"Fletch, honey, you're home."

Fletcher's mother sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a coffee mug. She took off her reading gla.s.ses and neatly folded them on top of a sudoku puzzle. "How was school? Let me fix you something to eat."

Fletcher wanted the scene to be normal: a mom having an exchange with her son about school, pushing her chair back to pull some crackers out of the pantry. But there was something different about it. Maybe it was the way his mother's hands shook when she pulled out the cracker box or how she kept looking over her shoulder while she dug through the refrigerator for a block of cheese-as if she was scared to turn her back to him.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the living room where the plank of plywood was still bolted to the broken window and shifted his weight. "Did the police say anything about the other night?" The hair along his arms p.r.i.c.ked up as he asked the question.

His mother shook her head. "No, nothing."

A palpable silence hung in the air, and Fletcher knew he should sit down or click on the TV or flip through one of the comic books stashed in his backpack. If he was occupied, maybe his mom would relax.

"Have you heard from Dad?"

His mother looked nervous and knocked over the box of crackers on the counter with her jitters. "He's fine," she said quickly. "And Susan's fine. She likes her school."

Mrs. Carroll arranged the crackers and cheese slices on a plate. She pulled a paring knife from the drawer and palmed a red apple. The sound of the knife slicing through the apple seemed deafening. Fletcher stared as the knife worked through the fruit's glossy red skin.

KILLER. He saw the word on his locker again.

Am I a killer?

His mother pulled the knife through the apple again, exposing its white flesh.

Fletcher felt his temples pulsing.

His blood rushing through his veins.

"Fletch, Fletch, man, what the h.e.l.l?"

"Mom-"

She turned. "What is it, honey?"

Heart racing. Flesh meeting flesh. Pain searing in his gut. The smell of pine trees, dirt, blood.

"I think we should call Dr. Palmer."

Avery sat in her father's GMC, her bent and broken bicycle in the back. She had taken out her ponytail, picked out pieces of twigs and debris, and slicked her hair back three separate times before Chief Templeton cast her an exasperated glance.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"I fell." Avery shrugged, uncertain why she felt the need to lie to her dad. She knew in her gut that the car's driver had meant to harm her. It wasn't just some guy driving around. He was after her-but why? Because she'd been talking to Fletcher? If she told her father, he'd overreact and never let her talk to Fletcher again. Avery was surprised at how much she didn't want that.

She had cried after the car drove off and the fear eased out of her. She had pushed herself up from the bush that had broken her fall and examined herself. Her palms were cut from skidding down the bank, but she wasn't seriously injured. Her lip felt swollen, and her left knee was skinned and visible through the new hole in her jeans.

"It was awful at school today, Dad. Everyone thinks that Fletcher killed Adam." She watched her father's profile for a reaction.

"How do you feel about that?"

Avery gawked. "How do I feel about that? You sound-you sound like-" A sob lodged in Avery's throat and the road in front of them went blurry with her tears.

He sounded like he used to after Avery's mother died, always asking psychologist-constructed questions that required more than yes or no answers, designed to "get kids talking about their feelings." She knew her father had pulled these questions word-for-word from a pamphlet that he picked up at the grief center where he forced her to see a counselor.

"I feel like that's s.h.i.t, and I feel like you know it."

"Avery!"

"You have to give me some information, Dad. This is my friend-don't just tell me to stay away from him. Don't do that to me!" She was crying-great, racking sobs that made her shoulders shake and her lungs spasm.

"Avery." Her father spoke in a slow, controlled manner that only made Avery feel that much more alone.

"Someone ran me off the road today, Dad! I didn't just fall off my bike. Someone was trying to kill me, and it wasn't Fletcher! It was probably the guy who killed Adam. What if he knows I'm helping Fletch?" She heaved, hiccuped. "Why won't you tell me what's happening?"

The chief pulled the car over to the side of the road. "Avery, what are you talking about?"

The more Avery tried to calm down, the more she hiccuped-cried. "I was riding my bike and a car came up behind me, and-and-" Her body replayed the whole scenario, the way she gripped her handlebars, the way her heart raced.

"What kind of car was it?"

Avery shook her head, feeling dumb. "I don't even remember. I was too scared to get a good look. A truck maybe? No, no, like a regular car."

"A sedan?"

A car zipped past them and Avery started. That was the car! Then another car came speeding the other direction, and she was sure that was the one. "I don't know," she said, defeated.

Chief Templeton clicked off his seat belt and turned sideways to face his daughter. "Are you okay? Do we need to take you to the hospital?" His cheeks had an unnatural flush in them, and his eyes were concerned, like a father who thought of her before suspects and criminals.

"It was the same person who hurt Adam and Fletcher. It had to have been. Fletch said he remembered a car in the park's parking lot that day. Did he tell you that?"

Fletcher didn't remember falling asleep. He was still fully dressed and the lights in his bedroom were on, his cla.s.sroom-issued copy of A Separate Peace looking rather dog-eared and pitiful as he rolled off it.

