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Lori slid into Patrice and goaded her to horrific violence. Both of them ended up in a psychiatric hospital, Lori as the permanently traumatized alleged innocent bystander and Patrice as the convicted killer who had apparently spent her time weaving tales of deceit and betrayal. Tales she fed to her little sister.

“But why Heather?” I ask. It’s a pointless question, and that’s why I ask it. More distraction with a question that doesn’t have an answer.

Heather died because Heather had been there, and maybe, in some twisted way, Lori confused her with Samantha, like she’d mistaken Anton for Roddy. I remember that weird fight Patrice started, accusing Heather of messing around with a boy Patrice liked. I remember Heather’s utter confusion. Because there was no romantic rivalry. Not between Patrice and Heather. That was Lori and Samantha.

“Why Heather?” I repeat.

“Is that her name?” Lori relaxes back, shears resting against her arm. “That silly—”

I pivot and run.

THIRTY-FIVE

The cliff is to my left. Jin is to my right. I run in Jin’s direction and then swerve hard, praying I’ve laid it out properly in my mind so Lori won’t see him.

The midges buzz around me, getting in my hair, my nose, my mouth. I slit my eyes and run. The house should be there. I’m aiming for the west side—

There! A light inside. That’s the breakfast nook. Veer more. Keep running.

Keep running? I’m not twenty anymore. Not even thirty. I’m a middle-aged woman with CF whose scarred lungs mean she gets winded while fast walking. My lungs burn like I swallowed molten lava, and my brain screams that I can’t keep going, but I bear down and run with everything I have.

The house. I see the house immediately to my right. Then the corner of it. I race around that corner. Around the next one. Then I’m in the front yard.

Where’s Lori? I have no idea. Blood pounds too loudly in my ears for me to hear her footfalls, and my lungs hurt so bad I can’t focus on anything else. I just run.

There’s the front porch. Keep going. The driveway is right there,my car a light-colored shape just visible through the bugs. Hit the key fob.

The alarm should chirp. It doesn’t.

I hit it again.

Silence.

I see the back end of the car as I run around it. A Michigan license plate with a rental sticker.

Cirillo’s rental.

Where the hell is my car?

I hit the button again and listen for the chirp. Nothing. I look around wildly, my eyes searching for my car through the bugs, my ears straining for some sound of Lori over the whining and buzzing.

Where the fuck is my car? If Jin’s here, my car must be, too.

Patrice and Lori killed Brodie and attacked Jin, and they sure as hell didn’t move my car afterward.

Wait! I lift my key fob. It has an alarm, right? If I press this red button—

A distant wail sounds. I shut it off immediately—that’s a siren call for Lori to find me. But I know which direction to run, and I take off.

Down the drive. Along the road. My car is out here somewhere.

Did Jin leave it down the road on purpose? Hide it and sneak back?

I push the thought away. Right now, Jin is not my concern.

Just get to my damned car. My lungs rattle with each breath, and I know I can’t go much farther. Where the hell is my car?

I hit the unlock button again, and I think I hear the car chirp. I keep running, tapping the fob periodically to guide me through the bugs. I’m going downhill now. Why is the car so far—