"What the hell was that?" Matt said, dropping into the chair at Bridget's desk. "You don't even look surprised."

"Yeah, 'cause I'm not."

Realization dawned. "You knew?"

"Dude, your dad is here like two nights a week. Checking up on us."

"He was worried. Felt a sense of responsibility because . . . because . . ."

Bridget's smile was pitying. "Yeah, not so much."

Matt pointed toward the door. "They were flirting in there."

"I know. They've been doing it for, like, three months."

He fell silent, clearly internalizing what he'd just seen. Bridget felt bad for him: He really didn't have a clue.

"No wonder you were so pissed off at me," he said at last.

Bridget looked at him. His hazel eyes held a hint of sadness, and she realized that he was right. She hadn't really understood where her dislike of Matt came from. He'd been nothing but nice to her since he came back into her life, and she'd been nothing but a raging bitch in return. But suddenly it all made sense. She'd been so angry at her mom for flirting with another man less than a year after her husband's death, so angry at Sergeant Quinn, her dad's supposed friend, she never even realized that she'd totally and completely taken her anger out on Matt.

"It's okay," he said. A smile spread across his face. "I get it now. I just really thought you hated me." He walked right to her, reached out, and took her hands in his. "But you don't hate me, do you?"

"I-" Bridget's eyes locked onto Matt's, and whatever she was about to say vanished from her mind. Matt ran his thumbs gently over the backs of her hands, which trembled beneath his touch.

Did she hate him?

Not even a little.

She didn't know when it had happened, or how, but she definitely didn't hate Matt Quinn anymore.

Her face must have said what her words didn't. Matt cupped her cheek in his hand, caressing her skin with the tips of his fingers. He leaned down, hesitated to see if she'd flinch away. But Bridget had no intention of doing so. She wanted him closer.

When his lips touched hers, she was afraid to move. She'd never kissed a guy before and she was terrified that she'd do it wrong. But Matt's lips were surprisingly soft, his touch light and calm. And when he finally broke away from her, he looked nervous, as if he'd been afraid he would break her.

"Are you okay? I mean, was that okay?"

Bridget barely nodded. There was so much weirdness pulsing through her body she felt like she was going to pass out. "Yeah, thanks."

Thanks? Did she really just thank him? Bridget, you complete loser.

"Bridge?" her mom called from the kitchen with the worst possible timing in the world. "Dinner's ready."

Sunday night's shepherd pie dinner at the Liu house was the most awkward social experience of Bridget's life.

Everyone avoided everyone else. Her mom studiously avoided both Matt and Sergeant Quinn, and treated Bridget and Sammy like they were the only ones in the room. Sergeant Quinn was having difficulty keeping his eyes away from her mom, but he avoided his son's eyes like the plague. Matt stared directly at his plate, occasionally nudging Bridget with his elbow or knee to make sure she remembered he was there. As for Bridget, she didn't care if everyone in the room fell off the face of the Earth. All she could think about was the tingling on her lips where Matt had kissed her.

"Why's no one talking?" Sammy asked. He'd separated his shepherd's pie into piles of mashed potatoes, ground beef, carrot, onion, and "other" and was taking bites of them in order, progressing counterclockwise around his plate. "Are we mad?"

"No, Sammy," her mom said. "Of course we're not mad at you."

"Not mad at me," Sammy said, scooping a bit of other into his mouth. "Just mad."

Bridget worked her way through her dinner as fast as was humanly possible. She wasn't the only one. Her mom, Matt, and Sergeant Quinn were eating like they were racing to the finish line. She kept trying to remind herself that beyond her brother's eccentric eating habits, beyond the squicky flirting between her mom and Sergeant Quinn, beyond her own disturbing desire to pull Matt down on her bed and smother herself in his crisp, orangey cologne, there was a reason she'd brought him to her house. They needed to look for a secret stash of notes that might or might not exist. No pressure.

"How are you doing, Bridget?" Sergeant Quinn asked, breaking the silence.

Bridget had no idea what he was talking about. "Fine?"

Her mom cast a sideways glance at Sammy. "We were worried, you know." She lowered her voice. "About Peter."

Bridget dropped her fork. She'd totally and completely put Peter's murder out of her mind. What kind of a friend was she?

"Sammy," Matt said calmly. "Did you show your mom your baseball mitt? The one we broke in for you?"

Sammy's face lit up. "No!" He jumped out of his chair. "You'll love it, Mom. Matt says it's made just for me."

Bridget caught Matt's eye as her brother ran out of the room. "Thank you," she mouthed. The last thing she needed was for Sammy to overhear a conversation about Peter's death.

"Steph-" Her mom caught herself. "Sergeant Quinn told me that Peter's death was very much like . . . like . . ." Her mom's hands shook so violently she had to drop them into her lap.

"It was a completely different crime scene, Annie," Sergeant Quinn said. He reached his arm around her shoulders, then froze, casting a furtive glance at Matt and Bridget. He settled for a friendly pat on her mom's shoulder instead. "Whatever sicko killed the Kim boy, it was just a coincidence, Annie, that it was anything like . . ." He looked at Bridget. "Like David's murder."

Bridget recalled the stricken look on Sergeant Quinn's face the night before when he arrived at St. Michael's. He knew as well as she did that the murders were exactly the same. Freakishly the same. No coincidence about it the same.

"I'm just sorry that Bridge-" She choked on her daughter's name. "That Bridget had to be the one to find

him."

