His voice cracks, and his chin quivers. He scrunches his eyes shut, and Laura reaches out and rubs his back.

  Sniffles fill the air around me. Olivia. Gabriela. Hector. Everyone. Even Cameron looks serious, which he almost never does. Chad has his head down, staring at his feet.

  My eyes fill with tears, and I lower my head as Gabriela reaches over and squeezes my arm.

  I want to thank her, but if I open my mouth, I might vomit. And it’s not just the remnants of the concussion. It’s everything. All of it. So I close my eyes and just stand still.

  Scott’s voice comes back over the speakers. “That’s all we’re going to say right now. It’s tough to talk, so we won’t say much. But we appreciate everything. We do. Laura wanted you all to know that…”

  And a few people do applaud, a scattering. And someone shouts, “We love you, Scott and Laura.”

  And someone else shouts, “We love you, Chloe.”

  And I whisper the words to myself so no one hears: “I love you, Chloe.”

  The only thing left to do is light the candles, but Scott speaks again. And what he says makes me open my eyes and look up.

  “Hold on just one minute,” he says. “Laura does want to say something. I thought she was too…but, well…if that’s, if you’re sure…okay. Honey?”

  Seventeen

  Laura moves toward the microphone, but with every step, she steals a look over at Scott, who is nodding, encouraging her to keep going. She wears a Garrett Morgan High sweatshirt that looks kind of tight. It must be one of Chloe’s. She also has a yellow ribbon pinned on her chest. She looks ten years older, and Scott steps forward and takes her hand as she reaches the microphone.

  She looks out over the crowd, which has again fallen into a hushed silence. Then Laura just stands there, her lips pressed into a tight line. A few people applaud. And someone shouts encouragement, telling her to take her time and speak her truth.

  Laura’s face changes. The look of stunned grief she’s worn for the entire evening slides away, and her features start to harden. Her lips remain tight, and her eyes narrow. She keeps one hand in Scott’s and with the other grabs the microphone, but the way she holds it reminds me of the way someone would take hold of a club just before swinging it at someone’s head.

  Gabriela and Olivia shuffle their feet and move closer together. Olivia leans toward me and says, “She looks kind of freaked. Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t.”

  “Scott’s right,” Laura says. “We do thank you.” Her voice sounds rock steady. Steadier than Scott’s. “And I know you all join us in praying for Chloe. We all miss her and would do anything for her.”

  Scattered voices yell their support.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Chloe.”

  “But, you know, there is one person who doesn’t seem to want to do anything to get Chloe back. There’s one person who won’t cooperate with the police. Who won’t help us at all.”

  A murmur ripples through the crowd. Scott shifts his weight from one foot to the other on the stage.

  My back stings. Like someone has slipped a long, cold needle between two of my vertebrae.

  “And his name is Hunter Gifford,” Laura says.

  Heads in the crowd turn, looking around. Trying to spot me. A few nod my way, and I wish for a cloak of invisibility.

  Laura goes on. “He says he can’t remember anything from that night. Nothing. And he was the one in the car with her. He turned up at the hospital, and he’s okay, but Chloe is nowhere to be found. And how did he get to the hospital? Who knows? There was no car on the security cameras. I don’t understand that. Do any of you?”

  A few people shout back. “No!”

  More heads turn toward me, faces finding me in the crowd. People nudge each other and point at me, like I’m a display at the zoo. My cheeks flush like every set of eyes pointed my way is giving off heat. Basher and his friends have all turned my way as well. They glare, and one of them yells, “No!”

  “What the hell?” Olivia shouts. She drops Gabriela’s hand and steps forward, like she’s going to break through the crowd, jump up on stage, and take Laura on.

  But Dad places a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Easy, Livvy.”

  Her face is flushed, too. Gabriela takes her hand again and whispers something I can’t hear.

  Chad is shaking his head, telling me to be cool, to not let this get me riled up. Cameron and Hector have their mouths half-open like they can’t believe what’s being said.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Laura says. “Not if he loves her like he says he does. And then, to add insult to our injury, he makes that video. That damn video. It’s all over school. Do you know he wants to be a writer? Isn’t that convenient? He makes a video that everyone is talking about. It’s just a story to him. I think—”

  Scott steps forward and whispers something into Laura’s ear.

  “I’m almost done,” she says to him. “Just a minute.”

  Someone shouts, “Let her finish.”

  But Laura doesn’t need any encouragement. “He wants to be a writer. That’s what he always talks about. Do you think he wants to write a book about Chloe? Do you think he wants this video to go viral or whatever and then write a book about her?”

  The murmurs grow louder. More faces turn, more eyes burn into me like lasers. I feel like a rabbit with the blades of a lawn mower churning my way. I want to run. But something keeps me frozen in place.

  “I think he knows more than he’s letting on,” Laura says. “A lot more. I think the police need to sit him down again and get him to talk. He’s the boyfriend. The boyfriend always knows.”

  “He’s here!”

