"When one of your girlfriends did the 'Thriller' dance in her underwear," Lucas said. "Was that good or bad?"

"Ah, you a.s.sume it was her in the underwear."

"Now I'm sorry I asked."

Sashor smiled. "I have some serious moves."

"I'm sure," Lucas said. "Apparently Scarlett kissed Adam? Or at least Kristen said she remembered that happening. Under hypnosis."

"Does Scarlett remember?"

"No," Lucas said. "Anyway, it's a relief that we don't have to try to make something between us work now. It's like being freed from inheriting a legacy I wasn't even sure I wanted."

"Fair enough." Sashor nodded. "So listen, I came here to tell you what Chambers and I have been doing; and he'll join us in a minute, like he said. What we've done is gone back to find other kids who were at the school shooting, kids who were only four, who were at the open house, to see how many of them remember the shooting."

Lucas sat up straighter, leaned forward. "And . . . ?"

"And they all remember it. I could only find a sample, but it's a significant number of kids, significant enough to give me pause."

"Go on." Lucas wanted the information to come faster, wished he could speed-read Sashor's thoughts.

"It's been bothering me from the beginning, that you could remember certain things from early childhood but not this huge event. And we were thinking, well, maybe you were there but didn't see anything specifically horrible so it didn't register. But there are at least a few other kids who can ID some of you from photos we showed them of you when you were young. They say you were there. All of you. They all remember the shooter, the princ.i.p.al, screaming, blood, awful stuff. You saw awful stuff."

Lucas felt a darkening in his mind, spotted the distant glow of an idea.

"And the six of you were taken from school," Sashor said. "Not from a playground. Not from home."

This time a different kind of click-hiss and snap, like an image appearing on photo paper in rippling water in the darkroom of his mind. He said, "Erasing the shooting was the whole point to begin with?"

AVERY.

School had been a disaster. Matt Rogoff had asked her how her spring break had been and she'd asked him if he ever read the news. Emma had signed Avery up for auditions and then s.n.a.t.c.hed the pen away when Avery went to cross her name out. Sam had said "hey" and acted too-cool-for-school. The halls had been plastered with signs for the junior prom; she'd voted in favor of "A Time to Remember" as the theme months ago and now cringed. Alongside those signs were flyers about the shooting anniversary memorial next week. Worst of all, a note appeared in her locker: Welcome back, you evil cow.

She'd had no choice but to duck out before facing the prospect of Mr. Knopf prattling on en francais for forty-five minutes.

At home, she heard her father; he was in his office with the door open: "Yes, I suppose it's run its course. So yes, shut it down."

"What were you talking about?" She popped her head in when he hung up. "Shut what down?"

"The tip line." He looked at his watch. "Why aren't you in school?"

"But we haven't found Max yet." Avery's tongue burned.

He rubbed his eyes. "I know you really wanted to find him, Ave, but we need to start facing facts."

"There are no facts. Not about Max." She seriously felt like she could breathe fire.

"I'm sorry, hon. It's done. They found the person who did it and they didn't find Max."

"But Lucas doesn't even believe it's the right place. And if the call about John Norton's body was even legitimate, why not leave a name? They didn't even claim the reward!"

"Avery, we need to move on."

"You've been saying that for years, Dad." She was shouting now. "Has it worked?"

"Keeping the tip line open isn't going to change that. They've sent me all the recordings. And at this point Chambers says it's just the same nut-job calling. Cryptic nonsense. I'm not going to pay to staff an answering service indefinitely when Max was probably killed and his body was probably dumped in the Everglades or who even knows where?" He looked at his watch again. "I have to head into the office. I'm sorry. We'll talk later, okay?"

He left.

Fine.

She'd move on.

She went and got a few large trash bags from the kitchen and grabbed a few empty Amazon boxes from the garage, where the recycling hadn't been broken down yet and obviously her flip-flops were never going to arrive.