He yawned, wondering what woke him, when he heard his mother's voice. "Fletcher?" She sounded somewhat distant, as if she was on the landing.

"Yeah?"

"Come down here, please."

He rolled his eyes but got up anyway, trudging into the semi-dark hallway. He straightened when he saw that his mother wasn't alone on the landing. "Ma?"

His mother had changed out of her bathrobe-something she rarely did lately-and was wearing lipstick. Her hair was brushed and pinched at the nape of her neck. Two uniformed officers stood next to her.

"h.e.l.lo," Fletcher said, more question than greeting.

"Fletcher, honey." His mother glided up the stairs to him and laced her arm through his, so he'd walk with her. "These are Officers Hobbs and Dawes from the police department."

"Am I in some kind of trouble?"

One of the officers shook his head. "No, son," Officer Dawes said. "This is just routine."

Fletcher slid his arm from his mother's and took a tentative step back up the stairs. "What is routine?"

Hobbs, the other cop, stepped forward and handed Fletcher's mother a piece of paper folded in thirds. She opened it and Fletcher could see the words "Search Warrant" written in fancy diploma-type scroll at the top.

"What is this?"

"It's a search warrant."

Fletcher fought down the urge to curse at the smug officer. "I know, but why?"

"It's just routine, honey." His mother parroted Officer Dawes.

"Yeah, but I already handed over my clothes and shoes and my backpack and everything I had with me that day. What else do you guys need?"

"We just need to cover all our bases, son."

Anger pinballed through Fletcher at Dawes's use of the term "son," but he kept his expression bland.

"We're going to need to search your room, the garage, and your vehicle."

"I wasn't even driving my car-" Hobbs pa.s.sed Fletcher as he made his way to the bedroom. "Mom, are you going to let this happen?"

"Do you have something to hide, Mr. Carroll?"

"Fletch," he corrected. "And no. I was a victim here." He yanked up his shirtsleeve, thrusting his arm at the cop. His scar was healing pink and silvery, a zigzag across his flesh.

"It's routine so that we can be sure we have all of the details we need for our investigation." Officer Dawes held Fletcher's eye, which immediately made him feel guilty for no real reason.

He threw an angry glance at his mother, who now seemed like the cops' accomplice. "Sure. Whatever."

Officer Dawes nodded and turned toward the garage. Mrs. Carroll flashed Fletcher a smile that was meant to be apologetic or rea.s.suring but failed on both counts. "How about I fix you some tea?"

He followed his mother to the kitchen and slumped at the dining table while she filled the teapot.

"This is lame."

"It's just-"

"Don't tell me it's routine, Ma. I have ears. I just mean, why are they wasting their time here when they should be out looking for Adam's killer?"

His mother was silent, as though setting a teapot on a burner took all her concentration. Fletcher couldn't look at her.

"Do you think they think I did this?"

She shot a look over her shoulder, her smile tight. "No, honey, of course not. They probably just need to rule you out as a suspect. Like on television."

Fletcher wanted to feel comforted, but the way his mother flittered around lately-nervously and always watching him-gave him pause. "Do you think I had something to do with Adam's death?"

It could have been his imagination, but Fletcher thought she paused before she answered, "Of course not, Fletcher!"

Twenty-one.

Avery knocked on Fletcher's door. She bounced on the b.a.l.l.s of her feet while she waited for someone to answer. She was about to leave, figuring no one was home, when she heard movement inside.

"Avery?"

"Hey, sorry. I called your house and your cell, but no one answered." She shoved a handful of papers toward him. "You weren't in school today, so I picked up your homework."

Fletcher's expression was blank.

"I know. Exactly what you wanted, huh?"

Fletcher's face broke into a wide grin. "You're right. I would have rather had...well, just about anything else. But the delivery girl is cool so it's all right." He immediately looked down at his feet, and Avery could see his cheeks reddening-much like hers surely were.

"Can I come in?"

Fletch nodded, and she stepped into the foyer's twilight-like darkness. It was so quiet and still that it was as if no one actually lived there.

"Is it just you and your mom?" she asked. She had a vague memory of seeing Fletcher's dad around the time they moved in. He was a slight man who shared Fletcher's square jaw and dark curls. She thought she remembered an older girl too, but it was a long time ago and Avery was reminded of how little she really knew about Fletcher.

"Yeah. You want a drink or something?"

"Sure." Avery followed Fletcher toward the kitchen, trying to pinpoint what irked her so much about the house.

Fletcher opened the refrigerator.

"You've got nothing in there!" The appliance light was glaring, making the shelves look very spa.r.s.e.

Fletcher just shrugged.

Avery looked around the kitchen: no coffee cups in the sink, no cereal boxes on the counter, no ugly magnets from different states stuck to the fridge. The house was beyond pristine-it was nearly empty.

"Are you guys moving or something?"

Fletcher handed Avery a bottle of water and took one for himself. "No. My mom just doesn't like to keep a lot of stuff, I guess."

"I wish that were the case at our place. My dad is a pack rat. It's really organized but still." She grinned. "I think he wants to make sure we're prepared for the zombie apocalypse."