‌“Looking for you,” I pant, releasing the pillar and dropping gracelessly to the ground. Tripp is on the other side of the fence, in a T-shirt and his Saint Ambrose blazer, his jaw unshaven and his hair mussed. “I thought you might be in that—shed, or whatever it is, so I was trying to get over the fence.” I dust my palms together and add, “That last part was probably obvious.”‌

“Did you consider using the gate?” Tripp asks, in that careful voice he puts on when he’s trying to sound less drunk than he is. He reaches out a hand to tug at something a few feet to my right, and a section of the wrought-iron fence swings outward. I’m very glad, suddenly, that it’s too dark for him to see the heat rising in my cheeks.

How, given what I came here for, can he still make me blush?

“You know I don’t like gates,” I say, stepping through before he changes his mind.

Tripp looks me up and down with those long-lashed eyes of his, frowning. “I’m mad at you,” he says slowly. “But I don’t remember why.”

“Probably wasn’t that bad, then,” I mutter, scuffing the toe of my boot into the ground.

“Why are you here, Brynn?” he asks.

I could ask him the same question, but I don’t know how much time we have before he either decides to sic Charlotte and Shane on me or stops making sense. “I need to talk to you. Do you want to go into the shed for a minute? You look cold.”

Tripp turns to look at the building behind him. “It’s not a shed,” he says. “It’s a guesthouse. And I’m not cold.” He watches me shiver for a bit and adds, “But you are, so fine.”

Once we enter the guesthouse, I can’t believe I ever called it a shed. It’s beautiful inside, most of the space dominated by a living area that contains a sectional sofa flanked by leather armchairs, with a heavy oak coffee table in between. Bookshelves line one wall, and a tall bronze lamp casts a warm, buttery circle of light onto the richly colored carpet.

Tripp staggers a little and shrugs off his blazer before collapsing into a corner of the sofa. I take off my coat and perch a few feet away from him. I’m a little surprised by his lack of resistance, but I also don’t think he was being facetious when he said he couldn’t remember why he was angry with me. He’s obviously not doing well, and it makes my chest constrict even though I know, finally, why I haven’t been able to trust him fully.

“Okay,” I say. “I need to talk to you because I remembered something. About the class-trip money that went missing in eighth grade.” I pause, looking for some kind of signal that the topic means something to him, and I don’t think I’m wrong that he stiffens a little.

“There were two envelopes,” I continue. “A small envelope that held the money. That was found in Charlotte’s locker. And a bigger, turquoise one covered with stickers, that held the smaller envelope plus the donor list. That was never found. But I saw it, after the money had gone missing.” I wait a beat for his reaction, but there’s nothing this time. “I saw it in your room while we were doing homework.”

“No, you didn’t,” Tripp says instantly. Then he rubs his thumb with his finger, and I feel a spark of triumph. Liar. Caught you. But the spark dies as

quickly as it came, because—all of a sudden Tripp has a motive for keeping Mr. Larkin quiet, doesn’t he? If he stole that money years ago, and Mr. Larkin found out about it…

No. I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t asked nearly enough questions, and besides, I keep circling back to what Tripp said in Mr. Solomon’s house, when he seemed to be flashing back to Mr. Larkin’s death. What did you do? Not What have I done? I think his raw, horrified voice in my head is why I came looking for him without hesitation, never imagining that pushing for the truth might be dangerous. That he could be dangerous. I’m pretty sure that the only person Tripp is dangerous to, especially right now, is himself.

“Yes, I did,” I say. “I know what I saw.” I swallow hard and add, “Did you take the money, Tripp?”

He runs a hand across his temple, then over his scruffy jaw and the back of his neck. “I’m so tired,” he says heavily.

“Of what?” I ask. “Everything.”

“Did you take the money?” I repeat.

He drops his hand to his lap and says, “Yeah, I took it. What can I say? I’m sorry. It was dumb.” Then he rubs his thumb again, and relief floods through me. Goodbye, motive.

“No, you didn’t,” I say.

His eyes flash with surprise. “I just told you I did.”

“And I’m telling you that I know you didn’t. Was it Charlotte?” We can do this by process of elimination, I guess.

