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Madison momentarily forgot her worries. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of wonder.

When she was little, back when her mother was still alive, back before Hannah had forced herself into their lives, the family would spend every Fourth watching the fireworks together, just the three of them.

Her mother would pack a small cake and chocolate ice cream for Madison’s birthday.

Her father would take her swimming in the lake.

When the fireworks started, he would put his arm around Madison so she wouldn’t be scared.

Then he’d call out each type of firework: the crossette, where stars broke into fours and crisscrossed each other.

The diadem, with its stationary stars at the center.

The ring, with its halo shape and smiley faces.

The long cylinder of a Roman candle, or the nearly 1,000-shot cake that was half a dozen Roman candles combined.

Then there were the flowers—the willow and peony, and her favorite, the chrysanthemum—all colorful explosions that could take your breath away.

They still took her breath away.

Madison wiped her eyes, mad at herself for crying.

She had told Hannah that she was too old for fireworks, but the truth was, she missed the way she felt when her father put his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close to his side, made her feel safe.

Every ooh and ahh from the crowd, every boom so loud that it shook in the back of her throat, reminded Madison of everything that had been lost.

She was so caught up in her sadness that she barely registered the car turning into the parking lot.

Her eyes took their time adjusting. The headlights were off.

She couldn’t see the driver as the car rolled down the first row.

He wasn’t stopping. The brake lights stayed dark when the front end bumped over the curb and nosed through the yellow caution tape.

It wasn’t until another explosion of light illuminated the field in all its green glory that she realized what she was looking at.

Cheyenne!

Finally, thank God, she was here.

Madison’s cry of relief turned into a startled laugh.

Cheyenne was going to drive her dad’s precious, brand-new Jetta across the soccer field.

She’d wedged her distinctive neon blue bicycle into the trunk.

The hot pink sparklers swayed from the handlebar grips.

The snap-glows on the spokes sparkled like Christmas tree lights.

She hadn’t tied down the lid tight enough.

It popped open when the back tire hit the curb, then slammed down onto the bike so hard that Madison could hear the sound of metal crunching over the sizzles of a yellow peony firework burning itself out.

“Shy!” Madison sprinted alongside her bike, hunkered down over the handlebars, racing after the car.

She saw the brake lights glow as Cheyenne neared the center of the soccer field.

Madison couldn’t bring herself to put another break in the caution tape.

She jogged down and went through the spot Cheyenne had already broken apart.

Her teeth clattered when she bumped the bike over the curb.

She accidentally bit the inside of her cheek.

She was so elated that she barely registered the pain.

Typical Cheyenne. She’d obviously changed the plan without letting Madison know.

She’d decided to get the Jetta and the scotch and then meet up at the park.

Which made so much more sense. They should’ve thought of this earlier.

Why double back when Cheyenne could swing by her house on the way to the park?

The car stopped on the edge of the field, pointing toward a bunch of trees.

Madison could hear the engine idling. She started crying again, this time from relief.

Only now could she admit how truly terrified she’d been.

Cheyenne had said the plan was going to be easy, but nothing was ever easy.

Especially when Cheyenne was involved. She could push people too far.

Madison had seen it happen more times than she could count.

Mouthing off to a teacher, pissing off the principal, yelling at a store clerk, screaming at her mother her father her little sister so loud that one time, probably not the only time, her mother had swung back her hand and slapped Cheyenne into silence.

“Shy!” Madison called again, but her voice was lost to the pop-pop-pop of a chrysanthemum firework flowering open in bright purples, greens and whites.

She let her bike drop to the ground and ran the last few yards.

The rapid pops were so loud she felt them crackling in her teeth.

The strobe of light made every move look stuttered.

She reached out her hand. Found purchase on the back tire of Cheyenne’s bicycle.

The chain had slipped. She could see it draped across the spokes like a discarded bracelet.

The night went black.

The chrysanthemum had flared out. In the silence, Madison could hear her own sharp breaths—one, then another, then another, before the next low whistle drowned it out, the whir so loud that it shook her eardrums. She turned toward the lake, watching two trails of light zip up into the blackness, their dual reflections mirrored in the surface of the water.

Then she heard the cascade of boom s. Then she saw the bursts of large tendrils dropping into the shape of two massive palm trees.

The roar of the crowd drained away. The pop and sizzle , the hiss and crackle .

There was another sound. Faint, but definitely there. Much closer than the crowd. Almost closer than the sharp intake of her own breaths.

A whimper.

Madison looked down into the trunk of the car. The bright light from the palms picked out every detail in front of her. The neon blue frame of the bike. The bent rear wheel. The broken chain. The blue tarp lining the trunk. The stretched clothesline hanging from the lid.

The look of terror in Cheyenne’s eyes.

“Oh,” Madison whispered.

This wasn’t Mr. Baker’s Jetta.

The sky went dark. Another interlude.

Madison was momentarily blind, but she could still see Cheyenne in the trunk. Trapped under the bike. Eyes wide. Terrified. There was no time to think, only to act. Madison wrenched out the bike, tossed it onto the ground, grabbed Cheyenne’s arm, tried to help her out.

Another low whistle. Another trail of fire. Another explosion of stunning light.

Madison froze, her hand still wrapped around Cheyenne’s arm, as the truth revealed itself in terrifying color.

Bright red slash marks. Rusty dried blood.

Pink pinpricks peppering the whites of Cheyenne’s eyes.

Her mouth was taped shut. Her nose looked broken.

Her shirt was torn. More blood streaked down her chest, pooled into the top of her bra.

Her wrists were tied together. Her legs were drawn up.

Her ankles were tied. She was screaming behind the tape, wriggling to get out, urging Madison to hurry, to please help.

It was in this moment—not an interlude so much as an echo—when Madison remembered what Emmy had told her before.

Don’t miss the forest for the trees.

Don’t worry about Cheyenne being tied up in the trunk.

Worry about the man who put her there.

The next explosion was so loud that Madison’s teeth ached. She felt a tightening of her jaw, a contraction of her muscles, a sense of fear coursing through her body. The burning bright flares of a chrysanthemum set the sky on fire.

Madison turned. She saw the man’s face, then—

Darkness.