She couldn’t stop feeling responsible for what had happened to Gray. It was her fault they had gone to the Rock & Bowl that night. She should have just told Christina no. Or better yet, she should have just ignored Christina’s text messages.

She was so stupid, always answering her texts like somebody was watching her and would know that she hadn’t turned her phone off or left it in her purse or something. How pathetic was she? So desperate to be liked by Christina that she jumped every time Christina looked her way. Why couldn’t she be stronger? Why couldn’t she be more like Kyle?

Kyle didn’t care that the cool kids didn’t like him. Or if he cared, he cared more about his integrity and being true to himself. He had pushed her to do the same, but she wasn’t like Kyle. She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t brave. The idea of not being liked, not being popular, was terrifying to her. And look where that had gotten her.

Her phone vibrated again in her hand. Another message from Christina.

Where R U? R U OK?

Even as she told herself not to, her thumbs moved over the keyboard.

OK.

Can U Blieve it? A serial killer! It could’ve been any of us!

No, it couldn’t, Brittany thought, angry. It couldn’t have been any of them. They had been with each other. Only Gray had gone off alone. Because of the rest of them. Nothing like that would ever happen to Christina Warner because she was always the center of attention, always surrounded by the people who feared and adored her.

No. It would happen to Gray, who had nobody to prevent it and nobody to care afterward. Gray, who counted Brittany as a friend. One of her only friends. They weren’t close the way Brittany had been close with other friends in her life. They didn’t confide secrets in each other the way best friends usually did. And yet Gray had chosen to come to her after the last fight with her mother.

And look what I did to her.

Brittany looked over by the big chair in the corner of her room where Gray’s duffel bag sat on the floor, half-hidden by a menagerie of stuffed animals. She should take it back to Gray’s mom, she supposed. The idea of facing Gray’s mother made her feel sick.

Hello, Mrs. Gray. I’m Brittany. I’m the reason your daughter is dead. Here’s her stuff.

Her phone vibrated again. She wanted to throw it across the room, but she didn’t. Gray would have. No. Gray would have typed FUCK U and then thrown it across the room. Brittany looked at the message.

What did they ask U? what did U tell them?

I told them you’re a bitch, Brittany thought. I told them you’re mean. I told them it’s my fault Gray got killed because it was my fault she was there. Of course she hadn’t told them any such thing. She had told the detective the same thing everyone had told the detective. What difference did it make, anyway? Gray had gone out into the night alone, never to be seen again. That was all that mattered.

She looked down at her phone and typed Nothing.

Her stomach cramped like a fist. You make me sick, she thought, though she wasn’t sure if the thought was directed at Christina or herself.

All Christina was worried about was how this made her look. It had to be Gray’s fault that Christina had made up that horrible poem. Gray had to be the bad one for starting the fight between them. It had to be Gray who lunged at Christina because God forbid anyone thought Christina would lose her cool and do something like that. But she had.

It was Christina who had started everything that night. It was Christina who had planned the whole thing, Christina who had humiliated Gray, Christina who had flipped out and thrown herself at Gray.

It was Christina who had told everybody to say that Gray attacked her. She didn’t want to look bad. She didn’t want to get in trouble. She didn’t want her precious creepy father to think the sun didn’t rise and set on her. And if Gray was dead anyway, what did it matter that they made her look bad? She was bad.

At least she wasn’t a hypocrite, Brittany thought, like you, Christina. Like me.

The phone buzzed again.

Did U tell what she said?

Did I tell them Gray said you’re a phony and a fake, and everything she said about your phony fake Barbie doll life? That people don’t really like you, that they hate you behind your back but they’re too afraid to say it?

Did I tell them the truth?

She texted back: No.

Brittany wanted to scream. She pictured herself like Gray had been that night—in Christina’s face, shouting at her. It’s not about you, Christina! No one cares how this makes you look. No one cares if Gray had sex with your boyfriend or father or you or anyone else.

Her phone buzzed in her hand yet again.

UR the best Britt. I <3 U.

Me 2 U, she typed. Then she turned her phone off, went into the bathroom, and threw up.

35

Fitz had grown up the child of a single mother who had spent all her free time in the local American Legion tavern, shooting pool and tequila and picking up men. In contrast to her lifestyle, she had enrolled Fitz in the Cub Scouts and then the Boy Scouts.

Of course, he had seen that for what it was: a conduit to men who didn’t hang out at the American Legion. Still, he had applied himself to the role of Scout, taking advantage of the opportunity to learn interesting things, like how to tie knots, how to use a knife and an ax, and, most important, to always be prepared.

He took his time getting ready, making certain everything was in place, that he was forgetting nothing. He had to be especially diligent in his planning and execution because he was deviating from his normal way of doing things. This was when mistakes could be made if he wasn’t careful.

He would be using his small van. He never used the small van. When he worked on the road, he used the box truck, which was set up for the purpose. He went through the van methodically, checking his tie-downs, arranging the blanket, making sure the duct tape was where he needed it to be.

He double-checked the small gear bag on the passenger’s seat. Hand tools, knife, plastic zip ties. Good to go.

The adrenaline was beginning to flow. He couldn’t rest. He couldn’t sit down. He was like a shark, moving constantly, as he visualized what would happen tonight. He could feel the cold air on his face, freezing his nose hair. He could see Dana Nolan’s face—the split second of confusion, then the spark of recognition, then the flash of fear and panic.

He could the feel the rush of power, the sexual excitement. He went through the scenario over and over in his head.

This too was different for him. He had always trolled for victims, capitalizing on opportunity. The adrenaline rush was quick and explosive. This excitement of anticipation was almost too much to stand.

He checked his watch.

Go time.

Careful to stay just under the speed limit and to obey all traffic laws, he drove to Dana Nolan’s apartment complex. He made sure not to arrive too early. He backed the van into the parking spot beside her car and settled in to wait under the harsh glow of the security light.

Every second seemed like a minute. He tried to listen to the radio. Music annoyed him. People talking annoyed him. He worked on taking slow, deep breaths, concentrating on trying to lower his heart rate. He had once read that Shaolin monks could use their minds to slow their heart rates to practically nothing.