May 25th, 1967

  The curtains leaked a thin band of late-May sunlight, dust hanging inside it like gnats. Quin's fingers paused on the brass knob; if she turned it quickly, she might still get out before Jamie spoke.

  "Quin, please; just come with me. It's not going to be that bad. I don't want to go without you."

  Jamie sat on the edge of her bed, twisting the hem of a pale yellow skirt until it whispered against itself. The quiet matched the low hum of a fan turning lazily in the corner. Her voice was soft; the type she saved for things she wasn't supposed to want.

  Quin stayed at the threshold, palm sweating against the metal. You should leave now. You won't. She won't let you.

  "My father would have a fit," she muttered. "He already knows about the party. Someone told him. Probably Mrs. Whitmore from across the street."

  Jamie sprang up, closing the distance in two steps. Her fingers closed around Quin's sleeve, gentle but firm, and a prickle moved up Quin's shoulders. The kind of warning that she was already losing as she fought a reaction.

  "Then don't tell him you're going," Jamie said, eyes steady.

  Quin's brows drew together. "Jamie..."

  "Say the party's off," Jamie rushed on. "Tell him I'm having you over for the night. I don't know, maybe for graduation cake and records. He won't think twice if your mother hears it first."

  Quin tugged at her arm, hesitation coiling in her stomach. He calls. He always calls. "If he rings and I'm not there..."

  "We'll be careful." Jamie softened, voice smooth as ribbon. "Say your mother's driving you over after dinner. We'll wait until everyone's asleep and sneak out then. It isn't until later, anyhow."

  Quin's resolve slumped, the weight of it pooling somewhere behind her ribs. Jamie's gaze searched hers; bright, hopeful, a little too sure.

  "It's graduation," Jamie added. "He won't refuse one last night of high school with your best friend. Not if your mother approves."

  "He's not stupid," Quin said, arms folding tight across her chest.

  Jamie smiled, a sly gleam sliding behind her eyes. Quin couldn't tell if it meant trust me or you'll regret this later; Jamie's smiles were always a little too knowing.

  That thought made her drop her gaze to her bag. She rubbed at her temple, as if she could press the choice out of her skull. Maybe saying yes would quiet Jamie quicker. Maybe it would make everything worse.

  "Fine."

  Jamie gasped, lighting up like someone had switched on the Christmas tree.

  "But," Quin said before she could celebrate, "we're not walking out the front door. Your mother checks around nine. If the door's locked, she'll know."

  "Alright, alright." Jamie bounced back onto the bed, skirt swishing over the gray coverlet. "We wait. Slip out the window. Easy."

  "And if we get caught—"

  "You can blame me." Jamie winked, unconcerned.

  Quin tried for a laugh, but it snagged on the way out. For just a breath, she was aware of how often Jamie wrote the script and left her to play along.

  The mourning doves were already calling when Quin surfaced. Not quite awake, not quite anywhere. Heat lay over her like wet wool, thick and close. The ceiling blurred, a pale sheet above her eyes.

  For most people, mornings in Stowe were calm. To her, they pressed in with too many restless nights, too much on her mind.

  She stayed flat, letting the birds fold into the faint buzzing at the base of her skull.

  Twee... twee-doo.

  Once she could name each call. Now they were only noise, sharp edges against a soft fog.

  Something tugged at her memory. Last night? A walk that wouldn't end. Pavement bleeding into dirt. A porch light that looked too far away. A yellowed flyer on a pole. The hush of her legs turning numb near the town's park. After that, nothing she trusted; not without someone to put the memory together for her.

  Her clock glared across the room, orange digits bright against cheap plastic.

  6:45 PM.

  Not morning.

  She hadn't slept. Just floated — dark water pulling her under, spitting her back.

  The calendar still showed May 1967. A picture of a Northern Mockingbird stared back at her. She should flip the page, but the thought was heavy, like lifting a stone with bare hands.

  Another high note outside.

  Twee-doo. Swee-doo. Wee-woo.

  That last one didn't sound like a bird.