“Okay, yeah, it was. I’m just trying to look out for her. She didn’t mean any harm.” His fingers move again, and it’s honestly shocking to me that he doesn’t realize he does this. Every single time.

“Nope,” I say. “Not her either.”

He frowns. “What are you playing at, Brynn? You ask, I answer, and you tell me I’m lying. Why are you even here if you don’t believe a word I say?”

“Because I’ll know when you’re telling the truth,” I say.

Tripp huffs out a humorless laugh. “You will, huh? Because you’re magical like that.”

Who is he protecting? The envelope was in his house, so the list of people who might have put it there is short. I could run through all his friends, I guess, but it probably makes sense to start closer to home. “Was it Lisa Marie?” I ask. I don’t really think that Tripp would lie for his mother, and she was in Las Vegas anyway, but I want to test his reaction.

He answers immediately, his hand still. “No.” “Was it your dad?” I ask.

“No,” he repeats, and rubs his thumb. “Bingo,” I say softly.

Unlike me, Tripp has never been a blusher, but now his cheeks stain a deep red as his mouth drops open. “How the hell are you doing that?” he breathes, too startled to fake anything. Then he tries to recover, stammering that he was just messing with me, but he’s nowhere near sober enough to pull it off.

“I’m not going to tell on your dad, Tripp.” I say it with a pang, because solving the theft might be a key puzzle piece in the overall mystery, but I’ve never been more sure of anything than this: Tripp needs to talk about what happened back then. “I just want to know. How did the money end up in Charlotte’s locker?”

He drops his head into both hands and falls silent for a long minute. I’m about to ask again, when he looks up and says, “Swear you won’t tell?”

I cross my heart. “I promise.”

“I found it the weekend before Mr. Larkin died, when I was looking for a hammer in the basement,” Tripp says. “It was under my dad’s workbench. I knew what it was, right away. He must’ve taken it during that whole shelf fiasco, you know, when he was building them for Grizz and then he unbuilt them? I brought it up to my room and tried to figure out what to do. I decided I’d bring the money back to school and slip it into the office when no one was looking, but I lost my nerve and left it at home on Monday. Which is when you saw it.”

He knots his hands together so tightly that the veins in his forearms bulge. “I lost my nerve on Tuesday and Wednesday too. Then Mr. Larkin died, and I didn’t go to school on Thursday. It felt like that fucking envelope was staring at me all day. So on Friday I was finally like, ‘I have to get rid of this goddamn thing, no more stalling,’ and I brought it to school. I thought I could be sly and drop it in Grizz’s office when nobody was looking. I was almost there when I saw the cop he’d brought in to search our lockers. I didn’t know what he was there for, but I panicked anyway. I took the little envelope out of the big one so I could dump it into the nearest locker, which turned out to be Charlotte’s. Then I put the big envelope through the shredder in the art room.”

“And you never told Charlotte?” I ask. “I never told anybody,” he says.

My mind is spinning. It’s awful that his dad took the money, but—this can’t be why Tripp has been spiraling, right? It’s not enough. There’s something else going on. I’m trying to figure out the best way to worm more details out of him, when Tripp shifts in his seat to face me. “That’s why I said all that stuff to you,” he says.

“That stuff…,” I start, and then I get it. “In gym class.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “I knew you saw the envelope the night before. I was afraid you’d write about it for the Saint Ambrose Sentinel and my dad would wind up in jail. I tried to make it so nobody would believe you if you covered it. So they’d think you were just making stuff up to get back at me. Or maybe you’d be too embarrassed to try.”

“I didn’t even realize what the envelope was,” I say. “Not till recently.” “Cool.” Tripp hangs his head. “Glad I alienated you for no reason

whatsoever.”

“You could’ve talked to me about it,” I say. “We were friends, remember?”

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “But you cared more about the school paper than about me.”

“That’s not true!” I protest, stung. Tripp just snorts. I want to keep arguing, but…the thing is, I was pretty black-and-white in my thinking back

then. Maybe I wouldn’t have cared more about the paper, but I definitely would have felt a strong urge to finish the story. I probably would have thought that since telling the truth is objectively the right thing to do, everything would turn out fine. So all I finish with is “You could’ve been less brutal in gym class.”