  This voice is close. Very close. A guy in a flannel shirt and a Tennessee Titans cap points my way. I’ve never seen him before. He’s got to be close to forty, maybe somebody’s parent. He points at me, his hand rising above the crowd because he’s so much taller than almost everyone else.

  “He’s here,” the man says again.

  “Easy, man,” Chad says to the guy.

  And I don’t want Chad to get into a fight with the guy over me. Unlike me—and my other friends—Chad isn’t opposed to fighting. It’s only happened twice since I’ve known him, and only when he thinks he’s been disrespected.

  The murmurs from the crowd on the field turn to shouts. And now it seems like every face is looking my way. Not just a few.

  Everyone.

  You could sear a steak on my face, it’s so hot with embarrassment and fear. And, yes, anger.

  I told the police everything I knew.

  Don’t they know how much I want to remember? How desperate I feel? That for Chloe’s sake I want to remember everything from that night?

  Dad is next to me. He has his hand on my upper arm, his grip like steel bands.

  “Let’s go,” he says, his words clipped.

  “Bullshit, Dad. I want to tell them the truth. I want to go up there—”

  “We’re going.”

  Chad jerks his head toward the parking lot.

  Dad physically moves me away from the crowd. As we head off toward the car, people are hissing and booing and shouting things.

  Olivia and Gabriela follow behind us, and my sister lifts both hands in the air, flipping off the entire crowd, which probably helps my cause about as much as when she punched the lacrosse player in the face.

  Behind Olivia, Daniel films everything. My former best friend.

  Something comes flying from overhead and splats onto the field between Dad and me, sending up a spray of liquid that hits our pants and shoes. A giant soda from McDonald’s. Then a rock the size of a baseball flies past us, skidding across the ground.

  It’s bad. It’s dangerous.

  We’re out of the stadium and halfway across the parking lot, but the voices from the stage still reach us, rolling across like thunder.

  “Look. He’s running away,” Laura says. “It’s not that he can’t remember. It’s that he just doesn’t want us to know the truth.”

  Eighteen

  We ride home in awkward silence, except for the satellite radio, which, as usual, Dad has tuned to the ’80s station. It’s the music he and Mom listened to when they were in school. As if things couldn’t get any weirder, the song from the TikTok video comes on. Now I know the name of the song. “There Is A Light That Never Goes Out” by The Smiths.

  I smack the power button. “Can we just…not?”

  Chad texts me: That was a shitshow. Need anything?

  With dad. It’s cool.

  Dad keeps his eyes on the road. Olivia and Gabriela are in the back seat, and Olivia starts going.

  “That was such bullshit back there,” she says. “How can that woman say those kinds of things about Hunter? In public? Public? She basically accused him of murder in front of the whole town.”

  Dad speaks in a steady voice. “Grief is difficult. It makes people do strange things.”

  “You’re making excuses for her, Dad,” Olivia says. “I want to fight back. Hunter is being bullied at school.” She must not be wearing a seat belt, because she leans so far forward her voice is right in my ear. “Did you tell him about the video?”

  “My video?” I ask.

  “No. The TikTok.”

  “What is all this?” Dad asks.

  “It’s nothing,” I say.

  “It’s not nothing.”

  “Livvy, why don’t you sit back?” I say. “Put on your seat belt.”

  Olivia throws herself back in the seat and makes a loud groan of frustration. She speaks to Gabriela as if we’re not there.

  “Can you believe these two?” she asks. “All hell is breaking loose, and they just want to sit there and do nothing. People are harassing us. And they do nothing. Can you believe it, Gabby?”

  “I should stay out of it,” Gabriela says.

  “Stay out of it?” Olivia asks. “Is that really what you want to do?”

  “Oh, look, it’s my house. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Gifford.”

  Dad eases the car to the curb, and Olivia and Gabriela whisper their goodbyes to each other. They make it sound like they’ll never see each other again, even though they’ll be texting the rest of the night. But maybe I’m a fool to judge them for their sappy, heartfelt goodbyes. What wouldn’t I give for one more chance to tell Chloe how I feel? Maybe everyone should say goodbye that way every time they part. Even if it’s just for a night.

  When we get to our house, I expect Dad to head to his study, but he stops in the kitchen and says he’d like to talk to me.

  Olivia stops, too, and leans against the island with her arms crossed. She’s clearly still pissed. She doesn’t want to let go because she thinks she hasn’t been heard. And she wants action taken. Now.

  I try to give Laura the benefit of the doubt and think about it the way Dad explained. Grief makes people do strange things. Olivia should know. The night Mom died, Olivia came home and smashed her favorite dollhouse—one my grandfather had built for her. I mean she stomped on it until it was unrecognizable. I asked Dad to do something, to stop her, but he just let her get it out of her system. Which she did. She smashed the dollhouse until she ran out of energy, and then she slumped to the floor, sobbing. Dad calmly picked her up and carried her to bed. She didn’t smash anything else after that.

  “Go on up to your room, Livvy,” Dad says. “I want to talk to your brother alone.”

  Olivia starts to protest, jutting her chin out like a boxer stepping into the ring, but then some of the iron goes out of her body. She sighs and turns for the stairs, clomping all the way.

