Early Spring, 1966.

  "Jamie, come on!" Quin ran through the shin-high creek water, her beaten shoes waterlogged as she slapped against the lazy stream. It wound its way beneath the dimming cloud-streaked sky. The sun had been sinking for over ten minutes now, heavy heat softening into a humid sweetness. Grey and pink stretched wide above, fading into ribbons of yellow and violet that clung stubbornly to the horizon.

  The creek split the town cleanly in two, cutting between market stalls and the line of shops, winding southward into the poorer neighborhoods. Smaller trenches branched east and west, carrying run-off that never quite drained right. For the youth of the town, though, the waterway was more than mud and algae; it was a crossroads, a meeting ground.

  Tonight, the stream pulled Quin forward reluctantly. The others felt only the rush of anticipation, but she had lingered on the bank longer than she should have, waiting for something unnamed to give her reason to stay behind. Jamie's laughter had tugged her onward, and so she ran, though her chest tightened with every step. She couldn't let her emotions get the best of her.

  "Quin! Slow down! I'm going to drop my shoes!"

  She skidded to a stop, sliding across a patch of algae. "Here, I'll hold onto them." She stretched out her hands as Jamie splashed closer. The lukewarm water had already claimed Quin's shoes, her feet sinking heavy as bricks into the current.

  "But you're holding so much already," Jamie protested, holding out her flats anyway.

  Quin smirked faintly. "Better me than you ruining your dress." She slung the shoes into her bag, shoulders shifting against the drag of the mildly damp fabric.

  "Hey! Quin, Jamie! You two headed to the party, too?"

  The voice carried from a dry side path. Martin and Lyla emerged, Lyla's green dress catching every stray ripple of light.

  "Always," Quin called back, her eyes flicking toward Lyla. "Though I thought you weren't going."

  "I wasn't," Lyla replied breezily, brushing damp hair from her cheek. "But Rose insisted I go for them. She said I had no choice. Even made me wear her clothes."

  Jamie tugged at Quin's arm eagerly. "Let's go."

  They started forward, but Lyla hurried up, heels in hand. "Well, I brought enough to share—"

  Martin groaned. "Lyla."

  "What! It's not like I'll take it all." Her voice wobbled as she tugged at the strap of her dress. "You think I'm an addict."

  Quin's smirk slipped loose, a laugh bubbling up despite herself.

  "Don't laugh at that!" Lyla's face darkened, her fist tapping Quin's shoulder in a weak swing. Her body jolted as she locked eyes with the taller girl. There she goes again with the need to touch me.

  "Hey." Martin's voice was sharp enough to slice the moment in two as the silence pressed in between them. The trickle of the creek carried on, unbothered. Then Lyla muttered, low and defensive, "Had to pre-game."

  Quin's brow furrowed. She bit back the sting of a sharper comment.

  "Then you're about to be drunk, too," she said instead, dryly. "Might as well add Mary to the mix."

  They rounded a bend. Music rose on the air, heavy and unrestrained, drawing them toward the steeple of a house.

  Donovan Howard had been her father's business partner longer than she'd been alive. Quin knew his name, knew the weight it carried, though she had never cared to know his children. Beatrice, the eldest, was away overseas. Madaline had been married off at eighteen, disappearing into another life. Billy was in her school, a senior. Valedictorian, quarterback, president of everything that mattered. The town's prized son.

  Quin needed no introductions. The shine was too polished. His reputation, too neat. Behind every whispered accolade, she sensed the arrogance. Even Michael, especially Michael, had hated him since elementary school, their skirmishes legendary enough to require rearranged schedules and separated classrooms well before the 6th grade. Billy's good-boy image was the armor to his football uniform, but Quin had seen the cracks through Michael's eyes.

  The backyard glowed with it: students crowding the pool, music pulsing through walls, kegs stacked bold on folding tables. The Howards' white colonial loomed over perfectly trimmed hedges, color popped in the grass near the pool.

  Martin shook mud from his shoes as he grinned up to the noise, slipping on polished loafers. "Damn. No wonder nobody backed out."

  "Glad I thought ahead," Lyla added, tossing her muddy shoes into the bushes, kitten heels raised high.

  Quin unlatched her bag, pulling Jamie's flats free. "Take your shoes. Your feet will get filthy."

  Jamie hesitated, toes curling in the grass. "You're sure it's fine that I'm here?"

  Quin's response was flat.

  "He already knows."

  Jamie froze. "Michael?"

  Quin nodded, the memory pricking sharp beneath her arms. "He gave us permission. Said he wouldn't butt in."

