Page 116

"Hey, little runaway."

Tate.Drunk Tate by the sound of it.

"Hi, Tate."

"You sound disappointed," he says. "Why is that?"

"I don't know what you mean. I always sound like this."

"You—" He stops, laughing. I don't know what's so funny, and I never figure out what he was going to say because he switches gears. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I have something to tell you."

"Okay…what is it?"

"I did something…and I don't think you're going to like it…"

I swallow hard. "What did you do, Tate?"

"I hurt someone," he says. "I said I wouldn't but…god, Noah, you just make me so fucking angry. And, you know, this person—regardless of what you think or what fucking fantasy you've concocted in that malnourished brain of yours—this person doesn't care about you. It's important that you know that. Because if you're honest with yourself about that, then you can't really be mad at me, can you?"

"What did you do?" I ask again through clenched teeth. "What did you fucking do, Tate!?"

"I mean, if you think she would hesitate even for a second before calling the police if she found out who you were, you're fucking kidding yourself. She'd be terrified—no, wait—repulsedby you if she knew. Honestly, it's too bad that whoever tried to slit her throat the first time didn't do a better job, and then maybe we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Tate!" I shout into the phone. I sit up in bed, frantic. "You didn't. You didn't hurt Jodie. Did you? Did you hurt her?"

"Nah, I didn't hurt Jodie," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief before he adds, "I think I killed her."

"What?!" I can barely breathe. My heart pounds against my ribcage; I can barely get the words out. "What'd you do to her? Is…is she okay?"

"Mmmm, I mean, she was alive when I left her there, but she probably isn't alive now."

"Where? Tate, where is she? Is she at the house?"

"No…she's not at the house," he says casually. I can almost hear him absentmindedly playing with his lip rings, even though he doesn't have them anymore.

"Thenwhere?!"

"There's a little graveyard," he says, "not far from your house. Do you know where it is?"

"The one behind the park?" I ask, my voice cracking. "At the edge of the forest?"

"That's the one," he says. "Anyway, she's in one."

"Inone?"

"Somewhere, yeah. I don't really remember where. I mean, you know how it is—I just get…" He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is harsh, angry. He's almost screaming into the phone. "I just get so fuckingmad, Noah, especially when it comes to you. And then I can't even see; I can't even remember where I am or what I'm doing because I'm so fucking mad. And so yeah, she's in one—I think—and she's probably dead by now."

I drop the phone. I don't even know if I disconnect the call, but I rush to the door, step into my boots, and run down the staircase and out into the pouring rain. It's cold—ice cold—and heavy enough that I can barely see more than a few feet in front of me, but I don't stop until I get to the graveyard. And by the time I swing the gate open, I'm soaked to the bone, every molecule of my exposed skin numb.

I stop, out of breath, my legs tired and throat sore from inhaling the frigid air, and drop to my knees.

"Jodie!" I wail into the darkness. "Jodie! Where are you!?"

I wait, straining my ears, hoping to hear something over the sound of the heavy rain and rustling leaves, but there's nothing. "Jodie!" I scream again.

Still nothing.

I pull myself to my feet, slipping in the mud, and drag my body on frozen legs through the rows and rows of graves. "Jodie!"