Page 68 of Pretty Dead Things

Ben shakes his head. “Not sure. Could’ve been last night. I only realized he was gone when the snow came in—went to check on him, and the trailer was empty.”

Somewhere close, two women bend their heads together, whispering fast. I can’t catch much, but one name slices through: “Cat.”

Ben looks past the sheriff, his eyes finding mine. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” My knees feel unsteady, a thread pulled loose inside me. Then he adds, “Dad took his shotgun with him.”

And the room explodes in panic.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREESARAH LYNN

The kitchen is cold. There are no space heaters in here. Just a long orange extension cord slithering beneath the door to power the coffee maker. A battery-powered lantern casts a weak halo of light and some moonlight comes in from the high rectangular windows near the ceiling, gleaming silver off the stainless steel counters.

There’s some kind of commotion going on in the main room, but I don’t care. I’m staring down at the sink drain, the sharp plastic corners of the SD card biting into my palm.

Hannah wants to come clean, but I’m scared.

I hold my fist out over the drain, open my hand, and the card falls straight in with a neat clink. I don’t give myself time to second-guess. I reach for the disposal switch and flip.

Nothing.

I flip it back and forth a few times before realizing I’m an idiot. There’s no power. Cursing, I yank open the cabinet, and my lantern’s light spills across pipes and bottles of cleaner. The disposal is plugged into an outlet inside. So I unplug the coffee maker, drag the extension cord over, and drop down, reaching deep past metal and plastic.

That’s how he finds me, on my hands and knees, half buried in the cupboard.

“Sarah Lynn.”

The sound of my name in his mouth sends goose bumps acrossmy skin. I sit back on my heels and turn to him. Mr. Magnuson’s face is mostly a shadow, but in the moon’s pearly glow, I can see the wink of his smile.

“I thought I saw you come in here,” he says, and he closes the door behind him.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOURINGRID

“We’ll need to cover the gym exits, the pool deck doors, and the service entrance by the kitchen,” Sheriff Ryan says, already pointing men toward different wings of the building. “Every lock, every bolt—check them all.”

The place seems to have a thousand doors and windows. Each one suddenly feels like a hole in the hull of a sinking ship.

The burly man from before crosses his arms. “I’m not leaving him alone,” he growls, jerking his chin toward Ben. “Not for a second.”

“He’s the one who came to warn us,” I say.

Dad’s hand clamps gently around my arm. “Let the sheriff handle it.” His face is drawn tight with worry, and I let him steer me toward the cluster of chairs where Mom is already settled close to a heater, a blanket around her shoulders.

The sheriff orders us to stay put, everyone in this room within sight of everyone else. Then the men scatter through the hallways, rattling handles, sliding bolts home. The echoes carry back, sharp and metallic, while Ben stays planted at the welcome table, the big guy looming over him like a guard.

The whole room feels jittery, the air stretched thin.

That’s when Kennedy Claire slips up beside me, her nails digging crescents into my arm. “I can’t believe he’d show his face here,” she hisses.

My eyes drop to the shoebox I’ve been carrying, soggy cardboardsoft against my fingers. Seeing her, remembering what’s inside—it feels like the moment I’ve been circling all night.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“Well, sure, honey.”

We find a pair of chairs out of earshot of anyone. I set the shoebox in my lap. “I was going through some stuff in my parents’ attic, and I found this.” I lift the lid and hold up the two pieces of the broken heel.

For a moment, Kennedy Claire’s face doesn’t move, just her eyes from the shoe to me and back, quick flicks like she’s doing calculations in her head. Then her eyebrow raises. “What’s that?” she says, her voice perfectly innocent.

“It’s the shoe I was wearing when I twisted my ankle,” I say, each word slow and measured. I don’t take my eyes from her face, needing to see each subconscious twitch of her muscles. “Right before Miss Lone Star. Right before you won.”