  He'd cornered her earlier, the kitchen too small to slip away.

  "You're not going." His voice had been low, certain.

  Quin rose from her chair slowly. "Going where?"

  "Don't play dumb. You're headed to that creep's house. Billy doesn't have boundaries. You know everyone's warnings."

  She rolled her eyes, ducking under his arm, but he caught her, fingers closing firm around her elbow as he pulled her closer than before. The look on his face was one she knew too well, the ice that came when his patience ran thin.

  "I'm going with," his voice sent goosebumps down her shoulders as sweet cologne filled her nostrils.

  "Like hell you are. That's a bad idea." She tried to wrench free, thrashing against his hold. He leaned forward with her force but didn't let go. When she pushed harder, he pressed her back against the table, caging her there with his arm as the edge ground down on her tailbone.

  "What did I say about your language."

  Revulsion burned under her skin, but she hid it as best she could. He didn't move until she stopped struggling, until she met his eyes. His face almost mimicked concern as she spoke:

  "Please," she forced out, voice too thin. "Just this once. Nothing will happen to us, I won't drink."

  His grip shifted, one hand sliding to steady the small painful shaking in her waist, and her breath caught hot in her throat.

  Finally, after a long silence, his breath brushed the hair on her forehead. "Fine. But you've gotta help me."

  "With what?"

  Now, standing at the edge of the Howard's lawn, Quin dangled Jamie's shoes until her friend snatched them away with a look that screamed she didn't believe her. She shouldered her bag again, forcing her face blank. There were groups by the pools, on the patio and someone's voice was being projected in the home. A melody Quin hardly knew, though doubted was on key.

  "Come on, let's go already!" Lyla waved from the liquor table, barefoot, heels raised like a prize. Martin lingered until Quin and Jamie caught up, then led them toward the mansion.

  "You think she'll actually share this time?" he asked as Lyla mixed herself a chaotic drink.

  "She won't even remember us in an hour," Quin said, shrugging. Her gaze wandered to the multi-colored flamingos scattered through the yard, painted plastic standing stiff and ridiculous in the manicured grass.

  Inside, color pressed against every corner. Bright fabrics over dark wood, paintings that screamed louder than the muted furniture beneath them. Books stacked in a hallway lined the way toward a distant, cavernous living room.

  Quin leaned toward Jamie, muttering under her breath, "Good Lord, who let a five-year-old decorate?"

  Jamie hummed softly, Quin watched as the girl trailed behind. Her hands grazing a line of books on a shelf. Lingering as her gaze drifted along the wall of knowledge. "I like it. An artist must live here."

  "Maybe Mrs. Howard," Quin whispered back. "But not Mr. Howard. He's doesn't sound like the type."

  Martin was already ahead, disappearing down the hall. Quin kept pace, though her chest carried a weight deep and dissatisfied.

  "Where first?" she asked to the backs of her friends, her eyes surveying the next four hours of her time.

  July 20th, 1968.

  The creek bed pressed damp against her shoes, mud tugging with every step as her bag glided down to a dry patch, roll between her lips. The air felt too close, humming with the sticky weight of late summer. Her head wasn't clear, edges blurred, thoughts drifting with the light fog that clung to the standing water.

  It made the night strange, stretched thin as her fist shuffled through her bag, the matchbook brushed her fingers in notice. she grumbled a stream of nothing as she opened the flap, the red graphite smiled to her before a flicked flame erupted in her hands. Quin glanced around the creek, smoke curling up; sticking to her hair as she let the cancer enter her lungs.

  The creek was quiet; someone must have come through recently. There hadn't been any crickets since she settled. Quin thought nothing of it as she placed the roll in her mouth once more, her hands digging into her bag lazily as she looked for another paper.

  An arm snapped around her from behind, cutting the air from her lungs as the small cone flung with her breath. A hand clamped over her mouth.

  Quin thrashed hard, panic blistering through the haze, and sank her teeth deep into skin. The taste of iron burst against her tongue. A curse hissed behind her ear and the grip loosened just enough for her to twist free before her body smacked into the mud below from the sheer force used to shove her away.

  "God dammit, this is why I don't help you." Her lungs burned, her ears rang. Her skin felt slimy and her hair stuck to her chin.

  Blood, Quin wiped her mouth, her eyes landing on a thin streak of red accompanied by thin mud. She couldn't breathe past the thought of who had just grabbed her.

  She crawled to her knees, chest heaving, when another figure stepped into view. His voice came smooth, steady, as though he were greeting an old friend.