She went back upstairs and into Max's room and put her supplies down. She took a good look around, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them, and picked up a trash bag. She started with Max's dress er drawers, emptying them of clothes. Tiny shorts and socks. Super hero shirts. She'd put it all in that drop box behind the VFW hall. They'd find new, good homes. They'd be worn by real, live boys.

Next, she set about boxing up toys.

X-Men.

Plastic toy soldiers.

LEGOs.

So. Many. LEGOs.

Transformers.

Plastic dinosaurs.

Pirate this, pirate that.

Matchbox cars.

She filled two boxes without having to pause. But paused at: Daphne Velma.

Fred.

s.h.a.ggy.

s...o...b...

But they had to go.

She turned to face the framed photos on the wall. This time, a smaller box. This time, more care in the packing. This box she'd keep.

Her and Max on that carousel at Disney.

Max at his first soccer game.

Max as a baby, leaning on a big blue rubber ball at some indoor play s.p.a.ce.

Christmas. Santa's lap. Her on one side, him on the other.

He was dead.

Her parents were going to have to accept it.

She'd have to accept it.

The world would always see her as an only child, but she'd always know better.

Down the hall in her room, she hid the box where no one would ever find it but her.

Back in Max's room, she stripped the bed, folded everything neatly before putting it all in another bag, another one for the donation dump.

She made four trips down to the garage. Hiding the stuff in a corner. She'd have to get rid of it fast, or else her mother would find it, say it was too soon, put it all back, make a scene.

There was no point in telling anyone about the newest note. The writing was different, anyway.

And maybe she was an evil cow.

Maybe she deserved the hate being sent her way.

Scarlett

She stood on the center pier at Anchor Beach, squinting out at the water as clouds gossiped on the horizon.

It had been foolish, maybe, to visit Orlean again. But she'd left Adam's house feeling like she had to do something-and Orlean was the last possible lead they hadn't gone back to follow up on. A lead that might point to the real who, the real why. But of course he hadn't remembered her, hadn't read The Leaving, hadn't been able to tell her once and for all what the stuff was that you couldn't forget if you tried.

She'd visited Goldie again, only now they were calling her by her name, Margaret. They'd talked about the painting on the wall, which was named Christina's World.

"Do you like it?" Margaret had asked.

"I do," Scarlett had said. "Her body positioning projects such desire for movement. Do you think she ever gets there? To the house?"

Margaret had said, "Yes, I think so. I think someone comes to help."

Scarlett had texted Sarah-Any progress on the sketches?-when she'd left, but had gotten no reply. A text from Ryan had said, Going to bail my brother out. He asked me to let you know.

Now Scarlett closed her eyes and tried to picture the sky in Christina's World-was it blue? Gray?-and wondered what a painting of this moment-her on this pier, this sky-might look like.

Would the artist be able to capture the pull she felt to the water?

To anywhere but here?

But to where?

The world was so big.

Her life story so huge in it.

The stuff of movies!

And yet her part in it all felt so small.

One tiny st.i.tch.

Something blubbed in the water, and she looked down trying to find what it was, hoping for a manatee who'd maybe turned up early for the winter party.

Then imagined herself diving in, fully clothed.

Imagined how her clothes would fall away like a skin she was shedding, or maybe float like wings.

How her hair would swirl around her like mermaid hair as her lungs got tight, or how it might get knotted up, strangling her.

She imagined someone coming to save her from drowning -could she even swim?- Or no one.

She looked to the skies again and tried to imagine what it would feel like to be the sort of person who'd see something up there and think it was a UFO.

What would it be like to be that free to believe?

To cling to something-a memory, a trick of the eye, the same thing-even in the face of logic and reason.

The afternoon had turned chilly and she wished she had her jacket with her. She'd stalled in making the new one several times now but felt like if she had the original one, if she were able to put it on, she might feel like herself again.

She walked back to where she knew the initials would be and ran her fingers over them-the p.r.i.c.k of the splintered wood on her thumb-and had a physical memory of what it had felt like to kiss him, how amazing and terrifying to connect with another human being, with him.

He'd loved her once.

She'd loved him.