  Quin blinked, skin slick with sweat. Her limbs responded late as she pushed up, palms slipping on the sheet. The bed sat low; the frame she'd ordered never came. She'd stopped calling after the fourth delay.

  Outside, beyond the wavering glass, her father stood by the gates. Three cruisers rolled up behind him, light bars dull in the evening sun.

  Her stomach folded in on itself. Police?

  Sheriff George hoisted himself from the first car, tan uniform stretched across his belly. Her father met him fast; shoulders squared the way they always were when something bad was about to land.

  Quin rested her cheek to the sill. The wood was warm, sticky with dust.

  He'd donated to the station after Jamie was declared dead. New cars, a fancier office for George. None of it had brought answers.

  The front door opened below. Voices, faint through the glass. Then sharper:

  "Quindell! Come down here, now!"

  Her mother.

  Quin stayed put, eyes on the driveway. Two officers lingered near the cruisers. Another moved up the brick steps.

  "Quindell Marie O'Neil!"

  Her father's voice, cutting through everything.

  She groaned, easing herself upright. Her joints complained, especially the shoulder she'd been lying on, or more-so passed out on.

  The robe on the door felt cool against her fingers. She wrapped it around herself; the gray fabric hung heavy, like a damp shroud. The hallway smelled of dinner left too long in the oven. She hadn't eaten since yesterday, but even the thought turned her stomach.

  "I'm coming," she muttered, though no one could hear.

  At the stairs she froze.

  Two officers waited by the table. Her mother sat beyond them, crying the way people cry at funerals; shoulders jerking, face hidden in her hands as she hunched over herself.

  Her father stood at the foot of the steps, tie neat, eyes dark.

  "What's going on?" she asked, slow-stepping down.

  Her mother sobbed again with her voice. Louder, cracked.

  "Did something break in the case?"

  Silence, then her father: "Not in the way you want."

  Cold gathered at the base of her spine.

  "What do you mean?" Her foot grazed the wood floors of the first level. "Hey—"

  Hands clamped onto her shoulders; another pair caught her wrists.

  Steel snapped shut.

  "Quindell O'Neil, you're under arrest on suspicion of murder—"

  "What the hell are you talking about?!" she shouted, twisting to see who had grabbed her, but they drove her down; tile slamming the back of her skull, light bursting white as her shoulder flared hot.

  Words bled into the ringing in her ears.

  Her fingers went numb from the tightness of the cuffs.

  They hauled her upright, dragging her toward the door. She caught her mother on her knees, arms around herself as if bracing for an aftershock.

  Sunlight struck her eyes, blinding.

  Outside, neighbors crowded behind the gates. Some faces she half-knew, all staring.

  "Did you do it?"

  "Tell us what happened!"

  She tried to speak, but an officer guided her head, shoved her into the cruiser. The seat burned through the thin robe; vinyl reeked of pine and heat.

  Through the glass, her father turned away. Her mother crumpled deep against his shoulder as he shielded her.

  Gravel spat under the tires. The iron gates closed, neat as a full stop to the end of a sentence she hadn't written.

  She whispered, almost without sound: "What did I do?"

  From the driver's seat: "They'll explain at the station."

  The voice pulled at her.

  She leaned forward, squinting past the divider. "...Matthew?"

  Of course it was him; same slicked-back hair, same guarded eyes she never trusted.

  "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, gaze fixed on the road. "George wanted to handle it himself, but the state ordered for a detective."

  A bitter snort scraped her throat. "Yeah, because that's not suspicious at all. Who the fuck do you guys think I killed?!"

  "Language," he snapped, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Quin held it all for a moment before looking to the back of his seat.

  "I know she was your friend," he added with a breath, gentler now.

  Quin stared ahead, vision bending leather.

  "Our friend," she said, voice low, venom threading the fog.

  She slumped back, cuffs biting her wrists. She didn't shift, didn't speak.

  Just sat, stunned, waiting.

  The chalk squeaked across the board as the teacher cleared his throat.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  "Class, we've got a new student today. This is Quindull—"

  "Quindell," she corrected automatically, voice low but steady, eyes fixed on the mildly scuffed toes of her saddle shoes.

