‌It’s interesting, the things you learn about yourself in a new environment. For instance, I never thought watching someone haul boxes would make them more attractive until I saw Tripp doing it at Brightside Bakery on Saturday afternoon.‌

“Close your mouth,” Mason says, gently tapping my jaw as Tripp disappears into Regina’s storage room with the last of the supplies that UPS dropped off beside the front door. “All that drooling is putting me off my croissant.”

My cheeks warm as Nadia says, “Okay, but in her defense, have you seen his arms?”

“I have been enjoying the show, yes,” Mason says, taking a sip of coffee. “But quietly, subtly, and with dignity. Brynn could learn a few lessons from me.”

“Shut up,” I mutter before stuffing a piece of Pop-Tart cake into my mouth. I swallow and add, “Speaking of dignity, Mason, how’s Gorff?”

The tips of his ears turn red as Nadia laughs. Mason’s giddy, incomprehensible drunken texts about Geoff the night of Charlotte’s party

have become our favorite thing to tease him about. Sometimes I like to text him screenshots in class just to watch his ears get scarlet.

“SKSKSKKS GORFF IZ STAKIIING MEEEEE,” Nadia says, reciting the most classic of the Gorff texts. “What did you mean by that, Mason? Was he staking you? Is Gorff under the impression that you’re a vampire?”

I tap my chin, thoughtful. “Or was he stalking you? Was that a cry for help?”

“Maybe he offered you a steak?” Nadia asks.

“All right, yes, you’re both hilarious,” Mason says sourly. “And you’re officially disinvited from my dance circle when Geoff and I go to the Winter Dance together.”

“Your dance circle?” I ask.

“There’s going to be black lights,” Mason says. “It’s my true medium.” Then he does a strange little chair shimmy before finishing the last of his coffee. “Too bad you’ll miss it.”

“I don’t think it’s possible to miss that,” I say.

“Speaking of.” Nadia gets a little red herself, which almost never happens. “I was thinking of asking Pavan, but I wanted to check with you first, Brynn. Would you mind?”

“Pavan Deshpande?” I blink at her, confused. “Why would I mind?”

“Well, you kissed him once. Does taking him to a dance violate the girl code?”

“I kissed him in seventh grade,” I remind her. “So no. But it’s sweet of you to ask.”

“Will you be taking Box Stud?” Mason asks as Tripp returns to the counter.

“Shhh,” I mutter, and my stomach twists. I missed an opportunity yesterday; when Tripp brought up Motive, I should have told him that I worked there. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it when he was so upset about his mother, and the moment passed.

Now it hits me with a prickle of guilt that I haven’t told Mason and Nadia either. For no good reason, other than the fact that I didn’t tell them from the beginning. I’m not sure why; maybe because I never expected

them to become more than lunchtime friends. But they are, and I need to come clean, especially now that Carly is full steam ahead on gathering information about Mr. Larkin. It’s only a matter of time before someone from Saint Ambrose catches wind of the fact that he’s on the Motive website, and once they do, the news will spread like wildfire.

I’m taking a deep breath, preparing myself to start, when Tripp suddenly materializes by our table. He smells like sugar, and he’s still in short sleeves, with the flannel shirt he took off while moving boxes draped over one shoulder, so my concentration vanishes.

“Ready?” he asks. We’re heading to Mr. Solomon’s after his shift.

“Is she ever,” Mason says, and another moment passes. It’s all right, though, because I should probably explain Motive to Tripp before I explain it to anyone else.

“Let’s go,” I say, reaching for my coat. I’ll tell him in the car.

—

I did not tell him in the car.

I was going to, really. But then Uncle Nick called from Vermont, where he’s using the family ski pass on a weekend trip with his college buddies, because he can never keep track of the activation code. “I texted it to you before you left,” I complain.

“I know, but I must’ve deleted it by mistake. It’s not there.”

“Well, I’m driving and I can’t look for it. Check your email, because I definitely sent it to you at some point in the past three months.”

“What would the subject be, do you think?” “Oh my God, Uncle Nick. Try activation code.”

By the time he finally tracks it down, I’m pulling up beside Mr. Solomon’s truck. “You’re a lifesaver, cherished niece,” Uncle Nick says before disconnecting.

“Sorry,” I say to Tripp as I shift into park. “My uncle’s kind of disorganized.”

“No problem. Hey, listen. Before we leave the car, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.” Tripp turns to face me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we’re sitting. Close enough that I could brush away the lock of hair that’s threatening to dip into his eye, if I wanted to.

Don’t blush. “What’s that?” I ask. Cool and casual, that’s me. “Let’s concentrate our efforts on the front door, this time.”

Oh. Right. What did I think he was going to say? “Good call,” I say as we climb out of the car and close our doors. I consider, briefly, raising the subject of Motive before we reach the door, but it’s nowhere near a long enough walk. Plus, I’m starting to get anxious about seeing Mr. Solomon again, wondering if he’ll be the kindly man I remember from Saint Ambrose, or the one who went off about Mr. Larkin after aiming a shotgun at us. “Let’s just keep ringing the bell until—” Then I stop short at the top of the stairs, causing Tripp to bump into me. He puts a hand on my waist to steady us both before moving to my side, and I ask, “Is the door open?”

