‌“Your new boyfriend is kind of a dick,” Mason tells me as I lead him out of the gymnasium.‌

“He’s not really,” I say, but I can’t blame Mason for thinking so. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, when Geoff danced me back to Tripp and he and Mason were just standing there awkwardly, not speaking or even looking at one another. Then Geoff spun Mason away, and Tripp told me what had happened. I ran after Mason, made some kind of excuse I don’t even remember to pull him away, and here we are.

My eyes scan the hallway. Where can I take Mason so that we won’t be interrupted for—whatever conversation it is that we’re about to have? We pass Mr. Larkin’s defaced poster, and I can’t bring myself to look at Mason to see whether or not he reacts. What is happening? What did happen? My brain is spinning between thinking there’s a simple, innocent, totally unrelated explanation, and trying to slot Mason into everything I’ve learned over the past couple of weeks.

“Here,” I say, pulling open the auditorium door. It’s cavernous, but empty, and at least it’s a closed space. I head for the front near the stairs that

lead onto the stage, where we’ll be sure to see any of the doors if they open. “Are you going to tell me what this is about anytime soon?” Mason

asks.

“Yes.” I sit on the steps, and Mason folds himself beside me. “Here’s the thing. You know how someone’s been vandalizing posters of Mr. Larkin?”

Mason doesn’t have a poker face. His eyes instantly go wide before he catches himself, and even then he blinks too fast. “Um, yeah. Of course.”

Oh God. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I take a deep breath, trying to slow the sudden hammering of my heart. “Well, Ellie wanted to find out who,” I say. “She hung a poster of Mr. Larkin in the hallway, and left a marker coated with ultraviolet powder on the desk beside it. So that if someone picked up the marker to write on the poster, the powder would leave residue on their hands that would show up under black light.” I take Mason’s hand and turn it so his palm, unmarked beneath the standard auditorium lighting, is facing upward. “Like yours did. That’s why Tripp freaked when you held out your hand.”

Mason snatches his hand away. “Tripp was seeing things,” he says. “I saw it too,” I say. “Before we left the gym.”

His jaw clenches. “I don’t know what you want me to say. I picked up a marker. So what?”

So what? I really, really wish that was a valid question, but I know it’s not. The whole time we’ve been talking, the enormity of what I missed has been making me almost dizzy. I pull my phone from the pocket of my dress and unlock it with shaking hands. “The thing is, I’ve been looking into what happened to Mr. Larkin. On my own, kind of, now that I’m not working for Motive anymore. And I found out that Mr. Larkin changed his name, and that he had a stepmother, and a half brother our age, and…” What did Ellie say? Book smart isn’t people smart. I’m the most people-stupid girl in the universe. “Mason, this is your mom, isn’t it?”

I hand him the Union Leader article about Lila and Michael Robbins, and watch his face collapse.

I should have seen it straightaway. I went to Mason’s house plenty of times between fourth and eighth grade. But by then his mother was much older than Lila Robbins is in the Union Leader photograph, and dark-haired instead of bleached blond. Ms. Rafferty has glasses and never wears makeup, and it’s possible she had a nose job. But still. The similarities should have caught my eye, and maybe they would have, if I hadn’t been so focused on Shane Delgado. Plus, I didn’t know that Mason’s father isn’t his biological father until right this second.

“Yeah, it is.” Mason hands my phone back, eyes glassy. “I…I never told you about any of that because it was a long time ago, and because…”

“Because you didn’t want me to know that Mr. Larkin was your brother?” I ask.

“Half brother,” he says bitterly.

“Can you tell me what happened?” My phone is clenched tightly in my hands, and my mind is still churning. I’m remembering more now—and one of the things I remember is that Mason and his family were in Florida visiting his grandparents when Mr. Larkin died. They didn’t come back until after the funeral. Whatever desperation Mason or his mother might have felt four years ago, it couldn’t have led them in the darkest possible direction. And even though there’s not a single part of me that believes Mason is capable of hurting anyone, I’m shaken enough in my own perceptions to feel deeply relieved that he was nowhere near the crime scene.

“Where would I even start?” Mason says woodenly.

“Do you remember your—father?” I stumble over the word.

“Of course I do.” A spark of anger animates Mason’s voice. “I’ve lived with him for almost fourteen years. My father is my father.”

“I know. I mean, do you remember…Dexter?”

“No,” Mason says. His hands are knotted between his knees. “I don’t remember anything. All I know is what my mother told me. She was really young, and naïve, and he didn’t seem so bad at first. But he got worse, fast. I was sick all the time, I guess, and he wouldn’t do anything about it. He wouldn’t even let her leave the house without him.”

“You have asthma,” I say. It’s the least important detail, I realize, and yet—it’s another thing that I missed.

“I’ve been asymptomatic for a while,” Mason says. “The chronic stuff in my lungs is still there, probably, but it doesn’t bother me like it used to.” He shoots me a wry look. “But yeah, I have an inhaler. I just don’t use it much.”