  The teacher gave her a brief, crinkled, side glance; not acknowledging the correction as he turned back to the room.

  "Quindell O'Neil. She's from New York."

  New York.

  The word seemed to hover, soft but heavy. A couple of kids looked at her sideways, measuring her.

  "You may sit anywhere that there's an open desk," he added, already rifling through a stack of handouts.

  Quin scanned the room. Fifteen students at most. One row of windows, chalk dust in the air. No hallway full of strangers to hide in. Just this room. These faces. Great.

  She forced her shoulders down and moved to an empty seat by the window, brushing past a boy who didn't bother to slide his feet until the last second.

  She sat, spine straight, palms pressed against her skirt. Outside, the maples stirred in the light September breeze, their tops brushed with the first hints of gold. Beyond them stretched a narrow football field. The quiet pressed in. It felt strange after Brooklyn's sirens and traffic. She hated how much she needed the mundane.

  The lesson started: something about the Cold War and Kennedy's shadow over Capitol Hill. She traced the edge of her notebook with a thumb, counting to four in her head until her pulse stopped climbing.

  "Quindell, right?"

  She blinked. A hand blocked her view of the window with a flick that made her want to recede into the desk's storage compartment.

  A girl sat in front of her; brown hair falling in easy waves, hazel eyes bright. Her smile was quick, sure.

  "I'm Jamie."

  Quin hesitated, then took the offered hand. "Quin. Just Quin."

  Jamie's grin widened like she'd been waiting for that answer as she leaned her arm over the back of her chair. "Where in New York?"

  "Brooklyn." Quin kept her voice even. "My father got a contract in Montpelier. Dragged us along."

  "City girl, huh? No wonder you looked like a ghost walking in."

  Quin laughed softly, more breath than sound.

  Jamie leaned on the desk. "You've got city posture," she said. She speaks her O's different. "Ready to run, even sitting."

  Quin didn't know what to do with that, so she asked, "You always this forward?"

  "Only when I like someone." There it is again.

  Silence stretched a beat too long; Quin shifted in her seat, unsure if Jamie was teasing or if she wanted her to be.

  "Where're you from?" she asked, needing to break the god-awful silence between them.

  "Germany. Sort of. Mom's folks came here before the war. Dad for college. They met in Burlington. I was born here."

  "Accent gave you away."

  Jamie rolled her eyes. "Everybody says that. I try to lose it, but it comes out funny."

  "I like it," Quin shrugged absently.

  Jamie's smile turned soft. "Most people don't. Not here."

  They spent the rest of class trading notes in hushed tones until the bell rang. Jamie nudged her with the first ding. "You're with us at lunch." Then she was halfway to the door, motioning for Quin to follow.

  Us?

  The courtyard was a patch of tired grass and mismatched benches. Quin expected that. She didn't expect the table Jamie led her to; seven kids, half-talking, half-laughing, all comfortable in their own corners.

  Jamie hopped over the bench and waved her over. "Guys, this is Quin. She's mine. Called dibs."

  A few laughs, a few raised brows.

  The girl beside Jamie; short, tan, with very long straight black hair and bracelets stacked on both wrists, studied her with a warm curiosity.

  "I'm T," she said, offering a hand.

  Quin shook it firmly. Her father would have scolded her for trusting fast. That made it easier.

  "Quin. Nice to meet you."

  "Welcome to nowhere," said a pale girl across the table, green eyes bright with something Quin couldn't place.

  "That's Lyla," Temira murmured, almost a warning.

  "You're so pretty," Lyla blurted. "Movie-star eyes. My mom's from New York. She used to model until she got pregnant." Oh, she's a hyper one.

  "Thanks?" Quin tried, leaning back as Lyla's arm nearly toppled someone's drink.

  "Watch it, Lyla!" a boy snapped, dragging his cup clear. "That's twice this week."

  "Friendly fire," Lyla chirped.

  The boy sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Matthew," he said toward Quin, not quite meeting her gaze. "Resident grump." T introduced.

  "I can see that."

  T laughed. "Told you she'd have bite."

