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It’s not rotten fruit.

I wish it were rotten fruit. That would be so much better.

It’s fingers .

It took me more than a second to figure it out. Because the fingers are discolored and swollen, and also , you don’t expect to open a paper bag and find three fingers inside. Even when you’re expecting something horrible, you don’t expect that .

The painted pink fingernails are what gave it away.

My stomach clenches, and I’m gripped by an overwhelming wave of nausea. Between the bag with the fingers inside and the flies circling, I feel like I’m going to lose it. But I take a few deep, wheezing breaths, and then I’m okay. Well, I’m as okay as a guy holding a paper bag with three fingers in it could possibly be. My own fingers tingle.

After I get control of myself, I reach into my pocket for my phone. I type in nine, followed by one, but before I can type the final number, I stop myself.

Maybe I shouldn’t call the police.

It seems like the obvious thing to do. These fingers belonged to a human being, and I’m pretty sure they have not been stashed in my house with that person’s permission. How am I supposed to explain this to the police? Yeah, I was just looking through my kitchen, and I found these fingers. How about that?

Also, I can’t help but think about Mr. Zimmerly, about his little accident that turned out not to be an accident after all, and how it feels like the evidence is starting to point to the fact that I might have been responsible.

What if these fingers somehow lead to me as well?

I don’t know how they possibly could. After all, I don’t know anyone who has been murdered or is missing—well, aside from Zimmerly, but I’m pretty sure he had all his fingers. But there’s that strange bloodstain on the floor that I still haven’t managed to clean entirely. Is it possible that this all comes back to Whitney?

I drop the paper bag on the kitchen counter. I feel like I’m almost in a trance as I bring up my email on my phone, where a new document has arrived in my inbox.

It’s Whitney’s transcript from Telmont High School.

The name Telmont still sounds familiar to me. I could swear I’ve heard it somewhere. I scroll through the pages of the document, and just as the woman on the phone promised, it is filled with Whitney’s classes and superior grades from high school. But none of that interests me. There’s only one piece of information on this transcript that catches my attention.

Whitney’s home address.

That’s where her family lived back when she was in high school. And there’s a decent chance they might still live there. I sensed that there was even more to the story about Whitney Cross than the secretary was able to tell me, and I’m desperate for answers. There is something important I am missing about Whitney Cross, and the place she came from may hold the key.

I have to speak to her parents. I have to know why she’s doing this to me.

I could call them, but I have a feeling they are not going to answer the questions I have on the phone. No, this has to be done in person.

I enter the address in the map app on my phone. The drive is a bit over two hours. I glance at my watch. If I leave soon, I could be at this address by early afternoon. Of course, I don’t have a car, so that complicates things. Telmont is not the kind of town that is accessible by public transportation. And who knows if Whitney’s parents even still live at this address? Maybe they’ve left town by now, as one does when their daughter is accused of murder.

I should call the police. That’s what a normal, law-abiding person would do if they found dismembered body parts in their kitchen.

Except I can’t help but think about Jordan Gallo. That poor kid who dared to cheat on Whitney Cross. I have no doubt that she was responsible for his death, and she managed to make it look like a suicide. I have a feeling that if I call the police, I will leave my house in handcuffs.

Screw it. I’m going to Telmont.