Bridget stiffened. Peter Kim's mangled, blood-soaked body flashed before her. His eyes wide open, staring upward, reflecting the horror of his last moments. His mouth gaping in a silent scream. The deep red gash across his throat that exposed the sinewy gore beneath.

Bridget's fingers curled around the seat of her chair, fingernails digging into the coarse underside. It was her fault, her fault that Peter was dead. Father Santos had said as much. Peter had been obsessed with her, in love with her since before she even knew what those words meant, and she'd just ignored him. She should have been kinder, more understanding. She should have texted him back last night, calmed him, told him that Matt Quinn meant nothing to her.

She felt a warmth next to her skin as Matt brushed the back of her hand, then slowly, purposefully, slipped his fingers between her palm and the chair. She gave way to the pressure and released her death grip as Matt's fingers laced between hers. Strong. He felt strong. Like someone she could finally lean on. She dropped her head as her eyes started to tear up.

"See, Mom?" Sammy had his left hand shoved into the brand-new baseball mitt. He reached his arm up like he was catching a fly ball in center field. "See? Matt says it's the same kind the pros wear."

Her mom cleared her throat. "That's lovely, Sammy. Now finish your-"

The doorbell pealed through the house.

"Who could that be?" her mom said. Bridget noticed that all the color had drained from her mom's face.

"Shall I get it?" Sergeant Quinn asked, half rising from his seat.

"No, no, Stephen. It's fine." Her mom stood up and excused herself. Beneath the table, Matt gave her hand a squeeze.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, Annie," a voice rang out from the hall. Hugh Darlington.

"Oh, no, Hugh. It's fine." This time Bridget was amused to watch Sergeant Quinn fidget in his chair.

"I was hoping you might have time to discuss the endowment I'm making in David's name."

"Actually, we're just finishing up dinner."

"I can wait in the downstairs office until you're done," Mr. Darlington said insistently.

With an audible grunt, Sergeant Quinn pushed himself to his feet and strode through the swinging door into the entryway.

"Sergeant Quinn," Mr. Darlington said. "I didn't realize you were here."

"It's a bad time, Darlington," Sergeant Quinn said. His voice sounded cold and professional. "Maybe you could come back tomorrow."

"I'm afraid," Mr. Darlington said, sounding very self-important, "that it cannot wait."

"I'm afraid," Sergeant Quinn said in a tone that made Bridget's hair stand on end, "it'll have to."

"How often is he here?" Matt whispered. He sounded uneasy.

"All the time," Sammy blurted out through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "But not as much as your dad." Sammy grinned, exposing rows of potato-covered teeth, while Matt stared at his plate, aimlessly pushing bits of food around.

"I'm sorry, Hugh," her mom said. "Can we talk tomorrow?"

There was a pause, and though she couldn't see them, Bridget pictured the tall, solid frame of Sergeant Quinn and the shrewd, handsome face of Mr. Darlington, staring each other down in the entryway.

"Fine," Mr. Darlington said at last. "I'll give you a call tomorrow, Annie. Have a lovely evening." Another pause. "Good night, Stephen. I'm sure we'll talk soon." Then the door clicked shut.

It was a full two minutes before her mom and Sergeant Quinn reentered the dining room. Bridget wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know what happened during the interim.

Her mom came in first, with slightly puffy eyes. She immediately began clearing plates even though no one was done. Only Sammy complained.

"Mom," he said, snatching his plate away.

Her mom sighed.

Sammy jumped on the opportunity. "Can I watch TV while I finish?"

"Sure." Bridget's mom never gave up that easily. The confrontation between the two men in her life must have taken all the fight out of her.

"Come on." Bridget tugged on Matt's sleeve.

"Hmm?" he asked absently, like he was just coming out of a trance.

"Mom, we're going to do homework in my room, okay?"

"Homework." Her mom plopped down in a chair and stared out the back window. "Sure."

Twenty-Nine.

MATT FOLLOWED HER DOWN THE hall to her room, and it wasn't until the door clicked shut that he seemed to snap out of his stupor.

"Shutting me in?" he smirked.

"Shutting them out." Did he notice the tremor in her voice? She couldn't help it with him in her room and their parents down the hall, completely absorbed in their own drama.

They stared at each other. Matt was suddenly shy, and Bridget couldn't decide whether she wanted him to kiss her again or just go back to the way he'd been earlier in the day when they drove up to Geyserville: silent and strong.

Geyserville. That's right. There was a reason why she'd invited Matt over in the first place. She spun around and opened her closet door, pushing the clothes aside as far as they would go.

"The closet?" Matt laughed. "Really?"

"Shut it, perv." Bridget smiled. She stretched her hand to the back of her closet, groping blindly in the dark, and eventually landed on a doorknob. "A little help, please?"

Matt gingerly stepped over her boot collection and squeezed in next to her. "Is that another door?"

"These old houses are weird. There's a room off my mom's bedroom that connects through this closet."

Matt leaned his shoulder against the door. "Why don't we just go through the door in your mom's bedroom, then?"

"Because she pushed a dresser in front of it after my dad died, smartass."

"Oh. Good reason."

Bridget twisted the doorknob and threw her weight against the hidden door. It opened a fraction of an inch, then stopped.

"Something must be in front of it," Matt said.

"Push!" Bridget ordered. Matt crouched down and put his legs into it. There was a deep groan from the other side of the door, then the obstacle beyond gave way. The door flew open, and Bridget and Matt tumbled forward into the room.

Bridget landed on top of him. "You're heavier than you look," Matt grunted.

"Bite me."