. “I mean, people are already saying shit in the comments. Will it get worse?”

  Olivia takes her time answering, which is rare. Usually she fires from the hip, the words flying out of her mouth like missiles. But she’s looking back out the window now, her fingers twining through the purple streak in her hair.

  “Your intention with the video is really sweet,” she says finally. “I know how much you care about Chloe. And I love her to Jupiter and back. I mean, she’s way better than Hannah. I don’t know how you could stand her. I know Chloe can’t stand her.”

  “They basically can’t stand each other. And I dated Hannah two years ago.”

  “Okay. But I love Chloe, you know? I really do.”

  “I know.”

  Olivia stops twirling her hair. She raises her hand to her eyes and touches each of them gently. Everything makes Olivia cry. Movies, puppies, songs, babies. They all make her cry. She’s seriously missing Chloe, too. Chloe is an only child, and Olivia doesn’t have any sisters. Olivia always told me I could never break up with Chloe because if I did, she’d disown me and claim Chloe as her own.

  “But people are going to say shit,” she says. “In person, and not just in the comments. They’ve already been harassing us. Dad didn’t want to tell you, but somebody let the air out of his tires on campus a few days ago.”

  “They did?”

  “Yeah. He had to call a tow truck to come and fill them up so he could drive home. People are assholes, Hunter. It’s like Shark Week. A little blood in the water, and they go wild.”

  “I wish Dad had told me,” I say. “Have people been bullying you?”

  “I’m fine,” she says. “People have said some things when I walk by. Cowards. Every once in a while, somebody says some bullshit about Gabby and me. I can handle it. I mean... I know why you made the video. And I know you were feeling some real shit when you made it. But some people might not get it. You’re kind of like Dad in that way. People don’t know what’s really going on inside. Maybe you should have just written something. Video is kind of…you know, unforgiving. And it looks like it’s already spreading around the school. Maybe you should stay off TikTok.”

  “Are you saying the video makes me look fake?”

  The school comes in sight. Rows of yellow buses, the endless procession of student cars. I used to pick up Chloe and drive her to school. She and Olivia would text jokes back and forth while I drove. They’d laugh and laugh and sometimes not let me in on it. Then we’d park in the lot, and Olivia would sprint into the school looking for Gabriela while Chloe and I walked together holding hands.

  I wish I could hold her hand again. Like in the dream. Like we used to do walking into school. Just hold her hand…

  I find an empty spot, aware that Olivia still hasn’t answered my question.

  “Well?” I ask.

  Olivia is staring straight ahead, but then she whips around to face me. “You look stiff. Like in school pictures. You always look like you’re sitting on a nail or something.” She takes a big breath, her shoulders rising and falling. “Like I said, I know who you are. But all these people who don’t…and, my God, Hunter, a lot of people have probably shared it now.” She gestures to the parking lot, the school, the town beyond. “I’m afraid they’re going to think you look guilty.”

  Five

  Olivia stays glued to my side as we walk toward the school.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Aren’t you meeting Gabby?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why are you here? With me?”

  “Because I want to be.”

  We join a stream of students. Kids from every one of the four grades, kids from every social background, kids from every race. Garrett Morgan High is a big school because our small city in Kentucky just keeps growing. There are two other high schools out in the county, and there’s talk of a third, but Garrett Morgan is the biggest with almost two thousand kids. I try not to dwell on the irony of going to a school named after a Kentuckian who patented the stoplight because he witnessed a horrible car accident.

  “You can go on,” I say to Olivia. “I’m fine. I’m just going to go to class and blend in. And try not to look guilty.”

  “I never should have told you the truth,” she says.

  “You’ve never not told the truth in your life. Go find Gabriela. Go be sickeningly cute together. I’m okay.”

  Once she’s gone, I continue my slow walk into the building—past the display case full of trophies won by the football team, past the giant painting of Abraham Lincoln, past the grinning, cheesy portrait of the current president—and begin to feel like everything might be okay. The online trolls don’t represent the rest of the world. People post things online they would never have the guts to utter in real life.

  Dad always says no one under the age of forty follows the news anyway. Maybe they don’t know I’m a suspect. Maybe they don’t know anything.

  The voices around me hum, a dull murmur punctuated by the occasional shout. The odor of disinfectant reminds me of my nights in the hospital, some toxic liquid the maintenance crew smears all over the floors to make them shine. My pulse slows to a normal rate.

  I take the stairs, two at a time, to my locker on the second floor. There are fewer kids there, less noise pollution. I’m a week behind. I tried to keep up while I was home but didn’t do nearly enough. That’s another reason to come back. I need to get back to work, to have something to throw myself into. I can’t control much of what is going on around me, but I can control how hard I work in school.

  College applications loom. My grades cannot slip. Maybe I can even write something again.

  I want to feel normal, even as my healing mind tells me I can’t.

  A couple of faces I don’t know turn to gawk at me as I head to my locker. I’m still wearing the bandage. It’s smaller but it’s there. When I feel their eyes on me, I unconsciously reach up and touch it. I consider going to the bathroom and ripping it off. If I want to blend in, why did I wear an ugly sign on my head?

  Because the doctor told you to…

  Maybe they weren’t looking at me because of the accident. Maybe they were just looking.

  A couple more kids turn and stare, and my skin itches the way it does when someone wants to take my picture. Like ants crawling right below the surface.

  I quicken my pace. I just want to get to the locker, lean inside, shuffle my books around, and pretend to have something to do. Then I’ll go off to class when the crowd thins.

  But the door of my locker—number 209—has something on it.

  It takes me a minute to figure it out. It looks like a Halloween decoration. Did Olivia put it there to welcome me back?

  It’s a dangling rubber skeleton, tied to the locker with a length of string.

  Somebody lets out a loud laugh behind me. But I don’t get the joke.

  A piece of paper is pinned to the skeleton. A note, printed in a creepy, Gothic font.

  Only two words: CHLOE KILLER.

  Six

  More laughter behind me. More and more.

  My hand swings like an axe, grabbing the skeleton, yanking with all my might to pull the string loose. It breaks off in my hand, and I stumble back.