  Names circled the table. Michael, Jamie's older brother, carried trouble in his stance and sounded like someone used to getting the last word. The twins, Ashlynn and Rosemary, mirrored day and night, literally; though they finished each other's sentences like they shared a braincell. Martin, tall and quiet, slid closer until he occupied the space beside Quin. She thought nothing of it.

  When the talk settled, Jamie leaned close. "You're doing great."

  Quin shook her head. "Feel like a giraffe on ice."

  "That's fine," Jamie said, grinning. "You'll learn to stomp."

  Conversation drifted to weekend plans. Who was hosting, who was banned, whose record player hadn't survived the last party. Why Lyla wasn't allowed to roam house parties.

  "Jamie can't go to the big ones," T said, almost sing-song.

  Michael looked up. "She's fifteen."

  "She's almost sixteen," Jamie shot back.

  Michael crossed his arms. "When you are, I won't tell mom. Until then you're not landing at a kegger with Lyla and her three boyfriends."

  "Rude," Lyla sniffed.

  Jamie bent toward Quin, urgent and low. "What if I stayed at your place after the party? Your mom wouldn't mind, right?"

  Quin glanced at Michael before answering. "She loves company," she said quietly. "And my dad's barely home."

  Jamie's face lit. "Golden."

  "You live close, Quin?" Lyla chimed.

  "Ten-minute walk."

  "I can drive," Martin offered from her left. "I've got my dad's car. Got permission."

  All eyes slid to Michael. Even Jamie waited.

  He froze mid-bite. "No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."

  Jamie groaned. "Why not? You just said—"

  "You're fifteen," he snapped. "Parties aren't sock hops anymore. There's booze. Worse sometimes. You want to be caught in someone's kitchen during a raid?"

  "It's not like I'm going alone," Jamie argued. "Quin's there. Martin's driving. T's coming. You trust them."

  "I barely know Quin," Michael said, glancing at her, sharp as he looked her up and down. "No offense."

  Quin met his gaze. "None taken," she said evenly. "But I don't drink. And I don't plan on babysitting."

  Jamie elbowed her, half-laughing, half-pleading.

  "Michael, please," Jamie said, softer now. "One night."

  Michael rolled his eyes before he looked around the table, weighing them before his gaze finally landed to Quin:

  "And your mom would really be home?"

  "Always. And if not, we still wouldn't be alone."

  "She okay with sleepovers?"

  "She threw a party for half my eighth grade once," Quin said. "She likes noise."

  Michael turned to Martin. "You sober?"

  "Always," Martin said.

  Michael stared at Jamie for a long moment, then sighed, the word dragged out. "If anything happens to her, anything, I'm coming for all of you."

  "You act like she's the wild one," T muttered, but he ignored her.

  "Fine," he said at last. "But if Mom finds out—"

  "She won't," Jamie sang, triumphant. "You won't even know I'm gone."

  Michael scowled but let it drop. He went back to his food with a look that said he didn't believe her.

  Quin caught his eye and offered a quiet, steady smile.

  He didn't return it, but he didn't look away either.

  Quin sat in the numbing metal chair, wrists cuffed to the table. Her foot tapped beneath her uncontrollably, the only thing she could move. The walls were beige, sickly. The light above her buzzed like it knew something. She hadn't slept; her head pounded. Her mouth was dry.

  It had been hours. Or it felt like it.

  She rubbed her thumb into her palm, her knee bouncing faster. Then, the door clicked.

  "Miss O'Neil," the man said as he entered. "I'm Detective Marcus. We have quite a bit to discuss."

  Her head snapped up, but her eyes took a second to focus.

  "No crap. I hurt someone? Me?" Her voice cracked with more fatigue than fury.

  "Close your mouth so I can read your Maranda Rights and we'll begin."

  She flinched at the command but masked it with a glare. He wore a pressed black suit, black tie. Authority poured off him in waves, and that made her stomach turn. Or maybe that was the nausea again. Quin watched as his mouth moved, the sound cut short; her ears rang with a dull intensity while she pretended to listen.

  He laid a manila folder thick with documents on the table and opened it, the paper quipped through the silent alarm as Detective Marcus breathed in deep.

