I suddenly wish I hadn't come in here.

Just like I wish I hadn't waited until it was too late to save Jocelyn.

"Come on. I'll take you home afterward."

I'm about to say something like You just don't get it or This is serious, this isn't some funny game, but instead I just stand and follow him outside.

The door shuts, and I watch the sheriff lock it.

As if he's hiding something.

As if he's about ready to bury something.

Something, or someone.

11. Stories and Troubles.

The evening swallows the squad car. We drive slowly toward Jocelyn's home. Toward the place she used to live. The place where she used to breathe and eat and sleep.

The sheriff has sports radio on in the old car that smells like cigarettes and old man's aftershave. The lights cut into the dark woods we pass as we drive in silence for a few minutes.

"And you've had no contact with Jocelyn since when?" He obviously is not buying what I have to sell.

"Since-since I don't know when. Right after Christmas."

"When you came in to report her missing."

"I found her. I know what happened to her."

"Yeah, okay, but let me just ask you this, Chris. You come to a new town and you fall for the pretty girl. In a span of just over a month, let's recount what happens. They find a revolver in your locker."

"Didn't belong to me."

"You have numerous run-ins with Gus Staunch. A reason not to like the Staunch family, who lives right next to you. Someone attacks your mother-chloroforms her, for cripes' sake. Could be anybody. Could be people just scaring off the newcomers. Then I come to find out that you've turned into some vigilante with another gun that you've fired to save the pretty little girl from her wicked step-uncle, or whatever that greasy little Wade was."

What are you saying, Sheriff?

I keep quiet with my face hidden in the darkness, looking at him.

"A lot of others, people like Ross, people who don't have patience like I do-a lot of them would've already handled this situation."

"What situation?"

"You, Chris. The situation of you."

"I didn't do anything."

"Why don't we find Wade and ask him? I'm sure he'd say you did something."

"So you don't believe me?"

"Ross gave me a nice little write-up about you at your last school. I didn't ask him to do that-he went snooping around on his own. But it seems to me that drama follows you around."

I say it again. "I'm not making this up."

The sheriff nods gently, then remains quiet until we pull up to the small house. It's dark and untouched, with snow covering it like a concrete casing. No tracks can be seen anywhere on the driveway. No footprints in the snow, nothing.

The sheriff keeps the car running as the headlights beam down on the door.

"I've been by this house several times now since you came in to see me, since your little talk with Ross. Nobody's been around. Jocelyn and her aunt disappeared. I've spoken with Helen twice. Once just today."

I feel like I'm back at Six Flags Great America on that falling chair ride. My stomach's still hovering in the air as I'm dropping to the ground.

"Where is she?"

"Not she, Chris. They. They are in Florida."

"No."

"Now look here." He turns to me, and I suddenly have the urge to open the door and run away. "I'm not from around here. Just like you, I moved when I was in high school. This was when I lived in Kentucky years ago. So I get it. I get it. These people-they just don't like outsiders. Many Southerners don't. They act charming with their 'aw shucks' attitude, but they can be cold and mean. But the days of the Klan are gone, Chris. They're not around here."

"I saw them. I'm not-why would I make up something like that?"

"Because teen love can cause you to do a lot of things. Some pretty stupid."

He thinks this is because of ... teen love?

Seriously?

Boy, you picked this wrong.

I wonder if Jared is watching me. Or if he knows.

I'm sure he's probably wondering what in the world I did.

The sheriff doesn't know. He really doesn't know.

Unless he's the best actor in the world.

"That place you're referring to-it exists. It's called The Grounds, and it's got a bit of a legend around it. With the stones and all that. Kids like to go there. And something tells me Jocelyn took you there. Maybe for something more than just ghost hunting, right?"

I feel my bottom lip grow heavy. I really want to tell this guy what I'm thinking. But I don't.

I keep quiet.

This is my fault.

"Now listen to me, Chris. Okay? If there is any more trouble coming from your direction-whatever it might be-I'm going to become the not-so-patient guy. People rarely see that, but they don't like it when they do. Do you understand?"

Someone else said those very same words to me.

"Yes," I say.

But I don't understand, and I've never understood.

That's part of being a teen. Not understanding, trying to figure it out.

"I mean it, Chris," he says. "I really mean it. You go about your business, and you leave your stories and your troubles to your imagination. I'm not saying that it's easy being a newcomer, but you gotta go with the flow."

"Okay."

Yeah, I get it.

Stay quiet and stay put.

Walk around like everything's okay.

Wipe the blood off my hands and mind my own business.

The sheriff pulls the car back out of the driveway and heads toward my cabin.

12. Options.

The reminders only bring me down.

The leather wristband that I'm wearing.

The photo printout of the two of us on Christmas Day.

The last letter she wrote to me. Maybe the last letter she ever wrote.

I want a new story, a different installment, a new character, a change of scenery and score. How about a new producer and director as well?

That night after Sheriff Wells takes me home with a good-ole-boy threat, I try to figure out my options.

I torched option A, which was remaining quiet.

I burnt option B, which was telling someone I trust.

Option C, the Newt option, is gathering my things and running away.

Option D is doing nothing. Doing what pretty much everybody's been telling me to do from my very first step into this tiny town.

I'm going to write a book called Choose Your Own Misery. If you choose to go walking in the woods, go to page 54. If you choose to spy on the creepy neighbors, go to page 72. If you choose to sit alone in your room, go to page 38.

All the pages will have the same result, of course.

Misery.

I don't want to listen to any music tonight. I don't want to do my homework or read anything or try and see if the Internet is finally working.

I'm petting Midnight and realizing he's the only living and breathing thing I can trust.

I'm not scared.

Jocelyn's words are an anchor in this murky wilderness, weighing me down, imprisoning me.

This whole dark world needs hope.

I don't trust anybody or anything, and that includes the hope that she spoke about.

It's a nice little thought. It's sweet for a Sunday morning to tell to a bunch of kids right before giving them candy. But this is the real world, and it's not for babies. It's time I grew up and smelled the scent of reality.

The smoke rises in the distance and the voices hush and the darkness falls and the lies continue.

This has nothing to do with me. Nothing at all.

So I believe.

So I hope.

13. Utterly Ridiculous.

Good-byes never go as well as you'd like them to. I know this from when I left Libertyville three months ago. Three months that seriously feel like three years.

Half of the guys I was friends with never even officially said good-bye. There weren't any fond farewells or moving hugs. I mean-we're guys. A few said things like "see you around" or "take it easy." Really moving things like that. The stuff of Hallmark cards.

Right.

Even Brady, who drove me home from school that last time and dropped me off in front of the house I'd be leaving the next day, had little to say.