“Sorry, I already have plans.”

“Let me change your mind. I’ll plan the whole trip. I’ll get the tents, the food. I’ll show you what a great guy I am. I’ll show you a good time.”

“I think you should leave.”

Elliot leaned his hand on the doorjamb, bending toward me. “Wrong answer.” For a fleeting moment, the glassy stupor in his eyes disappeared, something twisted and sinister eclipsing it. I involuntarily stepped back. I was almost positive Elliot had it in him to kill. I was almost positive Kjirsten’s death was on his hands.

“Leave, or I’m calling a cab,” I said.

Elliot flung the screen door open so hard it smacked back against the house. He grabbed the front of my bathrobe and yanked me outside. Then he shoved me back against the siding and pinned me there with his body. “You’re coming camping whether you want to or not.”

“Get off me!” I said, twisting away from him.

“Or what? What are you going to do?” He had me by the shoulders now, and he knocked me back against the house again, rattling my teeth.

“I’ll call the police.” I had no idea how I said it so bravely. My breathing was rapid and shallow, my hands clammy.

“Are you going to shout for them? They can’t hear you. The only way I’m letting you go is if you swear to go camping.”

“Nora?”

Elliot and I both turned toward the front door, where my mom’s voice carried out. Elliot kept his hands on me a moment longer, then made a disgusted noise and shoved me away. Halfway down the porch steps, he looked over his shoulder. “This isn’t over.”

I hurried inside and locked the door. My eyes started to burn. I dragged my back down the length of the door and sat on the entry rug, fighting the urge to sob.

My mom appeared at the top of the stairs, cinching her robe at the waist. “Nora? What’s wrong? Who was at the door?”

I blinked my eyes dry in a hurry. “A guy from school.” I couldn’t keep the waver out of my voice. “He

—he—” I was already in enough trouble over my date with Patch. I knew my mom was planning to attend a wedding and reception tonight for the daughter of a friend from work, but if I told her Elliot had roughed me up, there was no way she’d go. And that was the last thing I wanted, because I needed to drive to Portland and investigate Elliot. Even a sliver of incriminating evidence might be enough to put him behind bars, and until that happened, I wouldn’t feel safe. I sensed a certain violence escalating inside him, and I didn’t want to see what would happen if it blew out of control. “He wanted my Hamlet notes,” I said flatly. “Last week he cheated off my quiz, and apparently he’s trying to make a habit of it.”

“Oh, honey.” She came down beside me, stroking my damp hair, which had chilled since my shower. “I can understand why you’re upset. I can call his parents if you’d like.”

I shook my head.

“Then I’ll make breakfast,” Mom said. “Go finish dressing. I’ll have everything ready by the time you come down.”

I was standing in front of my closet when my cell phone rang.

“Did you hear? The four of us are going c­a­m­p­i­n­g for spring break!” said Vee, sounding bizarrely cheerful.

“Vee,” I said, my voice trembling, “Elliot’s planning something. Something scary. The only reason he wants to go camping is so he can get us alone. We’re not going.”

“What do you mean we’re not going? This is a joke, right? I mean, we finally get to do something exciting over spring break, and you’re saying no? You know my mom will never let me go alone. I’ll do anything. Seriously. I’ll do your homework for a week. Come on, Nora. One little word. Say it. It starts with the letter Y… .”

The hand holding my cell quivered, and I brought up my other hand to steady it. “Elliot showed up at my house fifteen minutes ago, drunk. He—he physically threatened me.”

She was quiet a moment. “What do you mean by ‘physically threatened’?”

“He dragged me out the front door and shoved me against the house.”

“But he was drunk, right?”

“Does it matter?” I snapped.

“Well, he has a lot going on. I mean, he was wrongly accused of being messed up in some girl’s suicide, and he was forced to switch schools. If he hurt you—and I’m not justifying what he did, by the way—maybe he just needs … counseling, you know?”

“If he hurt me?”

“He was wasted. Maybe—maybe he didn’t know what he was doing. Tomorrow he’s going to feel horrible.”

I opened my mouth, shut it. I couldn’t believe Vee was siding with Elliot. “I have to go,” I said curtly.

“I’ll talk to you later.”

“Can I be completely honest, babe? I know you’re worried about this guy in the ski mask. Don’t hate me, but I think the only reason you’re trying so hard to pin it on Elliot is because you don’t want it to be Patch. You’re rationalizing everything, and it’s freaking me out.”

I was speechless. “Rationalizing? Patch didn’t show up at my door this morning and slam me against my house.”

“You know what? I shouldn’t have brought it up. Let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Fine,” I said stiffly.

“So … what are you doing today?”

