Her father was trying to be gentle, but the anger boiled in Sawyer’s belly. “You don’t believe me.”

Andrew cocked his head. “Sawyer…”

“I’m not making this up, Dad.” Sawyer paused, sucking on her teeth. “Oh my God. You think this is about the nightmares, don’t you?”

“You mentioned they were back, and Tara mentioned she saw the Trazadone out on your nightstand again when she was straightening up.”

“Why the hell was Tara in my room?”

Andrew quirked a fatherly eyebrow. “Now, Sawyer, Tara was just helping out.”

“You mean helping herself to my business. Besides, the stupid nightmares came back right after Kevin died, Dad. Not now. And today, I was outside, I was running, I was awake!”

“I know, I know.” He held up his hands, palms forward. “I’m sure you think you really did hear something, but, Sawyer, there’s an eleven-foot iron fence around this whole development. And the gates are closed at night.”

Sawyer crossed her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself, thinking of the footsteps, the headlights from the previous night. “But they aren’t locked.”

* * *

Sawyer tried Chloe’s phone a second time after she got out of the shower, but there was no answer.

“Hey, it’s me again. I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay after last night. I got your text that you made it home okay with Ryan, but I’m still worried. Call me. Besides, I want to know if we’re still on for the game tonight. I totally understand if you don’t want to, though; I’m not really sure I’m up to it either…” She clicked her phone shut, feeling slightly uneasy, and made her way down the stairs. Though she had gotten up and run this morning, the heft of too many sleepless nights and the drug-addled fog started to become overwhelming. She poured herself a giant mug of coffee and sank down at the kitchen table, her mind ticking.

Could the person who hurt Chloe be my admirer?

There was no reason why, Sawyer thought, as she worried her bottom lip. Chloe was her best friend; she would never hurt Sawyer. Sawyer gulped, her saliva burning her throat—she would never hurt Sawyer the way Kevin had. The thought was errant, rushing through her subconscious, and she rolled onto her side, pulling her knees up into a fetus position.

The first time, it was barely a shove. It happened so fast that Sawyer wasn’t even sure it had. Kevin had his arms around her immediately, steadying her, kissing her, telling her it was an accident. And she believed him. He loved her so much—he told her all the time. He called her all the time. It was powerful, he said. His passion for her consumed him, and sometimes he didn’t even know what he was doing. He never meant to hurt her.

No one would have understood.

Sawyer squeezed her eyes shut, and Kevin’s face, his fervent eyes, flashed in her mind. Then it was Cooper, his hand so gently clutching hers, and her lips burned, guilty.

* * *

The only palm in Pacific Palms Park was four feet high and sat at the gated opening to the development. With its abandoned, chipped-paint guard shack and grass that was more yellow than green, it didn’t look like much of a park, either. Sawyer veered through the once-white latticework gates and snaked around the neighborhood of prefab houses rooted to cracked concrete. When she pulled up to the Coulter house, Chloe was already outside, pacing the carport.

“Hey,” she said when Sawyer pulled her car to a stop. “What took you so long? I thought you were coming straight here.”

Sawyer cocked an eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me now?”

“Yeah, I’m the jealous boyfriend.”

Chloe laughed, the comment innocent and flippant to her, but it struck Sawyer. She forced herself to laugh it off. “Are you ready to go?”

“No, and neither are you.”

Sawyer looked down at her jeans and black T-shirt ensemble. It wasn’t exactly couture, but she thought it would pass for football attire.

“You look nothing like a Fighting Hornet fan.”

Sawyer tried to smile; this would be the first football game she would attend since Kevin’s death. As it was, Chloe had had to beg Sawyer for ten minutes straight to come to the game. “It’s a big one,” she reminded her friend, “and you’re going to have to go to a football game again sometime.”

Though she wasn’t crazy about the idea of the game and was less crazy about the idea of dressing up for it, Chloe was hard to turn down when she was beaming at Sawyer, her enthusiasm boundless—and catching.

“Come on in,” Chloe said, “unless you mind slumming in the double wide a minute.”

Sawyer grabbed the screen door behind Chloe. “It’s not a double wide. It’s manufactured housing.”

“Whatever it is, it comes with wood paneling and Astroturf.”