“Huh. Yeah,” Tripp says, gazing at the sliver of space between the door and its frame. He pushes lightly on it, and the door swings wider with a loud creak. “Mr. Solomon?” he calls. “It’s Tr—Noah Talbot. You there?” There’s no answer, and no sound at all from inside. “Maybe he’s out back?” “I’ll check,” I say. I quickly jog around the corner of the house, taking

care to keep a safe distance from the gate. But Mr. Solomon is nowhere in sight. I return to Tripp, who’s pushed open the door another few inches. “He’s not there,” I report.

“Okay, well…” Tripp stands with his hands on his hips, jaw twitching. “Maybe we should go in and make sure he’s okay. And let him know his door is open. Can’t imagine he did that on purpose.”

“Probably not, but do you think that’s a good idea? I mean, he was mad enough when we were just trying to open his gate.”

“We’ll announce ourselves,” Tripp says, grasping the knob to open the door fully. “Mr. Solomon,” he yells. “It’s Noah and Brynn. Your door was open. We’re coming in, okay?”

The returning silence makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Everything about this feels wrong. I glance back to the driveway at Mr. Solomon’s truck, hoping that maybe he’s in the driver’s seat getting ready to go somewhere and we just failed to notice him. But the truck is empty, and so is the dark hallway we step into. A threadbare striped rug covers the floor, and a pair of boots sits askew on a shoe tray pushed against the wall. The space is dusty, and I sneeze before calling out, “Mr. Solomon, are you there?” I don’t like how high and thin my voice sounds.

“Have you ever been here before?” Tripp asks, pausing at the edge of a staircase. The short hallway in front of us branches in three directions; the kitchen is straight ahead, a dining room to the right, and a living room to the left.

“No,” I say as we move toward the kitchen. It’s empty but the overhead light is turned on, and so is the half-full coffeepot I spy on the counter. “He’s not in here. And he should have heard us by now if he were on the first floor.” I retrace my steps to the stairway, and pause with one hand on the banister. “Mr. Solomon?” I call. “Are you home?”

“Maybe we should go upstairs,” Tripp says.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, turning to look over my shoulder into the living room. “We could—”

And then everything stills—my words, my steps, my heart—when I see it. The edge of a stockinged foot jutting out from behind a chair, just in my line of vision. “Oh no,” I breathe, and Tripp freezes at my tone.

“What,” he says, every line of his body tensing.

Go over there, I command myself, staring at the still foot, but my legs refuse to obey. Just walk. In my head, my voice sounds like the soothing, singsong one I used on toddler Ellie when she was having a bad dream. Open your eyes. I’m with you. You’re okay.

“You’re okay,” I murmur, and finally start moving. “You’re okay.” I don’t know who I’m talking to, but the closer I get, the more positive I am that I’m wrong on all counts. I’m focused with laser precision on the sock, and when I’m fully inside the living room, I notice a hole in the heel. Somehow, that’s what forces a choked sob from my throat, even before my

eyes finally take in the rest: Mr. Solomon lying still, his neck bent at a horribly unnatural angle, and his head resting in a puddle of dark red blood. “Mr. Solomon,” I gasp, falling to my knees beside him. “Are you…can

“Do you hear me?” I plead, even though I know he can’t. His open eyes are so empty, so lifeless—I know he’s past hearing anything, but I can’t stop rambling. “I’ll get help. I’ll call for help. Did you fall? Mr. Solomon, did you fall?” He’s lying there in front of the fireplace, and there’s blood on the sharp edge of the mantel above him. I fumble for my phone in my pocket, but it’s not there. It’s in my bag. Where did I put my bag? I must have dropped it somewhere. I glance around and spot it on the ground a few feet away, and as I lunge for it, I see Tripp.

He’s standing there, stiff and ghostly pale, his eyes almost as vacant as Mr. Solomon’s. “What did you do?” he whispers, his voice strained.

“I—what?” I stammer, confused. “What do you mean?” I don’t understand why he’s asking me that, since we’ve been together the whole time and it’s clear I didn’t cause the terrible scene in front of us. Is he asking Mr. Solomon? Tripp doesn’t answer, and I can’t wait around to figure it out. I grab my bag’s strap and pull it toward me. “We have to call for help. Maybe someone can still help….”

Tripp sinks to his knees, staring at Mr. Solomon, but it feels like he’s not really seeing him. “I have to think,” he murmurs, burying his face in his hands.

“Tripp, I—” I’m at a loss. He’s obviously not okay, but Mr. Solomon is in far worse shape, so I need to focus on that. I finally find my phone buried in my bag, but my hands are trembling so much that I nearly drop it. “I’m going to call 9-1-1,” I say, not sure if I’m trying to reassure Tripp or myself.

“Stop screaming,” Tripp croaks, his head still in his hands. “I can’t think when you’re screaming like that.”

“I’m not screaming,” I reply, my voice cracking as I fight back tears. “I’m trying to use my damn phone.” I manage to dial, and within moments, a calm voice on the line says, “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“Someone’s hurt,” I manage to say, my eyes flicking back and forth between Mr. Solomon and Tripp. One is deathly still, and the other is rocking back and forth, muttering. I want desperately to help them both, but I don’t know how.

I don’t know how to help anyone.