‌The stark January landscape flashes by my window as Brynn and I drive to New Hampshire. I’m lost in thought, trying to absorb everything she just told me about Shane, but it’s impossible when I still haven’t fully absorbed the truth about my father.‌

It’s not as though I’ve been afraid of him for the past four years, or worried that he’d hurt someone else. Even when I believed he’d killed Mr. Larkin, I also believed it was a single, horrific mistake that he’d never repeat. Still, the thought that he’d done it—and that I’d made myself complicit by covering for him—poisoned everything between us to the point where I’ve spent most of high school avoiding him.

This morning, before I left to meet Brynn at Brightside Bakery, I was louder than usual getting ready, half hoping that I’d wake Dad up. For the first time in years, I wanted to talk to him. I don’t know what I’d even say

—how do you tell someone you thought they were capable of that? I’m not sure I can go there, but it would’ve been nice to…I don’t know. Look at him with different eyes, I guess.

He can sleep through anything, though, and he did. Before I left the house, I typed out a text that said Can we talk sometime this week? then instantly deleted it. He wouldn’t know what to do with that. It would only freak him out.

So I don’t get any texts from my father while we cruise along 93 North, but Charlotte keeps lighting up my phone.

You were very rude last night, she writes.

You can still come to the Winter Dance with me and Shane, though. Unless you’re planning on bringing Brynn.

I don’t know what to think about Charlotte, or what she really knows about what happened that day in the woods. I have no idea if Shane and Charlotte were together when they found Mr. Larkin. I always assumed that they were, but I was wrong about a lot of things. In her messages, though, she sounds the same as ever: a little imperious, a little bossy, and a lot overinvested in the Saint Ambrose social scene. I’m comfortable with that person, so for now, at least, I’m going to consider her texts at face value.

I wasn’t planning on going to the Winter Dance, or, if I did, on bringing anyone, but…

I steal a glance at Brynn, who’s driving like she’s lost in thought. We’ve been quiet for almost half an hour, listening to music, but it’s a good kind of quiet. The kind you don’t have to fill with bullshit because you’re afraid of it stretching so long that the other person starts asking questions you don’t want to answer.

Brynn knows all my worst truths now. She’s the one who pulled them out of me and held them up to a light I didn’t even think existed. And she’s not just tolerating me this morning; she’s giving me those cute sideways looks that make all my nerve endings buzz. I’ve been telling myself for weeks that those looks don’t mean anything, since I’m not supposed to have good things. But maybe they do, and maybe I am.

You’re much more important to me than a story, Tripp. If you didn’t know Brynn, that wouldn’t sound like much of an opening, but since I do…

“Charlotte’s speaking to me again,” I report. Not what I meant to lead with, but oh well.

“That’s good,” Brynn says. She sounds like she means it, even though there’s been tension between her and Charlotte for a while. “I hope she doesn’t hold last night against you.”

“She texted about the Winter Dance,” I say. Nice pivot. “Are you going?”

“Ah,” Brynn says. Her face falls. “Well, I was planning to tag along with Nadia and Mason and their dates, but I don’t know if that would be much fun. For them. They’re kind of mad at me for not telling them about Motive.”

“Maybe you could quit again,” I say. “That was a hell of a gesture.” She huffs out a laugh, and I add, “Or you could go with me.”

I feel a brief stab of guilt, because Charlotte’s had my back for years, and I’m not trying to piss her off. But she doesn’t get to choose my friends

—or my girlfriend.

Brynn briefly takes her eyes off the road to meet mine. “Are you asking?”

“Are you making me ask twice?”

“No,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. “To the second question, I mean. Yes to the first. If you want.”

“I want,” I say. It comes out a little more fervent than I meant it to. “Okay, good.” She flashes a quick smile and pulls off the road,

announcing, “We’re here.”

Mad Dog Tavern is a squat, gray building with a dark red door and a sign featuring the same snarling dog from the medallion. There are a lot of Harleys parked in the lot beside the building; they outnumber the cars almost two to one. It’s a pretty full parking lot for a Sunday afternoon. “I guess it’s a biker bar?” Brynn says doubtfully.

“Looks that way,” I say glad I managed to find my winter coat instead of pulling on my Saint Ambrose blazer yet again. We’re going to stick out badly enough as it is, if we’re even allowed inside. “You sure you want to go in?” I ask.