They stepped into the living room—a perfect square of wood paneling and shag carpeting, the smell of a thousand cigarettes ground in. The windows were covered with heavy drapes in a nauseating pattern of swoops and flowers, and the only light was coming from the enormous TV. It took up nearly one whole wall, and Chloe’s grandmother was in the chair directly opposite it, a cigarette clamped in the corner of her mouth. Though it was midafternoon, she was still in a housecoat and slippers, and Sawyer knew that the old lady only changed for church or for bingo.

“Hey, Nan, you remember Sawyer.” Chloe clapped the back of her grandmother’s chair.

“Hi, Mrs. Coulter.”

Mrs. Coulter took a long drag of her cigarette, her cheeks hollowing. The glow from the television flashed over her as she sat stiffly on her chair, making no move to answer her granddaughter.

“Come on.” Chloe grabbed Sawyer’s arm and dragged her toward the back of the house.

“Where are your parents?”

Chloe shrugged. “You mean Stepford mom and new daddy? Hell if I know. Let me just get my purse.” She grabbed a wide leather bag, stuffed a black sweatshirt into it, and began fiddling with something on the top of her bureau.

Sawyer studied Chloe’s wall, plastered with photographs—mostly of the two of them, mugging for the camera, cheering at Hawthorne games. She pointed to one. “What’s this one from?” It was a glossy photo of Sawyer in a windbreaker. She was in mid-run, her face contorted with effort, misted with sweat. Her ponytail sailed behind her, and the strain on her face was evident. The shot was so close up that there was very little in the background except a mottled gray blur.

Chloe squinted. “I don’t know. One of your million track practices. One of the million times you blew everyone else out of the water.” She smiled.

Sawyer squinted. “How’d you get it, though? It’s super close. I don’t even remember it being taken.”

“That’s probably because you were running like your life depended on it—you know how you are.” She held her forefinger and thumb a quarter inch apart. “Just the tiniest bit competitive. And I don’t know when it was taken; it’s been on my wall forever.”

Sawyer shrugged. “I guess I never noticed it.”

Chloe mirrored her shrug. “Guess not. So”—she held up two long green ribbons—“are we ready to root, root, root for the home team?”

“Okay first of all, that’s baseball.”

“And second of all?”

“Shut up and turn around so I can put this in your hair.”

Chloe handed Sawyer her hairbrush, and Sawyer brushed Chloe’s short hair into a thin ponytail, wrapping the green ribbon around it. Then they switched places and finished off with some Fighting Hornet temporary tattoos and a set of matching school tees.

“Oh, wow, we need to get going—we’re going to miss kickoff!”

Sawyer glanced up at the clock, surprised that she had been at Chloe’s house for over an hour. She was even more surprised at the sudden excitement she felt about going to the football game—she had forgotten how good it felt to be the old, school-spirited Sawyer.

“Let’s go!”

Chloe pulled her bulging bag over her shoulder and pushed Sawyer out of her room.

“Where are you two off to?” Chloe’s mom stopped the girls in the hallway, and Chloe flinched. Chloe and her mother were roughly the same size, but where Chloe’s blond hair was thin and fine, her mother’s was a constant yellow-orange nest of peroxide and oversleeping. Sawyer knew that Ms. Coulter wasn’t particularly old, but her skin had the papery-thin look of a woman much older, her milky blue eyes gave way to crow’s feet, and her lips were constantly wrinkled as she sucked desperately on a Marlboro light.

“When did you get home?” Chloe asked.

“About a minute ago. Where are you going?”

Chloe flicked the green ribbon on her ponytail. “To the White House, Mom.”

Her mother rolled her eyes, and Chloe pushed past her—a bit roughly, Sawyer thought—and beelined for the front door.

“I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Nana,” Chloe called over her shoulder.

Sawyer noticed that the woman in the chair did nothing but blink at the television screen as her granddaughter sailed out the front door.

The girls pulled into the Hawthorne High parking lot in record time. Sawyer had managed to hang on to that one surge of excitement by cranking up the radio, her and Chloe singing like tone-deaf maniacs to every car on the highway. But once she killed the engine and saw the lights flooding the football field, her heart started to pound. Chloe noticed the nuanced change in Sawyer and threaded her arm through Sawyer’s.

“Don’t worry, S. It’s going to be okay. And if it’s not, we’ll leave. Simple as that.”

Sawyer wanted to respond, but there were no words. She nodded mutely and let Chloe lead her toward the bleachers.