‌“More coffee, hon?” Regina approaches with a pot held aloft, Al trotting at her feet.‌

“Yes, please,” I say, and she tops me off while ignoring Tripp’s empty

cup.

“Once again,” he says humbly, “I am very sorry.”

“Al and I forgive you, but that doesn’t mean we’re ready to talk to

you,” Regina says coolly, just as Al pokes his nose into Tripp’s leg to demand a scratch. “Traitor,” Regina tells the dog, then goes ahead and gives Tripp more coffee before returning to behind the counter.

“Thank you for not firing me,” he calls after her.

We’re at Brightside Bakery on Sunday morning, but Tripp is just a customer today since Regina doesn’t want him working until, as she puts it, “You’ve gone at least twenty-four hours without making a damn fool of yourself.”

He’s clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and neatly dressed, and he smells like some kind of citrusy soap. His entire demeanor is so much lighter than it’s been since my first day back at Saint Ambrose that any lingering doubts

about what I came to tell him disappear. I clear my throat and say, “Tripp, listen. After everything that happened last night, I’ve been thinking, and…I have some ideas about Mr. Larkin that I want to run by you, but only if you’re okay with that. Would you rather I drop it?”

“Drop what?” he asks.

“Mr. Larkin. The case. Everything.”

Tripp’s brow furrows. “Like—we never talk about him again?”

It sounds a lot like a certain pact in the woods, but I’m not about to point that out. “I won’t talk about him with anyone, if that’s what you want,” I say.

When I lay in bed last night, unable to sleep, Tripp’s words in Charlotte’s guesthouse kept running through my brain: You cared more about the school paper than about me. He truly believed that, and it hit me with an aching sense of regret that I don’t want to be the same single- minded girl Tripp knew in eighth grade—or the girl who bulldozed through Sturgis last month in a desperate attempt to prove herself. I’ve never felt more alone than I did when people were mad at me for being sneaky about working at Motive, which was bad enough. But it’s been worse to realize how much my tunnel vision hurt my friends, my family, and especially Tripp.

That’s the part I still need to make clear. “You’re much more important to me than a story, Tripp. I’m sorry I never showed you that before now.”

Tripp is quiet for a while, eyes on the floor. “I’m sorry too,” he finally says. “About what I said to you in gym class, obviously, but also about… everything else. I used to go to Mr. Larkin’s grave a few times a year, to apologize for how he’d never get any justice because of me. But even while I was standing there, talking to his headstone, I knew it was just a bunch of empty words. It wouldn’t change anything.”

“You visited Mr. Larkin’s grave?” I ask, my heart breaking a little at the mental image. “That must have been hard.”

“It was the absolute least I could do.” Tripp grimaces before meeting my gaze. “You don’t have to drop it, Brynn. Go ahead. Tell me your ideas.”

“Okay, well, here’s the thing.” I take a deep breath before pulling the Union Leader article up on my phone. “Do you remember when I said last night that your lie protected Shane, not your father?” Tripp nods, and I explain everything I’ve learned so far: that Mr. Larkin had a brother at Saint Ambrose, that he may have changed his name from “William Robbins,” and that if he did, he could have been the son of a controlling New Hampshire man whose second wife took off with their toddler son and hasn’t been heard from since. “I’m thinking that the little boy who disappeared, Michael, might be one of our classmates. The age is right, so I was trying to think of kids who might fit, and then I thought of…” I blow on my coffee as Tripp takes my phone. “Shane.”

“Shane?” Tripp repeats, eyes glued to my screen.

“Yeah. We’ve only known him since kindergarten, and he doesn’t live in Sturgis, so we have no idea what his life was like when he was a toddler.”

“He was adopted,” Tripp says. “From the foster system.”

“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe that’s just a cover story.” Tripp blinks, startled, and I add, “Maybe Laura Delgado is really Lila Robbins, and she wanted to hide their identities. She’s the right age, approximately. Early forties.”