  "So," he began, flipping slowly, "You had a warrant out for your arrest in relation to the murder of Jamie Davis. We've been gathering evidence since her body's discovery, and your name keeps winding up with more loose threads. Now I understand you two were close friends, so I'll start easy. Where were you the night Jamie died?"

  "We were together. Like I already told the officers. At the bonfire. Graduation party."

  Her father had drilled her on how to handle police questions. She never thought she'd have to actually use it. Not like this.

  He didn't look up. "Go on."

  She inhaled through her nose, slow and shallow. The muscle in her thigh ached from keeping still.

  "We were sitting on a log. I got up to get her another drink. When I turned around, she was gone. We looked for her. Everyone did."

  "And no one called the police?"

  "We were deep in the woods," she replied, her voice flattening. "I'm sure someone did, but there's no phone booths out there."

  "Where were you when they left?" She took a moment, her brain processing what she had buried.

  "Searching. Michael took off into the trees. Ashlynn was with me... then she ran too." Her eyes flickered, unfocused, like she was watching it all happen again but through dirty glass. "I remember someone yelling... I thought I heard Jamie."

  "In your statement, Ashlynn left you alone. Right?"

  She nodded slowly. "That's what I just said."

  "And you stayed at the fire?"

  She hesitated. Quin still had scars on the bottoms of her feet. She could still remember the way her lungs screamed for proper air.

  "I... yeah. Someone had to stay. In case she came back."

  He looked at her over the folder now. "Thirty-Two teenagers at a bonfire, and you were the only one who stayed? That's hard to believe. What really happened, Quin?"

  "I told you." Her voice was tight. "She was my best friend. I didn't want her to come back and see no one was there."

  "Several witness reports stated you weren't there."

  Her tongue stuck to her teeth as her brows knit together.

  "She was a German immigrant, yes?"

  Quin's confusion flipped to frustration with his words. Her brows knit together as she met his eyes. "Her parents were. What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Someone like her doesn't just leave. Not alone."

  "That's what I thought," Quin said, her voice dropping to almost nothing. "Not with immigrant parents," he continued, "they would want her close." Her skin ran hot as Quin bit back her words.

  Detective Marcus studied her in her silence. The ball of his pen tapped absently on the file before him. "Your story doesn't match up. Several Witnesses say you weren't at the fire when they came back. Others said they hadn't seen you since you started yelling. One witness stated that they had seen someone in clothes similar to what you wore that night leaving the ditches at the edge of town."

  He leaned in, his voice steady. "If you don't want to be charged with first-degree murder, I need the real story."

  Quin didn't respond. She pressed her nails into her palm. Her stomach twisted again. She hadn't had anything but black coffee and a crumpled-up aspirin in 36 hours. Maybe more. She couldn't keep track.

  "Michael came back. I went to look for her," she said eventually, trying to sound confident.

  Marcus's expression didn't change. "He says he saw Ashlynn. Not you."

  Her mouth opened, then closed.

  "I... I don't know how that happened."

  "You do. You and Ashlynn went out together. You came back alone. Then she and Michael showed up and you were gone."

  "She's my best friend," Quin murmured. "I wouldn't leave her. I wouldn't do that to her."

  "You keep saying that," he said, almost gently now. " But Ashlynn said she came back and didn't see you. Michael showed up right after. Their stories align. Yours doesn't."

  She stared at her cuffed hands. Her vision blurred. The room felt tilted, the air too thick.

  "Where were you?" he pressed.

  Quin's thoughts started to bend and pull like old film reels, skipping. The trees, the shouting, Jamie's calls. A bag. A little bag with her name on it. One pass for the headaches, two for when she couldn't sleep. More than that when Jamie disappeared. Then, crayons; a fluorescent buzz overhead and a cot made to give knots.

  "I don't know," she admitted quietly, shame crawling up her throat as she shook away her thoughts once more. "I really don't."

  "What were you taking that night?"

  Her head snapped up. "What?"

  "Someone said you were acting off. Slurred speech. Unsteady. Even now, you don't look too well, and you keep asking for pain relievers. We'll find out, Quin. I'd rather you tell me now and spare us all the paperwork."