  "Easy now. No one's here to hurt you."

  Her eyes darted, but the shadows hid his face. His tone had a practiced ease, like he'd used it before on people who'd been cornered.

  "Why don't we talk?" he went on, holding his hands out like she was a frightened animal. "No need to run." She shifted her weight to her feet carefully as she peaked behind her to the first stranger. His hand clasped firmly as he strutted the pain away mere feet away.

  "He won't do anything." Like hell.

  Her pulse thundered against her ribs, her eyes looked to her bag. Too close to him. "Get away from me." She snapped her gaze back to him with his painstakingly slow steps as he neared her.

  "Come on," he said, silk edged with sick warning. "You know what I'm after. Just tell me, and this ends right here." His boot shook the earth below her scrambling feet as he loomed within distance.

  She shook her head, backing toward the slope with slipped attempts to stand. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  The softness in his voice thinned, steel slipping underneath. "Don't do that. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

  Her throat closed as her nails gripped dense mud, hoisting herself to her feet with a sliding sprint.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Her foot skidded on slick concrete, pain exploding as her knee ripped open against a jagged edge. She screamed through clenched teeth, forcing herself upward, clawing at wet earth with her nails. Blood ran hot down her leg, but she dragged herself over the lip of the creek.

  The backyard spread ahead, shadows stretching across the fence and the sagging clothesline. Once, it had been her safest path home, now every step sounded too loud, every breath a warning of the neighbors who shouldn't know. She pushed forward, nearly collapsing as her knee buckled.

  She was halfway across the opening when fingers gripped her ankle, yanking her back hard into the dark. She struggled, nails raking, kicks wild, but his grip only steadied, firm as the dark consumed her. She felt the air leave her lungs with the newfound weight pressed firmly against her chest. His voice stayed calm, though the edge in it was sharper now.

  "Enough games. You think you can just keep quiet?" The smell of cigarettes and cedar burned her nostrils.

  She sobbed, twisting violently in his hold as he clasped her lips shut against each other.

  Then he said it. Low, bitter, like a blade slid under her skin as his breath brushed her face.

  "Where's the money Jamie stole?"

  The sound of her name punched the existing air out of Quin's chest. She froze, blood roaring in her ears, the night seemed to collapse in on itself as she attempted to thrust her arms from under him. Jamie? Why Jamie. She wouldn't-

  His hold tightened just enough to keep her still; when they locked eyes Quin saw it. The way he crowded her space. It wasn't a hunger; it wasn't quite rage either. It was something deeper. "She took it from me. You're holding it now. Don't lie to me."

  Determination.

  Her panic burst back through the shock, wild and hot and as he lifted his hand from her lips, she took opportunity of his growingly close proximity and slammed her forehead into his chin, his grip faltering as he grunted in surprise; her lungs filling with air while she tore herself free, forcing her body to move. Her leg screamed with every kick his way, blood soaking her hem, but she forced herself up anyway as the world spun around her.

  He didn't chase, not the way she expected. His voice carried once more, a dry laugh and ice behind her:

  "You can't outrun this. I have all the time in the world."

  She clawed across the yard, the grass wet beneath her palms, the back porch looming like salvation. Pain blurred her vision, her body begging to collapse, but she pulled herself up the steps and shoved through the screen door. It smacked behind her with a hollow clap before the lock clicked into place. Her eyes glued themselves to the figure in her backyard as he brushed himself off. He didn't chase me. He could have taken me. Why not?

  Inside, the kitchen was still and dark. She pressed herself against the wall, chest heaving, the tang of blood thick in her mouth. Outside, the night held its breath as she watched the figure ease back into the depths of the creek.

  Only then did she let herself crumple against the floor, clutching her ruined knee, every nerve screaming. The silence felt thin, dangerous. Like the house itself was straining to keep the outside world at bay.

  She couldn't stay there. If her mother came out... if anyone saw the mess she'd made... it would all unravel. She forced herself upright, hand braced against the counter, her breath sharp and shallow as she inched toward the stairs.

  The steps loomed ahead, each climb a mountain. She gritted her teeth, testing her weight as white fire shot up her inner thigh. She bit back a cry and dragged herself upward, one step at a time, gripping the banister so hard her knuckles ached; her mind played the many times she'd had to crawl her way up to steep safety. Nothing came close to this.

  Halfway up, she nearly collapsed, forehead pressed against the rail. A sob slipped out before she could catch it. She thought of Michael's voice earlier, the way his anger had snapped when she'd mentioned the money. It was her fault. She shouldn't have said anything. Should've kept her mouth shut like Lyla told her. Should've stayed inside like she had been.

