‌Mr. Solomon’s funeral is on Friday, but I don’t go to it.‌

School is on Friday too, but I don’t go to that either. Or to work. It’s interesting, how you can just stop doing things and the world keeps right on going. That would’ve been useful information to have before I wasted so much energy on stuff that turned out not to matter anyway. All that time, I could have been doing nothing.

I did go to the liquor store on Saturday, because Dad’s out of alcohol, but the woman behind the counter laughed me out of the place. Joke’s on her, though, because a guy in the parking lot was happy to buy me whatever I wanted for a twenty-dollar tip. “Here you go,” he said. “Don’t drink it all at once, Prep.” I’ve taken to wearing my Saint Ambrose blazer as a coat because I don’t mind the cold, and also, I can’t find my actual coat.

Joke’s on him too, because I did drink it all at once.

Dad leaves me notes. I don’t read them. I told him I have a fever.

Sometimes I take out the video Lisa Marie made, and the screenshots from her phone, and think about sending them to Shane so Mr. Delgado can destroy my mother and Gunnar Fox in one fell swoop. It feels like that

might be satisfying, in a way that nothing else is, except for the part where Mr. Delgado would have to hear what she said about me.

I think I knew, from an early age, that Noah wasn’t like other kids.

Lisa Marie was lying, but also she wasn’t, because what regular kid would do what I did and then live for four years like nothing happened? I still don’t remember seeing Mr. Solomon’s body, but that must be what finally dragged me out of denial and dropped me straight into hell.

Lisa Marie just reminded me that I belong there.

Mostly, though, I curl up on our couch and I sleep, making up for all the sleep I haven’t gotten for the past four years. That’s the thing nobody ever tells you about being involved in a murder: it tends to keep you up at night.

—

“Tripp. Tripp! Wake your sorry ass up.”

Somebody is shaking my shoulder, hard. I groan and crack open my eyes, then immediately close them when light sears my eyeballs. I don’t need to see a face, though. I know that voice.

“You smell like a brewery and you look like shit,” Regina says. “Nice to see you too,” I mumble.

“Fever, my ass. I knew you were lying. Sit up.” She drags me into a seated position. “I closed the bakery for you. The least you can do is sit the hell up.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“No, you just left me in the lurch for a week so you could drink yourself senseless.” She slaps my cheek, but not hard enough to hurt. “Listen. I know you saw something terrible last week, and it made you think of that other terrible thing you saw. I know your mother is a toxic mess and your father checked out a long time ago. All of that is a shame. But you’re not the only person who’s ever gone through a hard time or been dealt a shitty hand, Tripp Talbot. You’ve got a roof over your head, a good education, and the sense God gave you. That’s more than a lot of people

have. So get up and get moving. If you’re gonna lie around all day, you can do it in the storage room and feed Al while you’re at it.” She wrinkles her nose and puts some space between us. “But first, take a goddamn shower.”

She’s right about that part. The shower’s overdue, so I stumble upstairs, peel off days-old clothes, and turn the water up to scalding hot. For a few minutes, as water pounds my skull and my shoulders and the clean scent of soap and shampoo surrounds me, I think that I can maybe do what she says. I dry off, brush my teeth, and put on fresh clothes. Even though my head is pounding and my hands are shaking, I feel a little bit normal. Then I look in the mirror, at my shadowed eyes and stubbled jaw, and all I see is him.

I think I knew, from an early age, that Noah wasn’t like other kids.

Regina’s a good person. The best one I know, and she shouldn’t have to deal with him. So when I hear her go into our downstairs bathroom, I grab my Saint Ambrose blazer, shrug it on, and take off out the front door.

As usual, I don’t know where I’m going. My house is on a main road, and I start across the street without looking, only to have a car swerve around me, honking loudly. “Jerkoff,” I mutter, even though it was my fault. Another car approaches from the opposite direction, but much more slowly, and its headlights flash when it gets close.

I know that Range Rover; I’ve ridden in it dozens of times. The driver’s-side window rolls down, and Charlotte pokes her head out. She’s wearing a white coat with a faux-fur hood, bright red lipstick, and an exasperated expression.

“Shane and I have been looking for you everywhere,” she says. “Get

in.”