Tripp’s gaze is focused on the circle of lamplight on the rug. “I don’t even remember what I said,” he mutters. Then he rubs his fingers together.

“Yeah, you do,” I say, and he collapses against the sofa. “How?” he asks plaintively, his voice ragged.

“Why’d you pick that particular lie?” I ask. It doesn’t matter, I guess, but I’m curious.

Tripp lets out a bitter laugh. “I might as well tell you, right? You’ll know if I don’t, because you’re some kind of goddamn truth wizard.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I was freaking in love with you back then, Brynn, and I was afraid that if I didn’t make you hate me so much that you’d never talk to me again, I’d end up spilling everything. There was a small, stupid part of me that almost wanted to give you that big scoop, because it would make you happy. Messed up, right? I had to get rid of that part.”

His hands don’t move.

I fall silent, and Tripp snort-laughs again. “I finally shut you up, huh?” “You were— You never said anything,” I stammer.

“Why would I? You didn’t like me that way. And let’s not forget that I was thirteen and basically a disaster. But there you go, Brynn. There’s your truth. Are you satisfied?”

“No,” I say, and he blows out a sigh. “I’m sorry, but none of that is bad enough for—all this.” I wave a hand around him. “You haven’t been to school or work in a week, and I’m pretty sure you haven’t been sober for that entire time either. You look terrible.” That last part’s not true, actually, but he should look terrible, which is the important point. “You’re hiding out in Charlotte’s guesthouse. It can’t just be because your dad took some money or because you…liked me and then cut ties with me.” I can’t bring

myself to say love; that was the alcohol talking, and anyway, it was four years ago and we were kids. “What aren’t you telling me?”

What did you do? Who was that question for? That’s the key to everything, and right now there are only three people I can think of: Shane, Charlotte, or his dad.

“No,” Tripp says, softly but firmly. “No what?”

“No more,” he says.

“Tripp, I really think you have to—”

“I don’t.” His gaze suddenly sharpens into a glare. “I remember why I’m mad at you. You work for that TV show. You’ve been using me this whole time, haven’t you?”

“No,” I say. “I haven’t, I swear. I’m really sorry that I didn’t tell you about Motive. I should have. But I never shared anything you told me with them.” He just shakes his head, and I add, “I’ll quit, Tripp. I will send an email and quit right now if you’ll tell me what happened to make you this upset.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’m doing it.” I pull up Carly’s email and type, I’m so sorry, but I have a conflict of interest and can no longer work as an intern at Motive. Thank you so much for the experience. I appreciate the opportunity and will always be grateful.

I show Tripp my screen, and his lips twist. “You won’t send it.”

I take a deep breath—here goes nothing, goodbye, internship, you were great while you lasted, until the Blandy Era anyway—and press send. Then I open my sent folder and show it to him. “See?”

“That was stupid,” he mutters. “I never said I’d tell you anything.” “I know,” I say. “But I want you to know you can trust me.”

He looks away. “There’s nothing more to tell.”

I don’t need to see his hands to know that’s a lie. “Just give me a chance, Tripp. Please. Don’t you think it would help you feel better?”

“I don’t know,” Tripp says, his voice hollow. “I don’t think I’ll ever feel better, to be honest. I don’t think I should.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything I can say to convince him, but I can’t just give up either. I move closer until I’m right next to him, and take his face in both of my hands, feeling the sharp planes of his cheekbones and the soft scruff at his jawline as I pin him with my gaze. “Tripp, if you don’t let whatever is inside of you out, I’m honestly afraid that it’s going to kill you. And soon.”

He jerks his head away, eyes burning into mine. “Don’t do that,” he says hoarsely. “Don’t—you can’t touch me like that when you know how I…Fuck.” He slumps against the sofa, eyes closed, and I shove down the part of me that wants to ask, When I know how you what? This is not the time for that conversation. “I’m so tired,” he says. “Of all of it.”

I don’t say anything, because I can’t think what else to say. I’ve used every tool in my limited arsenal of persuasion. So I just sit there, quietly, for so long that I think Tripp must have fallen asleep. And then, when I’m about to touch his sleeve to see if he has, he says, eyes still closed, “It started right before the leaf project.”