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I fielded questions about how I knew Tate the best I could, simply telling them we were acquaintances, like I'd done with Mia, but they wanted to know more. What was he like? Should we be worried about him with Charlie?

Yeah, you should beveryworried about him. Not just with Charlie, but in general. I don't know why he's here—I don't know if it's for me or for them—but I know it isn't because he's interested in Charlie.

And to make matters worse, I realize what I should have done after he went inside the house was sneak back out to my car and leave. Instead, I chugged two more wine coolers, and now I'm having a panic attack.

"So, did you invite someone else, Brielle, or did Charlie?" Josh asks as he comes back out from the house.

"What?" Brielle asks. "You mean someone other than the guy with the blue hair?"

"There's another guy inside, yeah. He just walked out to the garage for some reason. Maybe the new guy brought someone else with him."

"What guy?" I ask. "What does he look like?"

He shrugs. "Black dude with a high school football shirt. Short hair, huge as fuck—at least six foot three."

I can't breathe. But I don't know why I even asked; Tate only has one friend.

But if they're both here? I need to get the fuck out of here before they burn the place to the ground. I think I'm going to be sick.

"Do you know him, too?" Brielle asks.

I scramble to my feet, ignoring her question. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

I walk cautiously toward the house, stopping once I get to the sliding glass doors. I scan the first floor, looking for any sign of Tate, Silas, or Charlie, and when I don't see them, I step inside, closing the door behind me.

I tiptoe through the open space like a child, searching for a bathroom. The first door I try is locked, but when I turn, I spot an open door leading to a bathroom on my right and dart inside.

I rush through the door and immediately end up emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. And once my stomach finally stops retching, I sob.

Because it's not fair. Mia, my mom, seeing Tate here…none of it is fucking fair.

I pull myself onto my feet and drag my too-heavy body to the sink, where I wash the tears, snot, and vomit from my face. I find mouthwash in the cabinet and then drink water from the faucet, and when I look up, Tate stands behind me with his arms crossed in front of him.

"You didn't go to the funeral," he says, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "You didn't go toeitherfuneral."

His words slice through me, somehow past the void and to the version of me who was once whole, wounding her.

I turn, facing him. "I didn't know. I promise I didn't know what they were doing. I heard them talking about some girl a few times, but I didn't realize it was Mia.Whywould I ever think it would be Mia?" I choke back a sob. "And then, when Ididfind out, it was…"

It was after they posted the videos. And it was too late.

"Even if I believed you, you'rehere, Noah. And you know what they did."

"Tate…" How do I explain this to him? "I have nowhere else to go."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"And I wanted to go to the funeral, but she wouldn't have wanted me there. I didn't want to do that to her."

"How could you even say that? She loved you."

"She had a funny way of showing it."

"Yeah, that runs in the family," he says. His eyes soften, one corner of his mouth turning up just a little.

"Don't," I tell him through clenched teeth. "Don't do that. Don't act like you're—"

"You're right," he says, cutting me off. "I won't act like I'm here for any other reason than to kill every single one of you."