  She climbed the last few steps on trembling arms, dragging her body instead of walking it. When she finally reached the landing, the carpet blurred beneath her. She crawled the last few feet to her door and eased it open, holding her breath against the creak of the hinges.

  Her room waited, dim and familiar, but no safer than the dark outside. She shut the door behind her and slumped against it, shaking. Blood was already seeping through the fabric of her skirt, soaking into the wood floor.

  She pressed her palm to it, as if she could somehow will the wound closed, and squeezed her eyes shut. Her leg felt like a furnace. The voices still echoed in her head, the last words louder than the pain.

  You can't run from me. I have all the time in the world.

  July 21st, 1968

  Her sleep was restless, jumping and trying to crawl away from her vivid imagination as the previous night's venture reminded her body of her mistake. She's spent her time fighting her fatigue to clean the mess she'd made. She woke in a cold sweat, her head pounding, her body sore; screaming to stay put as her mom shook her bruised arms repeatedly.

  "Quin, honey, wake up. What happened to your head?"

  The words jarred her upright, pain flashing behind her eyes. Her mother's fingers brushed the small welt at her hairline, the sting sharp. She remembered the stumble in the bathroom hours ago and the way her legs gave out beneath her when she tried to stand too fast, the smack of her temple against the counter's edge. Another mistake to add to the list.

  "I hit it on the bathroom counter," she said. This time it wasn't a lie. She had worn sleeves to bed, though, even in the heavy July humidity, hiding the scrapes that littered her arm and hip. She'd picked splinters of wood and twigs from her skin, gagging with every sting before her manhunt to clean her mother's pristine home.

  "Well, it's 8 o'clock. Get yourself showered and ready. The house needs to be cleaned before your grandmother shows up." Her mom's voice was gentle but firm. Quin nodded, even though her stomach rolled at the thought of standing.

  Her gaze dragged to her vanity.

  "Are you sure you're alright? You didn't hit your head too hard last night?"

  "Oh, no I'm fine!" Quin lied, meeting her mother's gaze. The familiar frown etched deep into her face said she didn't believe it, but she let it go. Her eyes rolled as her fingers found the doorknob. "Twenty minutes," her mom warned, kissing the other side of her head before slipping out, her eyes drifted back to the vanity drawer, cast in a thin strip of pale light. "Or you're making lunch, too."

  "Yes ma'am."

  In the Jack-n-Jill bathroom shared with her father's office, Quin peeled off her ruined clothes and glanced at her reflection. Her left arm was scraped raw and spotted purple, her hip a blotch of angry blue, pink, and yellow. Her knee oozed slowly through a thick wrap of gauze. She practiced walking while the shower warmed, forcing herself to mask the limp. She didn't dare look to her leg as she anxiously stripped it of its bindings. The hot water stung, but she endured it, hurrying through a wash before redressing her wounds.

  By the time she was dressed in a dark green dress and a loose white cardigan, her heart was still pounding with the effort of keeping up appearances.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  "Yeah, one minute! I'm getting dressed." She yanked the drawer shut, tugging the cardigan into place as she looked to the vanity.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  "Opening!" Her mother's voice came through. Quin looked to her reflection. "Your grandmother will love that outfit, come along." Relief swept her chest, though her shoulders ached with the tension of holding herself so tightly together empty handed.

  Cleaning blurred into one task after another. Her mother's voice spat demands as though free will were a fantasy. Her grandmother arrived early, brisk as always, commanding before even closing the front door. "Quindell, my love! Bring the pan inside, it's in the backseat."

  With her hands still wet from the sink, Quin shuffled out to the family van. The roast pan inside was huge, heavy and awkward. She hooked her fingers under the handles and tugged, her fingers slipped; Quin wiped her hands on her dress before grasping the handles once more. She smelled stale cigarettes, assuming it was her mind forcing her to relive as she readied herself to tug the dish into her arms. Then she heard it, the crunch of gravel closing in directly behind her.

  "Need help?" Fuck no.

  Her stomach turned. That voice. That smell.

  She straightened in instinct, and there he was, the stranger from the night before. In daylight, he was sharper; more sophisticated in the face: dark hair slicked loose over a sharp brow, medium build filling out a scuffed leather jacket, pants caked in dried mud. His dark brown eyes locked on her with a weight that made her skin crawl. She inched to block the opening. The smell of cedar and stale cigarettes clung to him, carried on the faint breeze as he brushed past her; she jerked into the doorframe to get away while he snatched her meal.