I poked my head out the door, listening for my mom. The sound of a whisk scraping the side of a bowl carried up from the kitchen. Part of me didn’t see the point in sharing anything else with Vee, but another part of me felt resentful and confrontational. She wanted to know my plans? Fine by me. It wasn’t my problem if she didn’t like them. “I’m driving to Portland as soon as my mom leaves for a wedding at Old Orchard Beach.” The wedding started at 4 p.m., and with the reception following, my mom wouldn’t get home until 9 p.m. at the earliest. Which gave me enough time to spend the evening in Portland, and beat her home. “Actually, I was wondering if maybe I could borrow the Neon. I don’t want my mom to see the miles I put on my car.”

“Oh, boy. You’re going to spy on Elliot, aren’t you? You’re going to snoop around Kinghorn.”

“I’m going to do a little shopping and grab dinner,” I said, sliding hangers down the rack in my closet. I pulled out a long­sleeved tissue tee, jeans, and a pink­and­white­striped beanie I reserved for bad­hair days and weekends.

“And would grabbing dinner include stopping by a certain diner located a few blocks from Kinghorn Prep? A diner where Kjirsten what’s­her­name used to work?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “Maybe I will.”

“And are you going to actually eat, or just interrogate the workers?”

“I might ask a few questions. Do I get the Neon or not?”

“Of course you do,” she said. “What are best friends for? I’ll even come with you on this doomed little tromp. But first you have to promise you’ll go camping.”

“Never mind. I’ll take the bus.”

“We’ll talk about spring break later!” Vee called into the phone before I was able to disconnect.

I’d been to Portland on several occasions, but I didn’t know the city well. I stepped off the bus armed with my cell, a map, and my own inner compass. The buildings were redbrick, tall and slender, blocking the setting sun, which blazed out from below a thick stretch of storm clouds, settling the streets under a canopy of shadow. The storefronts all had verandas and quaint signs extending over the doors. The streets were lit by black witch­hat lamps. After several blocks, the congested streets opened up to a wooded area, and I saw a sign for Kinghorn Prep. A cathedral, steeple, and clock tower peered above the treetops.

I stayed on the sidewalk and rounded the corner onto 32nd Street. The harbor was only a few blocks away, and I caught glimpses of boats passing behind the shops as they came in to dock. Halfway down 32nd Street, I saw a sign for Blind Joe’s diner. I pulled my interview questions out and read them over one last time. The plan wasn’t to look like I was holding an official interview. I hoped that if I casually broached the subject of Kjirsten with the employees, I could tease out something the handful of reporters before me had somehow missed. Hoping the questions were stored to memory, I underhanded the list into the nearest trash can.

The door chimed when I entered.

The floor was yellow and white tile, and the booths were upholstered in nautical blue. Pictures of the harbor hung on the walls. I sat in a booth close to the door and shrugged out of my coat.

A waitress in a stained white apron appeared beside me. “Name’s Whitney,” she told me in a sour voice.

“Welcome to Blind Joe’s. Special today is the tuna fish sandwich. Soup of the day’s lobster chowder.”

Her pen was poised to take my order.

“Blind Joe’s?” I frowned and tapped my chin. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

“Don’t you read the paper? We were in the news for a week straight last month. Fifteen minutes and all that.”

“Oh!” I said with sudden clarity. “Now I remember. There was a murder, right? Didn’t the girl work here?”

“That would be Kjirsten Halverson.” She clicked her pen impatiently. “Want me to bring out a bowl of that chowder to start?”

I didn’t want lobster chowder. In fact, I wasn’t remotely hungry. “That must have been hard. Were the two of you friends?”

“Hell, no. You going to order or what? I’ll let you in on a little secret. I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I don’t get paid, I don’t make rent.”

Suddenly I wished the waiter across the room were taking my order. He was short, bald back to his ears, and his body type mimicked the toothpicks in the dispenser at the end of the table. His eyes never reached higher than three feet off the ground. As pathetic as I would have felt after the fact, one friendly smile from me might have been enough to have him spilling Kjirsten’s entire life story. “Sorry,” I told Whitney. “I just can’t stop thinking about the murder. Of course, it’s probably old news to you. You must have had reporters in here all the time asking questions.”

She gave me a pointed look. “Need a few more minutes to look over the menu?”

“Personally, I find reporters irritating.”

She leaned in, bracing a hand on the tabletop. “I find customers who take their own sweet time irritating.”

I blew out a silent sigh and flipped open the menu. “What do you recommend?”

“It’s all good. Ask my boyfriend.” She gave a tight smile. “He’s the cook.”

“Speaking of boyfriends … did Kjirsten have one?” Nice segue, I told myself.

“Spill,” Whitney demanded. “You a cop? A lawyer? A reporter?”

“Just a concerned citizen.” It sounded like a question.