“So are half the parents at school,” Tripp points out. “And there are lots of kids at Saint Ambrose from other towns. Kids with families we don’t know anything about.”

“Right. But here’s the thing…” I hate to state the obvious to the new and improved Tripp, but: “Only one of them was found standing over Mr. Larkin’s body with the murder weapon.”

Tripp studies the photo of Lila Robbins for a beat, his brow furrowed. “This isn’t Ms. Delgado,” he says, but his voice isn’t entirely certain. “I don’t think so, anyway. Even if she dyed her hair, this girl’s nose is too big.”

“Noses can be changed,” I say. “And the name ‘Laura’ isn’t all that different from ‘Lila,’ if you were going to change your name and wanted to keep it close.”

“But that kid—Michael Robbins, he had asthma, right? Shane doesn’t.”

“Are you sure? Do you know everything about him?”

Tripp’s jaw muscles tighten before he admits, “No. We don’t—we’re not the kind of friends who’d tell one another stuff like that. I’ve never seen him with an inhaler, though. And he plays lacrosse. You can’t do that with asthma, can you?”

“You can if it’s well managed. Plenty of elite athletes have asthma.” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “It can be invisible, so it’s probably not a great clue to follow. Plus, it’s not just that. My uncle Nick told me that he heard Mr. Larkin and Ms. Delgado arguing, back when Uncle Nick was our classroom assistant in eighth grade.”

“Arguing? About what?”

“He wasn’t sure. But the timing is interesting, isn’t it? That’s right around the time when Mr. Larkin could’ve told her he knew who she really is.”

Tripp releases a long exhale. “So you think Shane is some missing kid from New Hampshire who killed his own brother?”

“It’s one theory.”

“And Charlotte is just—what? Fine with it? Never said a word?”

“Charlotte might not have been there,” I point out. “You have no idea how long they’d been together before you got there. But even if Charlotte saw everything, it’s possible she’d cover for him. That she’s still covering for him.”

Charlotte has always been devoted to Shane; that’s nothing new. What is new, though—at least to me—is how almost fanatical the two of them are about keeping Tripp close. But after they tracked him down when he was at his most vulnerable, they left him alone. On the one hand, you could argue that they were giving him space. On the other, you could argue that they didn’t so much want to help him as keep him quiet. It seems like every time Tripp has “a bad night,” as Charlotte told me at her party, they try to keep him quiet.

“But remember what I told you Shane said that day?” Tripp asks. “He heard yelling. I thought he was talking about my dad and Mr. Larkin, but— maybe there really was a drifter. Maybe everything happened exactly like the police said back then.” He swallows hard. “Except, you know, the part where I covered up evidence.”

“You accused Shane of making the yelling up,” I counter. Tripp opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, I add, “I know you only did that to protect your father, but you might have been right. That’s genuinely the kind of thing somebody would say if they were trying to deflect attention. Did you hear yelling?”

“I had my earphones in, listening to music for most of the time. I didn’t hear anything until I took them out and heard Charlotte scream.”

“Did she hear yelling?”

“I don’t know,” Tripp admits. “I never gave her the chance to say. I shut the entire conversation down because I wanted them to follow my lead.”

“There’s a good chance Shane was covering for himself,” I say. “I mean, he was at the scene when Mr. Larkin died. That’s something Carly always says—proximity matters.”

“Okay, but if you put it that way, the whole school had proximity.” When I tilt my head, puzzled, Tripp adds, “Kind of. I mean, the woods are right behind Saint Ambrose. People from school hike there all the time. Teachers, even. But nobody ever suspected…Grizz, for example. Or Ms. Kelso.”

“Ms. Kelso? Really?” I ask, even though my mind ran along a similar track when I first started rethinking everything I thought I knew about the case. I wondered if, maybe, there was bad blood between Mr. Larkin and a coworker that I never noticed.

“Or your uncle,” Tripp says.

“Uncle Nick?” I frown. “Why would anybody suspect him?” “Proximity,” Tripp repeats. “Was he working that day?”