  "You—" Her voice faltered, throat tight. He made her feel powerless. "How'd you get past the gate?"

  "Your family never closed it." He tipped his chin toward the front, where the gate yawned open like an invitation.

  Annoyance burned under her skin, more at her grandmother's consistent carelessness than at him, but it didn't stop her traveling the short distance, snapping the gate shut as her eyes landed toward the pan carelessly held in the man's hands.

  "I found your bag," he said. Found is a loose word.

  Her shoulders stiffened. His lips lifted to something else at her reaction. Time meant strategy. She realized that with the way he looked at her.

  "Quindell, who's this?"

  Her heart jumped into her throat. She turned toward the red brick house where her mother's figure stood, watching.

  "One of the workers from the market," Quin lied smoothly. "He said he found something of mine and wanted to return it."

  Her mother's narrowed eyes said she didn't buy it, but she didn't push. Quin watched as she eyed the man between them. "Well, finish up. You don't want lunch to get cold."

  The door shut.

  Quin snapped her head back at him, voice low and biting as she moved for the pan. "Leave. You don't belong here. If my mom sees you again—"

  "She'll what?" His smirk edged cruel. "Ground you harder? Or is it jail this time?"

  Her face burned hot. "Shut up."

  "Why? Too close?" His voice dropped to a mock whisper. "What's the sentence for murder these days? Twenty years? Thirty?"

  Her fists balled. "Say that again and I'll—"

  "What?" He stepped closer, Quin did her best to plant her feet as she looked up to him. "Cry? Limp at me? You're not in any shape for another fight."

  She grasped at the pan between them. "I said go."

  He let her pull. Then, with maddening ease, he took the pan, lifting it out of her reach. "You have no room for demands."

  "Stop!" Her voice cracked, sharp and desperate.

  The silence that followed pressed heavier than words. He watched her crumble under it, steady, like a cat watching a bird fling itself against glass as he held it just past her reach. Their eyes locked in a suffocating battle.

  Finally, he spoke, voice low, patient, as if coaxing.

  "Let me help you. We'll carry it in together."

  Her pulse thundered. The idea of him inside was unthinkable. Her head was already moving; she opened her mouth to refuse.

  He cut her off as the first syllable left her lips, softer:

  "You'll want me there. Because I've got your stuff; and I don't think you want that getting out."

  She narrowed her eyes to him.

  "The bag with the drugs inside," he went on, quiet, deliberate as he closed the distance. Tobacco clouded her senses. "I expected the weed and papers, but the bag of powder? I'm sure your mother would love to find that. The police would love it even more."

  Her throat burned. She tried to glare, but her eyes betrayed the shake. "You wouldn't."

  "Wouldn't I?" His smirk barely lifted. "Spoiled little liar like you? Tell me, who would they believe?" What to do.

  She swallowed hard, she didn't see much of a choice. Her voice came out thin as the door creaked open.

  "Mama? Can he come inside? The pan's too heavy for me."

  The clink of dishes, then her mother's irritated voice from the kitchen: "If it helps you, then fine. Just bring it in."

  Quin stepped back, hating the tremor in her hands.

  He carried the pan with infuriating ease, setting it on the counter as if he belonged there. His eyes swept the room, white walls trimmed with gold, yellow drapes drawn neat, the patterned rug her mother had bragged about for weeks.

  All of it perfect. All of it breakable.

  His voice came low, almost reflective, just for her:

  "I knew you were spoiled. But this?"

  Billy's Party, Early Spring, 1966.

  "Want to go back to your place? I'm pretty sure the party is almost over."

  Jamie's voice floated through the door as she stepped into the vibrant, headache inducing room Quin had slumped into. Quin barely registered her at first, her head swimming, body heavy against the couch.

  "Yeah, yeah..." The cushions dipped as Jamie sat beside her, their shoulders pressing. Quin leaned into her instinctively, though her friend's words blurred into static.

  "So, what do you say?"

  "Huh?" Quin blinked, trying to snap herself upright. "I say..." Her tongue felt thick, her mind muddied with liquor.

  "You weren't listening." Jamie's worry bled through her voice. "Quin, this is what I was worried about. Come on, let's just go back to your house."

  Quin shook her head, slow and stubborn. "Where's Lyla? She's not walking home alone."

  Jamie's fingers curled around her arm, keeping her anchored. "I'll go look for her. You stay here."

