“Uh . . . hi?” she asked as she opened the door.

“Hey, Hanna!” Chassey smiled. “I was in the neighborhood, and I just wanted to say I’m really honored to run against you for queen.”

Hanna stared at the box she was holding. Through the clear plastic top, she could see twenty iced cupcakes all lined up. Each of them bore the words VOTE CHASSEY FOR QUEEN!

“Oh!” Chassey noticed her looking and opened the lid. “Would you like one? I’ve been passing them around to potential voters.”

Hanna snorted. “They probably have shingles germs all over them.”

Chassey looked confused. “I don’t have shingles.”

Hanna cocked her head. “Then why were you out of school for a month?”

Chassey blinked. “My mom was doing some work in LA, so I went with her and got a tutor. I went to a lot of amazing spas, too—I bet you would have loved them, Hanna.”

Now Hanna really didn’t feel sorry for Chassey. She took a cupcake, trilled that it was nice to see Chassey, and then shut the door in Chassey’s face. She turned around and handed Mike the cupcake—she certainly wasn’t going to eat it. “That was lame.”

Mike peeled off the wrapper and took a big bite. “She’s really working hard to get votes. I thought you’d be more into it, too.”

Hanna pushed a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I guess I’ve been busy.”

Mike shoved another piece of cupcake in his mouth. “With what?”

“Honestly?” Hanna flung herself back on the couch. “I refuse to campaign against Chassey. If I don’t win on my own good looks and popularity, I don’t deserve to win at all.”

Mike stared at her, chewing. She knew how stupid it sounded. But what could she say? Hey, Mike, some psycho stranger who might actually be your best friend, Noel, told me that if I campaigned, he’d tell the FBI we killed a girl.

Mike sat down and picked up the remote. “So how was the salon yesterday?”

Hanna blinked at him, struggling to shift gears. “What?”

“You know, your practice hair appointment for prom?”

Right. Hanna had forgotten about that lie. “Uh, it was good.”

Mike leaned in and sniffed her head. “You don’t smell all fruity, like you usually do when you come home from the salon.”

“That’s because I washed my hair this morning. Duh.” Hanna moved her head away. Then she checked her watch and jumped up. “Shit. I need to go.” Her burn clinic shift started in a half hour.

“Where now?” Mike complained.

Hanna’s mind scrambled for an answer, but it was irritatingly blank. She grabbed her purse and walked out the front door. “I’ve got to do something for my mom. I’ll see you.”

Mike followed her to her car. He could tell she was lying—she just knew it. She licked her lips, about to tell him the truth—or some approximation of it. But as she turned the ignition in the Prius, a news report blared.

The search for the thieves of a priceless practice painting of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night has been reopened, a reporter intoned, a keyboard click-clacking in the background. At first, authorities thought there was only one thief, but now there is new evidence that the criminal might not have acted alone. The story, the newscaster went on to say, was particularly pertinent in this area because Baron Brennan, from whom the painting had been stolen, had been a prominent contributor to the Philadelphia Art Museum.

Hanna’s stomach flipped over. What if the new evidence had been a phone call from A? How long until A gave names?

She gazed at Mike, then shut her mouth tight. Yes, she was lying to him. But it was for his own good.

The burn clinic lobby was quiet when Hanna walked in fifteen minutes later. Sean jumped up from his office chair and strode across the floor to meet her. Hanna couldn’t help but notice how middle-aged he looked in khakis and a checked shirt. Even her father didn’t dress like such a dork.

“Kelly’s not here today,” he said, worry lines present on his brow. “She said you did a great job on the bedpans, though—do you think you could handle the chores on your own?”

“Sure.” Hanna shrugged.

“Great.” Sean looked relieved. “Thanks so much.”

He patted her arm and returned to his office. Hanna heard a ping behind her and turned, but the lobby was still empty. She trudged into the women’s staff room, unlocked her locker, and changed into the pink scrubs she’d claimed. She liked them because they had an extra-big pocket in the front—perfect to fit a cell phone.

Then she grabbed the mop bucket and some bedpans out of the supply closet. Before she got started, she headed down the corridor to Graham’s bed. She might as well check on him before making her rounds.

The partition had been partly pushed back. Graham’s eyes were fluttering, and guttural, animal-like sounds escaped from between his lips. A nurse stood over him, replacing one of his IVs. She looked up sternly when she sensed Hanna’s presence, but her face softened when she saw her volunteer scrubs.

“Has he woken up?” Hanna asked.

“Not yet,” the nurse murmured. “But I’m hopeful that he will soon.”

Hanna’s hand accidentally brushed against Graham’s foot under the sheet, and she pulled it away fast—it was cold and rubbery, like a corpse’s. “Do patients ever speak when they’re in comas? Like, say names or anything?”

“Not usually.” The nurse clipped the new IV bag to the pole. Then she squinted at Hanna. “What did you say your name was again?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hanna said quickly, ducking out from behind the curtain.