I nod, absorbing that. “So your mom left when you were three?”

“Yeah. Mom told me that we were literally locked in the house while he was gone,” Mason says. “He was making the whole place a fortress. Bars on the windows and padlocks on the doors. There was only one window he didn’t bother with, because he thought it was too small. But it wasn’t. That’s the one she used. She didn’t take anything except me.”

He exhales a deep, shaky breath. “Mom didn’t have any family. Her parents died when she was in high school. But Mr. Solomon used to be a good friend of her dad’s, so that’s who she called when she got us out. He

—”

“Wait,” I interrupt. “Mr. Solomon, from Saint Ambrose?”

Mason nods. “He came and got us, brought us to Sturgis and helped Mom find a job and an apartment. Introduced her to my dad, even. She took Dad’s name when they got married, and changed mine. And everything was fine, for a while.”

“Until Mr. Larkin came here?”

“I thought he was so great.” Mason’s voice cracks. “The cool teacher who was actually interested in me. Always asking so many questions. But then one day, maybe a week before he died, he asked me to stop by his classroom after school to talk about my Shakespeare essay. I was excited, because I thought I’d done really well, and that maybe I’d get a prize or something.” He shakes his head. “Instead he told me who he was.”

“What did you say?” I ask.

“Nothing. I couldn’t speak the whole time I was there. I just sat at my desk, totally silent, while he talked. At first I thought it might be okay, because he apologized for how things were back when I was little— apologized that he didn’t do more to stop Dexter from being horrible. But

he also kept calling me ‘Mikey,’ and trying to give me this medallion with that name written on the back. I wouldn’t take it—I couldn’t take it, because I was frozen in place—and I think that made him mad. He shoved it into my backpack and said I was a Robbins, and my mom had no right to hide me away from his father.” I don’t miss the way Mason’s hands clench as he says his father. “He said…he said Dexter’s birthday was the next week, and he was going to tell him where to find me. Can you imagine? That was the last thing he said to me before he left—‘You’ll be the best birthday present Dad has ever had.’ ”

“Oh, Mason.” I slip my hand into one of his. “I’m so sorry. That must have been terrifying.”

“It was.” Mason lowers his voice to a near-whisper. “I must’ve sat there for an hour afterward, totally in shock. I didn’t know what to do. I told my parents, and they talked to Mr. Solomon, and he said we should just take off again. But it would be a lot harder to do a second time, you know?”

“So Mr. Solomon knew that Mr. Larkin threatened you?” I ask. Suddenly our old groundskeeper snarling That son of a bitch got what he deserved makes sense. I’m not sure it’s something Mr. Solomon would have said if he’d been 100 percent in his right mind, but it’s not out of left field anymore.

Mason nods. “He came with us to Florida when we visited my dad’s parents. I know I told you guys it was a spur-of-the-moment vacation, but it was actually this intense strategy session with a family lawyer, and then— while we were gone, Mr. Larkin died.”

“And he’d never said anything to his father about you?”

“I guess he didn’t get the chance,” Mason says. “We kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it didn’t.” I squeeze his hand, and he adds, “I thought I was over it, and I think I am, mostly, but…” He gazes around the auditorium. “I was here over winter break with student council, making posters for the class play, and the red marker ran out, so I went backstage to look for another one. I found it, and then I saw the easel with Mr. Larkin’s portrait. It was covered, and I was curious, so I lifted the cloth and—I don’t know. Everything went hazy for a few seconds, and…I did what I did.”

“And kept doing it?” I ask, trying to keep my voice as judgment-free as possible. “To all of Ms. Kelso’s posters?”

Mason cringes, then extends the hand I’m not holding and flexes his palm, like he’s checking for the green residue we saw in the gymnasium. “I’m not proud of myself, believe me. It was a shitty thing to do to Ms. Kelso, and to…” He swallows hard. “To Mr. Larkin. It’s not like I wanted him to die, or that I don’t wish things could have been different with us. But when you’ve spent most of your life hiding, sometimes the pressure gets to be too much.” He drops his hand back into his lap and meets my eyes. “You really had no idea before tonight?”

“None,” I say. “In fact, I created an entire theory in my head where Shane Delgado was Michael Robbins.”

“Shane?” Even as he winces at his old name, Mason manages a laugh. “That has to be the first and last time I’ve ever been mistaken for Shane Delgado.” Then his expression turns thoughtful. “Funny you should say that, though, because it turns out Shane was there.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “Shane was where?”

“In the classroom, when Mr. Larkin told me who he was.” I gape at him, and he adds, “Well, in the coatroom. Asleep, like always. After Mr. Larkin left, I was just sitting at my desk, shell-shocked, and all of a sudden Shane stumbled out of the coatroom, yawning, and staggered past me out the door. I don’t think he even noticed me.”