  Her tone, steady and insistent, softened the fight out of Quin. She always did. Quin's chest tightened at the calmness in her friend, the way she could quiet a storm with just her presence. "Fine. Don't go far."

  "I'll try." Jamie rose and slipped away, disappearing through the doorframe. The loss of her weight beside her made Quin ache with sudden anxiety. She tipped her head back against the couch, eyes half-closed, words muttered under her breath: "Michael would kill me right now..."

  The room itself seemed to pulse, too bright and garish. The striped wallpaper, green, orange, yellow and red, clashed violently with the royal blue and hot-pink furniture. A circus, or a nightmare. Quin pressed her palms to her face, her leg bouncing with nervous energy, stomach turning as she leaned into herself. The room felt like it was spinning.

  "Hey, you alright?" Quin's body convulsed with the deep octave, a gasp escaping her before looking up to the voice.

  Framed in the doorway stood Billy, broad shouldered, dusty blond hair swept back to his shoulders. Blue eyes unreadable. She'd only ever seen him from across hallways or fields; never this close. Her mind jolted into sobriety as she eyed him.

  "Yeah," Quin lied, forcing a quick sniffle and wipe of her eyes. "Just... waiting for my friend."

  He nodded slowly, expression mild, almost careful. "Good. I thought maybe you were going to be sick. My stepmom would kill me if someone threw up in here." His glance flicked around the walls, a touch of distaste in it.

  That made her laugh, against her better judgment. "Guess she's proud of it."

  "Unfortunately." His smile was small, boyish. "She says it keeps the house 'full of life.'"

  "Feels more like it's full of clowns."

  That pulled another laugh from him, low and genuine. "Fair enough."

  Her unease didn't vanish, but it shifted as she studied the boy.

  The rumors, Michael swearing Billy was a creep, that he didn't know boundaries. It all pressed against the reality in front of her. He hadn't stepped closer. He hadn't pushed. He just stood there, calm, patient. Human.

  "You're waiting on your friend?" he asked after a pause.

  Quin nodded. "She said she'd come back."

  "She might've gone outside already. People are leaving." His tone stayed casual, not pressing. "Do you want me to check for you?"

  "No." Her answer was sharper than she intended, and she softened it with: "She told me to wait here."

  He held up a hand, backing up a step. "Alright. No rush." Then, with a small smile: "Come on though, I'll at least walk you downstairs. Make sure you actually know where the exit is."

  She hesitated. The voice in her head screamed don't. But her own legs felt weak, and the steady way he spoke disarmed her resistance. Against herself, she rose. "Alright, but if I see my friend I might disappear."

  He kept a pace beside her, pointing out a spill here, a shard there. It was infuriating, feeling babied, but she couldn't deny he was being careful with her. People were looking at him, then to her. She felt on display. "You're a senior this year, correct?"

  "Yeah," He spoke so casually, like he had talked to her for years. "I haven't seen you around, much. What grade are you?"

  At the bottom of the stairs, she slowed. The conversation felt awkward. Part of her wanted to tell him, the part that won spoke: "Thank you. I can get the rest of the way on my own."

  "Of course." He stepped back with a faint smile, his feet already turning opposite as he looked throughout his home.

  She moved toward the sliding glass door. He called after her, voice curious: "What's your name?"

  Quin glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowing. He really didn't know. All the stares, all the whispers, and he still had no idea who she was. Perhaps he needed a sober mind. Maybe she did, too.

  "Figure it out." She waved him off, slipping out into the cool night air; she barely caught his response, halfhearted and joyous. "Alright, Sunshine."

  Outside, the yard was scattered with stragglers. Kids in the grass, some still in the pool. Quin spotted Jamie by the bushes, crouched and tugging at her shoes. Relief hit like a wave.

  "There you are. I couldn't find Lyla, I got kicked out when I went downstairs," Jamie said, brushing herself off.

  "Yeah, me too." Quin bent, reaching into the brush and finding another pair of shoes. Lyla's.

  Jamie frowned. "Do you want to wait for her? She might still be inside."

  Quin considered, glancing back toward the glowing house. "I'll check the front. She probably won't want to come through the yard."

  "I'll go with—"

  "No. Stay." Quin's hand flung up, almost grazing her cheek, her eyes held Jamie's with sharp insistence. "My turn, now. If Martin shows up before me, ask him to take you home."

  Annoyance flickered across Jamie's face, "But you can barely walk, I'll go."

  "No, I'll be fine. Wait here." Quin turned, already retracing her steps toward the house, heart pounding. Don't let her out of your sight. Michael would kill her right now.