Page 100

“In Eastern Market?”

“Yeah.”

Oh thank god. Only a few blocks southeast, right on the way to Navy Yard. I won’t even have to detour.

I shove my feet into the first pair of shoes I can find. “I think she’s headed for Alyssa’s. We can get there first if we’re quick. In the meantime, if I give you some numbers, can you call them and let them know not to listen to Mom? It’s Alyssa and her dad.”

“Okay,” Felicity says. “I can do that.”

If there’s one thing I know, it’s that you have to tell the story first.

We have to get to Warren Hanover first. Felicity is waiting outside the bookstore when I get there, clutching their backpack. The newest texts from them say that Alyssa and her dad didn’t pick up the phone for them, either. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I stop a few storefronts down, cough, lean on my knees and wheeze for air. I ran. I’m not made for running. My lungs burn and it’s dark and the store is about to close.

For a moment, Felicity and I stare at each other.

A few hours ago, Felicity Keating tried to kill me.

I’m the reason their sister didn’t make it out of the penthouse alive.

Felicity looks over their shoulder, grits their teeth, and says, “Well? Let’s go.”

We don’t take the train. Felicity said, “Metro?” and I said, “No.” They didn’t ask, but—Orange Line or Blue or Silver to Green, waiting for a train, the delay on the track, we wouldn’t make it. There’s no time to find a bus stop or figure out the route. No time to call a rideshare. There’s no time at all.

We have to be first.

So we get there on our own. Rushing down long streets, under a graffitied overpass, across intersections while the pedestrian crossing still says STOP. A car lays on the horn as we pass through its headlights, and we cut through a park, and we dive into the neighborhood. It’s blocks and blocks of towering rowhouses. Bright rectangular windows show the people inside living their lives: getting home from their jobs, making dinner, doing homework.

Every window feels like a prying eye. An opportunity for someone to pull out their camera or look up from their phone and realize they recognize me from somewhere.

It’s too dark to be recognized. I still pull Felicity into an alley, and we’re swallowed by back doors and garages and asphalt.

Neither of us has spoken since we left the bookstore. We haven’t had to. The anxiety is a live wire between us, an electric charge that has our nerves tuned to the same wavelength. Their eyes cut to me, asking which of the identical garage doors is Alyssa’s, and I nod forward—it’s around the corner. Somehow, they understand.

I don’t know why they’re helping me. Why wouldn’t they leave me to this? Let it all come crashing down and watch, vindicated and safe, as my life is destroyed? I don’t get it.

Felicity Keating may have tried to kill me, and they may have spent the past weeks manipulating every second of our time together, but when push comes to shove, they’re a better person than me.

Together, we turn the corner to the next row of houses.

The garage door of the Hanover residence is open, and there stands Leah.

She’s surrounded by boxes of garage mess, her Pokémon pajamas and ear defenders illuminated by dull fluorescent light. She’s rocking on her feet and chewing on her fingers. No shoes. One sock. Alone in the half dark.

Alyssa’s not with her. Neither is her dad, or a caretaker.

Felicity hesitates, but I don’t. I put a hand on their shoulder to keep them moving, and Leah looks up with a strangled gasp.

“Morgan?” she whimpers.

“Hey,” I say. I keep my voice level the best I can through the heavy breathing and burning lungs, to make sure I don’t escalate this. “Are you out here by yourself?”

She points at me. “Alyssa’s mad at you.”

Right. Okay. I stop a few paces away to give her space. “I know. We talked about it at school today.” Understatement. “Is she home? Or your dad?”

“They’re both mad.”