They nearly ran headlong into Maggie, whose gasp was sharp, her cold eyes more so as they shot daggers at Sawyer. She and Libby stood in the hallway directly in front of them, blocking the cafeteria doors.

“Bitch,” Maggie whispered between pursed lips.

Sawyer stiffened, tried to shake Kevin’s hand from hers, but he held tight. Sawyer went from fear to guilt as she noticed Maggie working to look hard, angry—but the glossy sheen on her eyes gave her grief away.

“We broke up months ago,” Kevin muttered. Whether it was a reminder to him or to Maggie, Sawyer couldn’t be sure, but the sweet, warm feeling she reveled in was gone, replaced by something else—something wanting and steel-cold.

“Maggie, I’m really sorry—”

“Shut it,” Libby spat at her, linking arms with Maggie. “The least you could do is not flaunt your new relationship”—she cut the word, hard—“right in front of her face. You’re trash, Sawyer Dodd. You two deserve each other. You two and your trailer trash third wheel, Chloe.”

Sawyer stiffened, the old anger boiling up again. Maggie, Sawyer, and Chloe had been friends—but that was a long time ago. Maggie and Kevin had dated too, but that was also a long time ago. Sawyer had nothing to be ashamed of, to feel guilty about. At least that’s what she told herself when Kevin tucked her under his arms, guiding her into the lunchroom, Maggie’s ice-cold glare left in their wake.

Sawyer swallowed back a sob and jammed her hands in the sweatshirt pockets, crossing the parking lot and ending at the edge of the football field. The drizzle had dipped into a thick, gray mist now that dotted her face with a cold sheen, but she liked the cold, slick feeling, the slight discomfort giving her something else to focus on.

Maggie hadn’t left a note. She hung herself; she must have talked to Libby about the way she was feeling. Sawyer’s stomach lurched painfully. Whether or not her admirer was involved, Maggie’s death was her fault. She either caused it or drove her to it. The tears rolled down her cheeks now, dripping from her chin and disappearing into the well-kept lawn as she crossed it, her heels barely sinking in but causing a muddy, sucking sound. She crossed her arms in front of her chest and hugged herself tightly until her feet were moving faster, even though her calves and her feet protested against the ache of her shoes. By the time she had reached the stands, mud spattered her calves and the hem of her dress; her shoes were ruined and snot ran over her lips, mixed with tears, and dribbled down the front of her sweatshirt. She didn’t care.

The sound of a car engine roaring to life was muffled but discernible, and Sawyer whipped around. She hadn’t noticed the other car in the lot. It wasn’t one she recognized—an old-model red Celica, sporting three mismatched hubcaps and a rust stain that ran the length of the trunk. She couldn’t see who was inside, either, but she knew they were in a hurry. The driver didn’t turn on the headlights as he stamped on the gas, the Celica’s tires spinning once on the slick asphalt before they dug in and lurched the car forward with a high-pitched squeal.

Sawyer pulled the sweatshirt tighter across her chest and jogged back to her own car. Her heart lodged in her throat when she saw the folded mint-green envelope tucked under her windshield wiper. Her breath came in short gasps and she ran to the look where the car had gone. Was he her admirer? Was he waiting, watching right now, getting off on her terror?

The car was long gone and Sawyer spun back to her own, her fingers on the note. It was damp—not quite wet—and Sawyer’s hand recoiled.

Had it been there as she left Maggie’s house?

She slid into the driver’s seat and glanced out the front windshield. The small note was visible, but to a distracted driver…

She yanked the note out, fingers shaking.

No one will ever hurt you again, Sawyer.

Not while I’m watching you.

* * *

Sawyer drove home in a fog, the raindrops starting with a gentle patter on the hood of her car, then moving to a loud rumble by the time she drove into Blackwood Hills Estates.

When she stepped through the front door, her father and Tara immediately stopped talking, looking up at Sawyer with eyebrows-up stares. Tara was curled on the couch, her belly swollen and huge, her bare feet tucked underneath one of the hemp pillows that Sawyer hated so much. Her father was leaning against his wife; the one hand that was tenderly massaging her back stopped and held her protectively.