I don’t want Tripp getting sidetracked with something that doesn’t matter, just because he doesn’t want to have this conversation. Instead of

answering, I take my phone back and enlarge the Union Leader article. “Look, my point is that Shane could’ve been terrified,” I say. “Dexter sounds like a control freak who dominated his wife and let his kid suffer. If Shane was in this great new life, with him and his mom feeling safe with Mr. Delgado, maybe he was afraid Mr. Larkin would lead Dexter Robbins to them, and everything would explode.”

Tripp looks a little green. “Jesus. Killer kids, getting away with murder. You’re telling me Gunnar Fox was actually right?”

“Well, there’s a lot more nuance involved, but…maybe?” Last night, as I drove Tripp home from Charlotte’s, he told me about Lisa Marie’s video

—the one where she pretended to believe that Tripp could’ve killed Mr. Larkin. When we got to his house, I had him text her to warn that if the video ever goes public, Tripp will contact Motive and show them Gunnar’s messages offering to pay Lisa Marie for lying. “Have you heard back from Lisa Marie?”

“Not yet.” Tripp grimaces. “This is so messed up. Do you really think it’s possible? I mean, Mr. Delgado is like a guard dog with his family. Couldn’t he just have sent a bunch of lawyers after Dexter Robbins? That guy would never get custody, or visitation, or whatever Shane might’ve been worried about.”

“I don’t think we can be sure about that,” I say. “Parental rights are a big deal, and Lila Robbins taking a kid from his father could be seen as kidnapping, even if there’s a good reason. Plus, if Ms. Delgado really is Lila Robbins, we have no idea how much she told her new husband. Maybe he actually thinks Shane was a foster child. I wonder if…” I think back to all those defaced posters of Mr. Larkin. “Maybe Shane is the one who’s been writing all over Mr. Larkin’s face on the garden committee posters. Like, seeing his presence at school again, after the trauma of everything that happened in the woods that day, is too much for him.”

“Shane’s not a graffiti kind of guy,” Tripp says. “If he didn’t want to look at something, he’d rip it down.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But that’s all sidebar, anyway. The main thing is…” I hesitate, not wanting to push him so far that he thinks I wasn’t sincere about

dropping the case. He was so regretful about Mr. Larkin earlier that I want to make sure he’s considering all the angles. “At some point you should tell someone that you weren’t with Shane and Charlotte the whole time.” I almost say tell the police, but we haven’t even gotten into the whole Delgado Properties $250,000 donation to the Sturgis Police Foundation yet. I’m not sure who we can trust to be objective when it comes to this case, but I’d put my money on Carly first.

A flush darkens Tripp’s cheeks. “I know,” he mutters, hanging his head. “I’m just not ready yet. Because then I’d also have to tell them my dad took the money, right? And he and I haven’t even talked about that, and

—”

“It’s okay,” I say quickly, relieved that he’s at least considering it. “You don’t have to do anything right now.” I take his hand in mine, and it twitches beneath my fingers. I let go instantly, chagrined that I keep forgetting what he told me in Charlotte’s guesthouse: Don’t—you can’t touch me like that when you know how I—

It’s still not the right time to complete that thought. I wonder, fleetingly, if it ever will be, because I’d really like to know. “It’s just good to keep sharing information,” I say, letting my palms rest on my knees. “We’ve already learned so much more about Mr. Larkin than I ever thought we could. And if we can get answers about something that happened such a long time ago…” I sit straighter in my seat as a new thought occurs to me. “If we can do that, maybe we can even get answers about—”

And then I stop, realizing that I almost raised yet another painful subject. “Other stuff,” I finish limply, before taking a sip of lukewarm coffee.

“Other stuff?” Tripp eyes me steadily. “That’s not what you were about to say.”

I take another sip. More of a guzzle, really. “Yeah, it was.”

“Come on, Brynn. We’re being honest from now on, right? What other stuff?” When I don’t reply right away, he adds, “Are you under the impression that I can’t handle whatever it is, because I’ve been in freak-out mode ever since you got back to Sturgis?”