“I just drove for two hours, so yes,” Brynn says, turning off the ignition. As we get out of the car, she adds, “If nothing else, I need to use

the bathroom.”

“Enter at your own risk,” I say as a couple of guys emerge and linger in front, talking. They look exactly how you’d expect a biker to look: burly and leather-clad, with thick beards and impressive mullets. I feel a spike of nerves, suddenly wishing I had Shane with me, but as soon as we get close, one of them pulls the door open and steps back.

“Young lady,” he says, with exaggerated politeness that could come off as mocking without the friendly grin. “And good sir.”

“Keep an eye on your girl in there,” the other one says to me with a wink. They both look like they think we’re hilarious, and possibly twelve.

“That could have gone much worse,” Brynn murmurs as the door falls closed behind us.

I blink, letting my eyes adjust to the sudden darkness. The only light is coming from the windows, streaming pale sunlight onto the scarred wooden floors. One side of the room is all pool tables, and most of them are in use. The other side is a mix of booths and cocktail tables in front of a long bar with the words Bite First carved into the middle.

“Oh, hell no,” the woman behind the bar says as we approach. She’s plump with gray-streaked dark hair, wearing a tight black T-shirt that shows off serious tattoos. The one on her right forearm spells out Fiona within a vine-and-floral design. “I don’t care how good your IDs are. You two are underage.”

“We’re not here to drink,” Brynn says, giving her a sweet smile. “Your tattoos are beautiful. Is your name Fiona?”

“My daughter’s,” the woman says. “I’m Rose, the owner. And who are you?”

“I’m Brynn, and this is Tripp.”

“And what can I do for you, Brynn and Tripp, if you’re not looking for a drink?”

Brynn leans against the bar. “I was hoping to talk to someone about Dexter Robbins.”

Rose’s eyebrows rise. “Dexter doesn’t own the place anymore, hon.”

Brynn and I exchange glances, and I try not to look as shocked as I feel. Even though Brynn’s instincts have been dead-on about a lot of things, I still figured this was a wild-goose chase. I definitely wasn’t expecting a hit right out of the gate. “Oh, that’s okay,” Brynn says, sounding flustered. “I wasn’t actually looking for him, per se….”

Rose rests her forearms on the bar. “Then why’d you ask about him?” “Well…” Brynn takes a breath, and I can almost see her steeling

herself to go all in. “I’m an intern with a true-crime show called Motive, and we’re looking into the death of a man named William Larkin.” She delivers the half-truth smoothly—to me, at least. I still can’t figure out how she caught out my lies so easily last night.

“William Larkin?” Rose shrugs. “Never heard of him.”

“He might have changed his name,” Brynn says, pulling out her phone. I catch a glimpse of the photo she pulled up—Mr. Larkin’s official Saint Ambrose picture—before she holds it out to Rose. “But this was him. Four years ago.”

Rose, who’s been a combination of amused and bored since we got here, suddenly goes rigid. Her eyes widen as she takes Brynn’s phone, and her expression gets tense. “Is this some kind of joke?” she asks.

“No, of course not,” Brynn says quickly. “I would never joke about something like that. The picture is of William Larkin. He was our eighth- grade teacher at Saint Ambrose School in Sturgis, Massachusetts. We learned recently that he might previously have been named William Robbins?” She’s doing a pretty good job of sounding like she knows what she’s talking about, until her voice lilts nervously at the end.

“Billy.” Rose draws the name out slowly, still frowning. “Billy is dead?”

“You recognize him?” Brynn asks.

Rose swallows hard and hands back Brynn’s phone. “I gave him that tie when he was a kid, as a joke. Life hands you lemons, you know? I guess he finally grew into it.”

“He called it his lucky tie,” Brynn says, and Rose closes her eyes. “Could we…Do you think we could talk to you about him?”

“Hold on,” Rose says, turning to the row of bottles behind her. “You two might not be able to have a drink for this conversation, but I sure as hell can.”

—

“I bought this bar from Dexter,” Rose tells us a few minutes later, when we’re settled in a booth with a basket of greasy tortilla chips and some drinks. Beer for her, and soda for us. “After he got religion and decided drinking was a sin. Which is bullshit, if you ask me.” She raises her bottle. “The Jesus I believe in would have a beer with you.”

“Amen to that,” I say, and Brynn kicks me under the table.

Rose points the bottle at me. “Not you specifically. Jesus respects the drinking age.”

