“How are you, Bernadette?” Sara asks, taking a sip of her coffee. It says candy cane mocha on the side, reminding me that it is, in fact, December now. Jesus. What a Christmas this is going to be.

“I’m fine,” I say, adjusting myself in the chair so that I can put my boots up on the desk next to Constantine. He looks at my feet like they’re poisoned but says nothing. I cross my ankles together and smile. Bet it looks wicked, with my particular shade of lipstick. This one is called Bad Blood. How … ironic.

My initial reaction is to say something snarky like, a little tired from my honeymoon, if you know what I mean. But that sort of shit won’t work on Sara Young. Actually, it’ll take away from the persona I’m trying to build with her, the one where I’m a girl trapped in a gang, desperate for escape.

I switch gears.

“Look, my husband isn’t going to be thrilled about my being dragged in here first thing in the morning.” I look into Sara’s doe-like brown eyes and try to put some pleading into my face, a lick of fear, of desperation. “So can we get this over with? I’m missing the only class of the day that I actually like.”

English with Mr. Darkwood, and my ex-bestie, Kali. Seeing the look on her face this morning was priceless. She’ll know, of course, that the last person Neil was with was me. Will she nark? I have no fucking clue to be honest. She likes to play the victim, but she also knows the rules of Prescott High: snitches get stitches, motherfucker.

“Where have you been, Bernadette?” Sara asks casually, her blond hair twisted into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her black button-down is pressed, her badge nice and shiny over her left breast. She’s the picture-perfect police officer, and I’m the ideal delinquent. This should be interesting.

“On my honeymoon, in Newport,” I say, shrugging again and sliding my phone from my pocket. The two officers allow me to look at it, as if they think I’m stupid enough to type something incriminating into my group chat with the guys. Instead, I pull up a series of photos that Vic and I took of ourselves on the beach. I skip past the one where we’re looking into one another’s eyes—it’s too obvious that we’re in love—and select one where his hand is on the back of my head, cradling me protectively. To the wrong set of eyes, it might look as if he’s holding me there.

I pass the phone over. Constantine barely glances at it, but Sara stares at it like she’s reading between the lines. Good. Very good. She gives the phone back to me, but I just select another photo, one of me and Heather building a sandcastle. I show them this, too.

“We’ve been trying to reach you since Saturday,” Constantine says, clearly annoyed with me as I continue to browse through the photos and smile. I even laugh at one of Callum, pirouetting in the waves like a tattooed angel. My disinterest with the investigation is serving its purpose; I’m pissing the detective off. “Bernadette, can you please put your phone away?”

“Sorry, what?” I ask, slipping my phone in my pocket and looking between the two of them. “I had my phone set to Do Not Disturb. It was my honeymoon and my break. I wasn’t about to mess it up with a bunch of shady-ass social media posts from girls who are jealous about me and Vic.” The words almost hurt coming out of my mouth, but it has to be done. I flick my eyes to Sara Young and see her pursing her lips. Constantine will read my statement as, I’m just another shallow teenage idiot who’s too attached to their phone and their shitty boyfriend. Sara will—hopefully—read it as, please help me, my phone was off because my husband is controlling. “I heard about Neil missing this morning though. Not surprised. He’s been cheating on my mom for years.”

I let my arms rest casually in my lap as I wait for either Sara or Constantine to continue the conversation.

“The GPS tracking on your stepfather’s cruiser went dark just after he left the house on Friday,” Constantine says, crossing his legs in his dark blue jeans that he probably got from the Gap. “We’re trying to understand why he—or someone else—would want to hide his location from the station.”

I snort and shake my long, blond hair out. The tips are vibrant and neon, freshly dyed for the wedding and fierce as fuck. I feel pretty today, and for once, I’m okay with that. In the past, pretty has been poison. Once, when I was fifteen, I stood in the bathroom in front of the mirror with an X-Acto knife and considered cutting myself. What if I scarred every inch of me, until I was no longer the conventional picture of pretty? What if I cut my breasts and my belly and my face? Would men stop hunting me then? Would the monsters in the dark leave me alone?

But that’s not how the world works, and I knew it then as sure as I know it now.

The scars would not stop the hunt. I would have to become the huntress, instead of the prey.

“Trying to understand?” I echo, cocking my head to one side. “He did that because he’s cheating on Pamela. She’s a crazy bitch. I wouldn’t put it past her to sweet-talk someone at the precinct to find out Neil’s location. Case closed.”

“Why do you think Neil was unfaithful, Bernadette?” Sara asks softly, sipping her sugar-sweet mocha again. “Did you ever catch him with someone? Overhear a phone call? Read a text?”

“He got a girl pregnant,” I snap back and then cringe. Of course, it wasn’t an accident, but I’m also not about to squeal—even about Kali and the Thing. “But what do I know? I just hear shit around the school. Neil liked to have sex with teenage girls.” I look away again, like even saying that phrase is too painful. To be fair, it really is.

“What girls?” Constantine asks, peering at me keenly. Sara puts an arm on his shoulder and shakes her head. The way he looks back at her, I can tell he doesn’t appreciate the touch.

“Bernadette,” she says softly, like I’m a deer who might bolt if she raises her voice. “You don’t have to protect Neil anymore.” I just stare back at her, like I have no clue what she’s talking about. “Breonna Keating woke up today and was able to answer some questions.”

I wet my lips as two competing emotions split me in half from the inside out. Elation, that Ms. Keating is alive and well-enough to talk. And anxiety, because I have no idea what sort of story she might have told.

“She’s nice enough,” I begin, almost like I’m hesitating at revealing such a thing. “Guess she told you who hit her then, huh?”

“We’d like to ask you for your version of events,” Constantine continues, glancing over at Principal Vaughn. He’s so damn useless, pale and spineless and pathetic. He doesn’t even have enough conviction to stand up for his own side. He can switch loyalties in a heartbeat. “Why don’t you tell us what happened on Friday?”

“You mean when Neil came to the school, pistol-whipped Ms. Keating, called me a cunt and her the n-word?” I ask, and Sara and Constantine exchange a look. “Why are you asking me about that if you already know what happened?”

“According to Ms. Keating, your stepfather informed you that you were to be taken to the station at the direction of the VGTF, led by … Forrest Burr. Is that right?” Forrest Burr. Brittany Burr’s daddy. Constantine doesn’t give me time to answer, just plows on like the cis-white-straight-male asshole he probably is. “Because there is no official—or even unofficial documentation—showing that the VGTF or any of its officers had requested you to be brought in.”