“Possibly,” I admit.

“I got that out of my system. I can take it.”

I shoot him a worried look. He’s not as strong as he seems, Charlotte said during our library showdown, but then again…I don’t believe that. Charlotte has no idea what Tripp has been carrying for the past four years. “Well, it just hit me that the one thing we haven’t talked about yet when it comes to Mr. Larkin is, um…Mr. Solomon,” I say.

“Mr. Solomon?” Tripp recoils, but more like he’s confused, rather than flashing back to finding our former groundskeeper’s body. “Why would we?”

“Because the police aren’t sure whether he fell and hit his head or was pushed. And if he ran his mouth about Mr. Larkin to us, he might’ve done it with other people too. Maybe the wrong people.”

Tripp blinks. “But it was a robbery.” “That could’ve been a distraction.”

“Are you saying…” He shakes his head decisively. “Look, there’s no way Shane did anything to a harmless old man, okay? There just isn’t.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” And I’m definitely not saying that Tripp told his friends what Mr. Solomon said to us, even though I know he at least told Charlotte. I’m not trying to cause a relapse, here. “It’s just that Mr. Solomon died under mysterious circumstances after talking about Mr. Larkin, so…like I said, it’s good to keep sharing information.”

Tripp is silent for a moment, then reaches abruptly into his pocket. “Okay, well, on that note…I found it.” I can’t help it; I let out a small gasp when he lays a silver disc on the table. “The medallion. The one next to… you know.”

“Mr. Larkin’s body,” I whisper, and he nods. I pick up the disc; it’s about the size of a quarter and has a small hole on top, like it’s meant to be worn on a chain. There’s an emblem of a snarling dog with the words Mad Dog Tavern on the front, along with the words Bite First. The back is engraved with the name “Billy,” in large block letters.

“You were right,” Tripp says. “That’s Mr. Larkin’s name, so it must’ve been his.” He hunches his shoulders. “I wish I’d looked at it more closely

back then. That would’ve saved me, and everybody else, a hell of a lot of trouble.”

“Did Shane or Charlotte see you take this?” “I don’t think so.”

I study the medallion, frowning. “I’ve never heard anyone call Mr. Larkin ‘Billy,’ but it could be a childhood nickname. Even if he changed from ‘William Robbins’ to ‘William Larkin,’ it might still fit.” The emblem of the dog is raised, and I run my thumb over it. “Have you Googled Mad Dog Tavern?”

“No,” Tripp replies, his lips twitching into a smile. “Figured I’d leave that to you.”

I set down the medallion, open Google, and type in the tavern name. “There are a few Mad Dog Taverns,” I report, scrolling through the search results. “One’s in North Woodstock, New Hampshire.” I pause and tap my chin, deep in thought. “That’s pretty close to Lincoln, where Dexter Robbins is from. What if—Oh God. Do you think Dexter could have been in the woods that day? And that’s who Shane heard arguing with Mr. Larkin?”

“The woods are getting crowded if he was,” Tripp says, picking up the medallion and turning it over in his hand. “I could ask Shane, I guess. Do you think I should?”

“Break the pact? I’m not sure we want to open that Pandora’s box with Shane, especially after how he acted last night. It might be better to do more digging first.” I hit the directions button and pull up Google Maps. “Mad Dog Tavern is only two hours from here, so…”

Tripp looks up with a half-smile. “So, what?”

My stomach flutters. I’ve tried to dredge up middle-school memories and can’t recall any feelings beyond friendship for Tripp from back then; as much as I liked him, I never thought of him that way. But things are different now, not only because I lose my train of thought every time he smiles. Despite everything he’s been through over the past four years—and even before that—he’s not bitter. He’s still hopeful, hardworking, loyal, and funny, even if that’s mostly at my expense.

I pluck the medallion from Tripp’s hand and attach it to my keychain, then dangle the keys in front of him. “So how would you feel about a road trip?” I ask.