In the days that followed, Derek kept true to his word. I saw no sign that he’d told Lloyd, Carol, or Katie. No sideways glances weighed down with suspicion or pity. No passive-aggressive comments dressed up as jokes. On the surface, life moved along like a river that hadn’t noticed the body sunk beneath it. Yet whenever there was a moment when Derek and I were alone, when air felt safe enough to whisper, he’d try again to convince me that I needed to turn myself in.

  Granted, that’s not the phrase he used, but it was what it amounted to. If I went to the police and told them who I was, next thing I knew I’d be in cuffs. I was certain of it. But Derek would insist, “It’s not as bad as you think,” and “Any judge worth his salt will understand.”

  Ha! I thought. Judges are politicians, and when’s the last time you saw a politician who was “worth his salt?” The moment the local press got a hold of this story, they’d call for me to fry. Ink and outrage would spread faster than truth ever could.

  I thought of Casey Anthony, accused of murdering her own daughter, found not guilty, and then hunted into hiding by a public that refused to believe she was innocent. I thought of George Zimmerman, cleared on self-defense and sentenced instead by the court of public opinion to a lifetime of contempt. Both of these cases had something in common: the public sympathized with the victim so much that they demanded there be retribution. They needed a vent for their fury. Even if a judge and jury acquitted me, I would still be Victor Castle’s creepy son. Around here, that was a conviction no verdict could overturn, and the community would vindicate itself by tearing me apart.

  No, there was no going back. Vincent Castle needed to die, and Alex Woods needed to take his place, even if I had to live a lie for the rest of my life.

  It was a strange thing, killing yourself while still breathing.

  “You can’t keep this up forever,” Derek said one night as we took out the trash. “People slip.”

  “People get away with worse,” I said.

  He shook his head. “You’re not listening. This isn’t about getting away with it. It’s about how it warps your mind.”

  I tied off the bag and dropped it into the bin with a thud.

  “My mind is already warped,” I answered. “If you could hear what goes through my thoughts for just a moment, you’d understand that lying about who I am is the least of my worries.”

  That ended the conversation, but the words stuck to me like burrs. The way he went quiet afterward made me worry he’d crossed from concern into fear. In the days that followed, he seemed to avoid eye contact, his gaze sliding past me like I was something sharp he didn’t want to cut himself on. Maybe it was my imagination, but every relationship I’ve ever had feels like a countdown, a fuse burning toward the moment I say or do the one thing that makes someone stop wanting to be my friend. The thing that makes them hate me. Dread gripped my ribs at the thought that I’d crossed that line with Derek.

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  At night, my father came back to me in dreams. Not screaming, not swinging his fists, but smiling. It started with a memory from when my grandparents were in town, the living room warm and crowded. My dad had us all laughing with an almost perfect impression of Donald Duck. Like the cartoon character, he was nearly impossible to understand, but the scraps we could catch were funny enough to hurt. The cherry on top was when, in that quacking, burbling voice, he announced that he’d gone to school and become a speech therapist.

  I laughed and told him that was almost as ridiculous as him becoming a life coach. The words escaped before I had a chance to stop them. There was a time when my mother was working overtime to pay the bills because he was unemployed again, and he’d decided to become a life coach. Though I hadn’t said anything then, I often found it silly that a man who couldn’t hold a job would try to make a living telling other people what to do with their lives. It was something I kept to myself, private thoughts.

  But in dreams there are no private thoughts, and thus what was supposed to be silent was said aloud.

  That was when his face changed. His brow furrowed. His fists clenched. It was the look that came right before the storm, the silent promise of violence waiting for an excuse. I glanced around the room, certain he wouldn’t explode with my grandparents there, only to realize they were gone. Vanished like they’d never existed.

  He rose from his chair, sinews in his forearms pulled taut like ropes. His stomping footsteps became a percussion instrument, counting down to pain.

  Then I woke up, heart hammering, trying to sort out what was real and what was imagined.

  It was dark in my loft. Without a clock, I guessed it was somewhere between midnight and two, that dead zone when the world feels hollowed out. A slice of moonlight slipped through the window, pale and thin. Using it as a guide, I slid out of bed and padded toward the sink, thirsty and still half-lost in the dream.

  That was when I heard a car door close outside. Not a slam. Just a careful click, the sound of someone trying not to be noticed.

  Did Katie go out this late?

  I crossed to the window and peered down at the driveway. A pickup truck sat there, engine dark. I’d never seen it before.

  My heart leapt into my throat as three men stepped out and moved toward the house. Each wore a ski mask. Each carried a firearm. One had a shotgun, one an AR-15, and the third a hunting rifle.

  I cursed under my breath. Armed men didn’t approach Lloyd’s house by accident.

  Instinct grabbed the wheel. I ran back to the mattress and reached underneath, fingers closing around the pistol. I was outmatched in firepower and numbers, and I knew it. But inaction was not an option.

  I returned to the window just in time to see them fan out. Two took the front. One circled toward the back. The front door didn’t stand a chance. It flew inward under their boots, and they rushed inside.

  Gunshots cracked the night moments later. Katie screamed. Then Carol. Shouting overlapped, voices tangled in panic and fury. My stomach dropped out as I scrambled for the ladder down to the garage, my hands slick with sweat. I prayed silently, desperately, that I wasn’t already too late.

  There were only two possible endings to that night. Either I would save the people who’d shown me kindness when I didn’t deserve it, or I would die with them.