Sawyer felt sick to her stomach. The image of her father and stepmother afraid, accusing, was almost too much to take. Her eyes started to water.

“I’m so sorry, Tara,” she said, “but I promise you—”

Tara held up a silencing hand and forced a small smile. “It’s okay, Sawyer. We can work all of this out. I know there must be a lot going on that we don’t understand.”

Sawyer pumped her head. “Yeah. But no more. I’m going to—I’m going to figure this out.”

She spun on her heels and took the stairs two at a time, peeling off her mud-soaked clothing when she got to her room. Sawyer dumped the soiled clothes into the hamper and choose a pair of warm, dry sweats, but the chill in her bones stayed with her, and she shivered, her teeth chattering as she clicked on her laptop and dug out her cell phone. While she waited for the Hawthorne High student page to load, she paced, chewing on her bottom lip and praying that she was making the right decision.

She wasn’t going to the police, after all.

Not exactly.

She sifted through smiling profile pictures on the student page until she found the one that she wanted.

“Hello?” He answered on the first ring, and Sawyer recognized Logan’s voice immediately and hoped that he didn’t recognize hers.

She cleared her throat. “Um, hello. Can I—may I speak to Stephen, please?”

Logan paused for a beat, and Sawyer’s heart clanged like a fire bell.

“Stephen?”

“Yes. Please.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

Sawyer went back to pacing. “Um…”

“Sawyer? Is that you?”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “Yeah, hi, Logan.”

“I didn’t know you and Stephen were friends.” Logan’s voice had changed. It was slow, even.

“Yeah, actually. I mean, kind of.”

There was an expectant pause, and Sawyer weighed whether or not she should tell Logan that she had met his brother at the police station.

But it was just Logan.

Who had the locker underneath hers and was watching her run the day of the shredding.

Had Stephen told Logan that Sawyer was at the police station?

“He stopped me for speeding,” Sawyer blurted, “and I just have a quick question.” She forced a light, cheery tone. “Is he available?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Logan put the phone down, and Sawyer was able to breathe again. All of her nerve endings were tingling and her mouth went dry; she didn’t wait for Stephen to get on the phone before ending the call. She tossed her phone and sat at her desk, pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a pen. She scrawled the words: note 1—Kevin, at the top, the name Logan, with a question mark just under it. After that she listed Mr. Hanson’s note, the two bunches of flowers, the message scrawled on her locker.

Logan was there when she left Mr. Hanson’s classroom after he tried to force himself on her. Though she had tried to act nonchalant afterward, she knew emotion was rolling off her in waves. He was there at the track while she ran and could have easily stayed around while she showered. And he admitted that he had sent the pink flowers, that he knew her home address.

Did anyone else?

Sawyer went back to the student home page and looked herself up. She was smiling in that picture, head thrown back in mid-laugh, clad in her track uniform. The site listed her name, her class, and her phone number. Nothing else.

A Google search wouldn’t help; Sawyer’s mother was paranoid and had her clerks systematically comb the Internet for any mention of her family, deleting personal information from snoop sites and public records. She said she had prosecuted too many criminals who found easy prey on the Internet.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. Her eyes scanned her bedroom, then landed on the brochure for Blackwood Hills Estates that her father had proudly pinned to her bulletin board. One side showed the entire intended housing tract, penciled sketches of happy families walking cartoonish dogs around houses that looked like hers, shaded by trees that right now were stick-like saplings. The other side was a full-color photo of the “model” house—her house—with the street address clearly visible.

Sawyer’s breath went sour.

Logan would have known about Maggie and Sawyer’s feud—everyone did—but was he capable of murdering her? Her heart began to pound.

No one will ever hurt you again. Not while I’m watching you.

The ringing of the phone brought Sawyer clattering back to earth. She stared at the blinking thing and felt herself start to shake. She finally snatched it up, letting out a relieved sigh when she saw the readout: Chloe.

“Oh God, Chloe, I’m so glad it’s you.”

“And that’s how you should always greet your best friend.”

Sawyer clutched at her chest, hoping to slow her heart. “Yeah, sure. Sorry, I just—I just thought you were someone else.”

“Who’s that? Cooper? No, wait; then you wouldn’t be so glad it’s me.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”