She stared down the hall, which was packed with cots of burn victims sporting various bandages and slings. There was barely a space for a wheelchair to fit through. The place smelled like pee and Clorox, and every few seconds, someone let out a moan.

“It’s tough, huh?” a female voice said.

Hanna whirled around. Burn patients lay to the right and left. Then, someone whose whole face was covered in bandages weakly raised an arm. “Hey,” the patient croaked.

“H-hey,” Hanna said uneasily, not wanting to get too close.

“He a friend of yours?”

The patient, who had holes cut in the gauze so she could see out, pointed toward Graham. Hanna coughed awkwardly. “Sort of.”

“He was really bad when he came in,” the girl whispered. “Nothing like perfect me, of course.” She waved her hands over her body, magician’s assistant–style, then laughed.

Hanna wasn’t sure whether she could join in on the joke. She glanced at a drainage bag leading out of the girl’s groin, then looked away.

“It’s okay. I hate looking at it, too.” The girl pushed the bag under the covers. “The doctors told me some bullshit about it being a magical fairy pouch or something. Like I’m freaking seven years old. Believe me, the only fairies I ever see are when they give me Percocet.”

This time Hanna did laugh. “I’ve never seen fairies when I’ve taken Percocet,” she said wistfully, “but it sounds awesome.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t have a Percocet button that feeds it straight into your vein whenever you want it.” The girl held up a little button attached to a cord that lay next to her on the bed. “Didn’t you know they’re the number one accessory for this spring?”

“I read about it in Vogue!” Hanna chuckled. “Is that button a Chanel?”

“Of course,” the girl said in a haughty voice. “I had to get on a waiting list for it, but only the best for me.”

“Obviously,” Hanna said, giggling.

“And did you see? Miu Miu socks!” The girl stuck her feet out from under the blanket. Sure enough, the cashmere socks had the Miu Miu logo embroidered on the toes.

“Where’d you get those?” Hanna asked, impressed. They looked cozy and decadent.

“The hot male nurse gave them to me. You know, the one with the shaved head?”

Hanna’s eyes boggled. She was sure the girl was talking about the guy she’d nearly spilled the bedpan over yesterday. “Really?”

The girl snorted out a laugh. “I wish. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he? The days he gives me the sponge bath are the best.”

“You are so lucky!” Hanna squealed, then clapped her mouth shut. Had she just said a burn victim was lucky?

A bell rang out in the corridor, and then a voice came over the PA paging one of the doctors. “What’s your name?” the girl asked. “I’ve never seen you before—and I would remember you. You’re the coolest volunteer we’ve ever had.”

“Thanks,” Hanna said softly. “I’m Hanna.”

“I’m Kyla Kennedy. Maybe when I bust out of here, we can hang for real.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow. “Bust out of here?”

“Oh yeah.” Kyla’s tone was playful. “I have a whole black-ops mission in mind. I’m going to break out when no one’s watching and take the world by storm.”

She reached out her bandaged hand. Hanna tentatively shook it, then peeked at Kyla’s face again. She could see long lashes beneath the gauze, but she couldn’t even tell what color her eyes were. Yet she loved that Kyla said she was cool. After a moment, she realized that she thought Kyla was cool, too.

“Hanna?” Sean appeared at the end of the corridor. “There’s a spill in the next hall over. Can you take care of it?”

Hanna sighed heavily. “I’d better go,” she said to Kyla.

“No worries,” Kyla said. Her bandaged hand clunked against Hanna’s wrist. “See you again, hopefully?”

“Definitely,” Hanna said.

She was a few paces away when Kyla called out her name again. Hanna turned around. Kyla was sitting up halfway in bed, pointing wildly at the shaved-head, hot-body male nurse. She pretended to smack his butt as he passed. Hanna laughed so loud that an old lady lying on a cot down the hall squealed and jumped. Hanna and Kyla exchanged a meaningful glance—well, as meaningful as Hanna could give Kyla under all that gauze. And then they started laughing even harder.

15

Up the Creek Without a Paddle

The next afternoon, Emily pulled into the main drive of the King James Mall, her heart thundering. When she first scanned the impressive entrance doors, she didn’t see Iris waiting inside, like they’d planned.

She dug her fingernails into the steering wheel. Of course Iris wasn’t there. What idiot would leave a mental patient at the mall all day? But because Emily didn’t want to miss any more school, she’d struck a deal with Iris that morning: She’d drop her off at the King James before first period, Iris would spend the day doing whatever she pleased, and Emily would pick her up after the last bell. Then they’d knock a few more items off Iris’s bucket list, and Iris would give Emily an Ali tidbit at the end of the day. Hopefully.

It took Iris no time to agree. After Emily dropped her off, she realized why: The Greyhound bus station was right down the street. Iris had probably planned to take off the second Emily pulled away. Emily had been her way out of The Preserve, but Iris didn’t need her anymore.