“Wait, so…” I rub my suddenly aching temples. “Did he hear you?

Does Shane know Mr. Larkin was your brother?”

“Well, I’ve always wondered,” Mason says. “And I was worried for a while. I mean, he was right there. He’s never said anything, though, or acted any different toward me.” He snorts out a light laugh. “In other words, he’s continued to ignore me as much as ever.”

I can’t even process this right now. Just when I was ready to cross Shane off my suspect list, it turns out he might’ve known all along who Mr. Larkin was. But…why would he care? What possible difference could that make to Shane? Before I can follow that train of thought, though, Mason asks, “What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“About…” He makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. “All this. Are you going to—tell anyone?” His voice catches. “I’m almost eighteen. I don’t think I’d have to see Dexter if I don’t want to, but my mom…I don’t know what kind of trouble she might get into, leaving the way she did, and…”

“Mason, no,” I say quickly. “I won’t say a word. It’s your family’s business.” But even as I say it, I can’t stop thinking about how I accidentally showed the Billy medallion to maybe-Dexter in the pawnshop. I should tell Mason about that, probably, but the relief on his face is so stark that I can’t make myself bring it up.

Men like Dexter are a hornet’s nest, Rose said. Why poke it if you don’t have to, right? But I didn’t listen.

“Will Ellie or Tripp say anything?” Mason asks.

“No. Ellie’s a vault, and Tripp…he has his own demons when it comes to that day.” Mason raises his brows, looking interested despite still being in a state of semi-shock, and I shove gently at his shoulder. “Don’t ask. It’s not my story to tell.”

“You’re holding a lot of secrets, Brynn,” Mason says. “Be careful. That can wear a person down after a while. I should know.” I just smile tightly, and he adds, “Now what?”

I unclench my lips. “Now go back to the gym and dance with your date.”

Mason lets out a strangled half laugh. “Oh, sure. Why not? Dance the night away.”

“Do you have a better idea?”

He sighs and gets to his feet. “Not really.”

I stand too, and ask, “Can I give you a hug?”

He chokes out, “Please.” We grab on to one another and hold tight, and I let him be the first to pull away. “All right,” he says, wiping his eyes. “I’m gonna find Geoff. You coming?”

“In a minute,” I say.

Mason gives me one more smile and says, “See you in there.”

I watch him leave, then turn my attention to my phone, which is filled with check-in texts from Tripp and Ellie. My overstuffed brain is too exhausted to tell them anything except Everything’s ok. I’ll explain soon. And then—I hear something. A light rustling sound, coming from behind the auditorium curtain. I freeze, my heart pounding loudly in my ears. Before I can lose my nerve, I lunge for the curtains and sweep them aside.

A flash of white rounds a corner, and I follow. “Charlotte!” I call out, nearly tripping over an empty cardboard box. “Stop, okay? I know it’s you.”

From where I stand I can see Charlotte paused, one foot on the bottom of the stairs leading backstage. The jeweled pins in her hair sparkle beneath the dim lights. “How much did you hear?” I ask, which is a ridiculous question. Of course she heard everything.

Oh God. Now what have I done to Mason?

Charlotte turns to face me, her flawless features so empty of expression that she looks like a statue. “Mason is Mr. Larkin’s brother?” she asks.

“You can’t say anything. Please, Charlotte. It’s not safe for him.” I’m babbling, my words tripping over one another as I walk toward her, slowly, my hands clasped together as though I’m praying. “You understand that, right? His father is a monster, and…” I pause when I get closer and spot the tear tracks on her face. “Wait,” I say. “Why are you here? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just needed some time alone.” Charlotte folds her arms stiffly but can’t prevent another tear from slipping down her cheek. Then her face crumples and she says, “Shane broke up with me.”

“Oh, Charlotte. I’m sorry.” And I truly am. I wish we were on better terms so that I could hug her, but I’m pretty sure she’d hate that. “Maybe it’s just temporary?” I offer. “He seemed pretty drunk.”

“I don’t think so,” she says, with genuine sadness in her voice. “I’d do anything for him—absolutely anything—but he’s tired, he says. Tired of being in a relationship. What he really means, though, is he’s tired of me.”

“Can I help?” I ask. “We could leave, maybe get a coffee, or—”

She vehemently shakes her head, as if the very thought horrifies her, and I’m glad I held off on the hug. “No,” she says. “I’m going home. And I won’t say anything about Mason, I promise.” My knees go weak with relief,

and I’m about to thank her profusely when she adds, “But you should knock it off, Brynn.”

“Knock what off?” I ask.

“This whole—Veronica Mars thing you’re doing,” she says, waving her hand in a circle. “It’s dangerous, and if you keep going, you might learn something you’d rather not know.”

“Like what?” I ask as she turns away. “Charlotte? Like what?”

There’s no answer except the tap of her heels, and then the squeal of hinges as she opens the exit door and steps outside.