  As she goes, she mutters, “It’s not right. She can’t say that shit about Hunter. She can’t…”

  Dad rolls his eyes a little and points to the kitchen table. Livvy deserves a break. She just cares about me. Dad and I sit, scraping our chairs against the tile. He looks tired, and his eyes are kind of sad. But they’re always kind of sad.

  He drums his fingers against the table a few times. “I feel like I should offer you a beer or something.”

  “I don’t want a beer. It’s fine.”

  “I was just kidding…kind of.”

  “I know, Dad. What’s on your mind?”

  He nods. “I don’t want to keep you from your homework. I know you’re still getting caught up. But…well, what’s going on at school? What’s this video Livvy is talking about? Is something wrong?”

  “It’s nothing, Dad… It’s just…bullshit.”

  “Is it? Do you want me to call the school? I can’t really control what Laura says, and I’m trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but if someone is bullying you…”

  “I can handle it, Dad.”

  “I meant it when I said you could be homeschooled. We could work that out. You’re graduating in six months or so. You’re an excellent student.”

  “I don’t… Thanks, Dad. But I don’t want to…”

  “Give them the satisfaction?”

  “Exactly. I just don’t. Chloe wouldn’t want me to quit. She wouldn’t quit if things were reversed. I’m not going to, either.”

  Some of the sadness goes out of Dad’s eyes to be replaced by…admiration? Pride?

  “Fair enough,” he says with a nod. “But if you change your mind, or if you want me to call someone…from the school…”

  “I’ll let you know,” I say.

  We sit there staring at each other while the refrigerator hums. We rarely talk about anything real, and when we do, neither one of us ever seems to know how to end it. So we tend to stare at each other in awkward silence before someone gets up or goes to do something else.

  “Well,” I say, trying to push things along.

  “You know,” Dad says, “when your mom died, I didn’t really talk to anyone about it. I thought…well, I thought I had to be strong for you and Livvy. I focused on the two of you, which was the right thing. But I guess I’m asking you to make sure you take care of yourself.”

  The clock on the wall ticks, and the second hand swings around. Music starts to thump from upstairs as Olivia deals with her frustration.

  “Dad?” I ask.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think Chloe is still alive?”

  Dad doesn’t hesitate. “Until we know otherwise, there’s always hope.”

  There’s no awkwardness between us now. He said exactly what I wanted—and needed—to hear.

  “Okay,” he says, standing up. “Make sure you get a good night’s sleep.”

  And he’s off to his study before I can respond.

  Nineteen

  Music blares from Olivia’s room. She’s mad at Dad for not pushing back against Chloe’s parents or our other tormentors. And she’s probably mad at me for not lashing out.

  Olivia tends to see things in black and white. If we let her cool down, which she normally does pretty quickly, she’ll be on to something else by the time we ride to school in the morning.

  A text arrives from Daniel:

  Hey! That’s shitty what happened at the vigil. Remember I said I had something to show you. See you soon?

  Did he say that? He filmed me in the hallway at lunch and then filmed me again at the vigil, acting like he was the second coming of Quentin Tarantino. He expresses understanding now, but his camera rolled while my family slinked away. While people threw shit at us.

  Another text appears:

  You’re going to want to see this. Srsly.

  He did say he had something to show me, right before Laura named me public enemy number one.

  Even when we were kids, he always had a camera in his face. He never really got that it wasn’t polite to go around filming people without their permission. When we were ten, Daniel filmed an old guy in the park who had tattoos of anchors and airplanes up and down his arms and was feeding birds on a park bench. The guy—who looked to be about a hundred—saw him and came over, moving faster than either one of us could despite his age. He knocked the camera out of Daniel’s hands and gave him a lecture about privacy. The old guy even threw in that he hadn’t landed on Iwo Jima so young shits like us could film him whenever we wanted.

  The guy terrified me. Daniel laughed it off, relieved only that his camera had landed in the grass and wasn’t broken.

  But, while it’s true that Daniel didn’t understand boundaries, he never lied. Ever. If he tells me I’m going to want to see something, then he really believes I’m going to want to see it. But is he thinking of the twelve-year-old version of me he knew better than anyone else or the seventeen-year-old version he barely knows at all?

  My mind flashes to Daniel and Dad shaking hands and how happy Dad looked. That moment took me back to being a kid, when Mom was alive and the only thing to worry about was getting chewed out by an old guy in the park. It feels simple by comparison.

  And after hundreds of eyes turned to look at me with disdain and throw rocks at me, it wouldn’t hurt to know someone else is on my side.

  Sure. Be there in a few.

  Dad’s sitting at his desk in the study, glasses pushed up on top of his thinning hair, a stack of essays spread before him. He looks highly skeptical when I say I want to leave until I mention Daniel’s name, and then his face brightens.

  “Okay, sure,” he says with a nod. “But not too late.”

  “I won’t be.”

  “Are you walking?” he asks.

  “Yeah. I’ve always walked to Daniel’s.”