Brynn clears her throat. “Were you friends with Dexter?”

“We ran in the same circles,” Rose says, and shrugs. “The biking community around here is close, and Dexter rode back then. I always liked his kid better than him. Billy was a sweet little guy. Lonely, though. No momma. She died when he was a baby. He hero-worshipped his dad, but I don’t think Dexter paid him much attention. He thought raising kids was women’s work, the sexist creep, so he left Billy pretty much on his own.”

She crunches a chip. “Then Dexter got married again, got religion, and decided to get rid of the Mad Dog. I didn’t see much of him after that, but Billy would come by sometimes. I think he was lonely, still. Dexter had another kid by then and had gotten all zealous about being the spiritual leader of his new family. Rumor had it he might’ve taken that too far. A lot too far.”

“Like this?” Brynn asks, showing Rose the Union Leader article.

She nods. “Lila and Mikey going missing was a big deal around here, until stories started coming out about how Dexter practically kept that poor woman a prisoner and wouldn’t treat Mikey’s asthma. People didn’t look too hard for them, after that.” She takes a swig of beer. “It’s a shame Lila

didn’t take Billy with her, but I suppose she couldn’t. He wasn’t her biological son.”

Brynn’s the journalist here, but I’m curious too. “So when did Mr. Larkin change his name?” I ask. It feels weird to call him by a name Rose doesn’t know, but calling him “Billy” would be even weirder.

“Well, I never knew that he did,” Rose says. “We fell out of touch, like you do when kids get older and have their own lives. The last time I saw him, he was a junior in college. He stopped by for a quick hello on his way someplace else. Told me he’d cut ties with his father, which felt like good news, although I wondered how long it would last. It was nice to see him, but…” She trails off and picks at a hangnail. “He was different. Harsher than he used to be.”

“What do you mean?” Brynn asks.

Rose’s lips twist. “Billy was charming as all get-out, like always, but the sweetness was gone. Maybe life had beat it out of him. Or Dexter did.” When Brynn and I exchange horrified glances, she adds hastily, “Not physically, I don’t think. In all the other ways that count, though. Billy spent his life trying to impress his dad and getting nothing in return, especially after Mikey was born. Mikey would be…maybe your age now.” She squints at us, thoughtful. “Very young to be working for a TV show, in other words.”

“I know,” Brynn says. “To be honest, I was hired partly because I pitched a story about Mr. Larkin during my interview.” She darts me a guilty look, and I shrug. Water under the bridge. “But it’s been hard to find an angle on his personal life. Nobody could find any family or friends when he died. I don’t know how hard they looked, though.” Brynn frowns and breaks a chip in half. “I mean, we got a tip about the name change pretty fast.”

Rose sighs heavily. Having to tell her about Mr. Larkin’s murder was the worst part of the conversation, by far. “What a damn shame. I had no idea. I never heard about that, not from the news or from Dexter, neither. I wonder if he even knows.” She takes a swig of beer. “How on earth did you know to come here, if no one could find his family?”

“Because of this,” Brynn says, taking her keys out of her bag and holding up the silver medallion. “It was Mr. Larkin’s, but it was only, um…” She darts a glance at me. “Recently found.”

Rose reaches out a hand to touch the medallion, turning it so the Billy engraving is facing her. “Lila had this made,” she says. “When Billy turned thirteen. She knew he loved this place. She had one made for Mikey too, but said Billy had to hold on to it until Mikey was older. Did you find that too?”

“No,” I say. And I looked carefully. Did I miss something? I guess it’s possible, but if I did, the police should have found it afterward. “Just the one.”

“I have to ask,” Brynn says, leaning forward. “Is there any chance— could Dexter Robbins, possibly, have been the one to kill Mr. Larkin? Would he do that to his son?”

“Oh Lord,” Rose says. “I’d like to say no. But Dexter was capable of some dark stuff. I wouldn’t have thought he’d treat Lila the way he did either.”

“Where is Dexter now?” Brynn asks.

“I don’t know.” Rose shrugs. “Haven’t seen him for years. Last I heard, he was still big into church but working at a pawnshop. Not sure how that’s more godly than a bar, but okay. I doubt he’s changed much, so Lila was right to stay gone.” She picks up a chip and points it at us. “Men like Dexter are a hornet’s nest. Why poke it if you don’t have to, right?”