  Her hands began to shake. Who? "Lawyer."

  "I'm sorry?" Am I mute, now, too?

  "You fucking heard me. Who do you think you are? I want a lawyer; you're over here asking if I've done drugs. Trying to pin me for murder no less! Do you know who I am?" Who.

  She gave a scoff as her lip upturned in disgust, leaning back in her seat the best she could as the cuffs cut into her wrists.

  He stood with a heavy exhale, frustrated. "That only makes things worse."

  She didn't answer. She stared at the wall, her expression blank.

  Two officers came in. Fingerprints. Mugshot. The steel of the cuffs bit into her skin as she was guided to her holding cell.

  She barely noticed when one of the officers swapped out.

  "You should've asked for a lawyer the second you sat down," a low voice muttered in her ear, moist against her skin. "For a rich kid, you're kind of stupid."

  Quin turned slowly. Matthew.

  "What do you mean by that?" she asked dully.

  He laughed under his breath. "Better hope Daddy gets you out before they move you. Or don't. Either way."

  "You should watch what you say," she murmured, her feet dragged past the metal bars and into her cell.

  He narrowed his eyes. "Like they'd believe you over me."

  She stepped toward the bars, face inches from his. "You think I'm afraid of you? You think I've got anything left to lose?"

  He didn't answer. Just locked the door and walked away.

  "You dug your grave, killer. Dig yourself out."

  She spent three days in that cell. No sleep. Three tasteless meals. Headaches. Cold sweats. Every time she tried to eat, it came back up. They wouldn't let her have anything.

  When they left her alone at night, she'd curl up in the corner with her arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to stop the trembling. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was worse. She couldn't tell the difference anymore, it all felt like death.

  Her father's lawyers eventually blocked the transfer and secured her release. Part of her had wished he let her stay.

  Now she sat, hollow-eyed, in the sheriff's waiting room. She heard her father's voice booming behind the door.

  "You've wasted enough of my money on this witch hunt. I paid for results, not for you to arrest my daughter!"

  She flinched as the door burst open. Her father stormed out, fire in his eyes. Despite his state, his hand barely grazed her shoulder as he leaned to help her stand.

  "Let's go, sweetheart."

  She stood and followed, head down. Cameras flashed outside. Reporters called her name, asked about the charges.

  She said nothing. She couldn't have spoken if she wanted to. Not with her father right there staring holes in the top of her head.

  "Can I see Lyla today?" she asked during the ride, staring at her knees. "I need to talk to someone."

  Her father's hand tightened on her shoulder. "No. She's part of the investigation. They all are. Those kids aren't your friends, Quindell. They never were."

  "Yes, Father," she whispered.

  The car rumbled down the road. Trees blurred past. Her throat ached with something she couldn't name.

  Back at the house, gravel crunched under her bare feet. She barely looked at the crowd outside the gates, though she recognized a few faces. Michael stood at the front, unmoving.

  Her gaze locked with his for a moment before her father's hand closed around her arm and tugged her inside.

  "You know better than to look at him."

  Her mother's cry echoed through the hallway.

  "Oh! My baby! My sweet baby!" She crashed into Quin with a sob. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did you sleep at all? Your skin is—oh my God, you're so pale!"

  "I'm fine," Quin lied.

  Her mom pulled her into a crushing hug, then checked her face and arms for bruises, kissed her forehead, cheeks, even her hair.

  "I'm going to lie down," Quin said. "I'll come down for dinner."

  Her mother's voice wavered. "We're here if you need anything, love." She mustered merely a grunt as her legs worked the fourteen steps up.

  Her bed had finally been replaced. A dark wooden frame, simple and solid. Probably her father's doing. She didn't care much; it held the mattress and that's what mattered.

  She collapsed onto the quilt and took in the familiar fabric.

  She curled into herself and stared at the stitches. A sob itched at her throat, but it never came. Not anymore. Not since May.

  The birds outside her window sang. Morning sun lit the walls. But Quin just lay there, staring into the past until her eyes shifted lazily to the vanity across the room; half shadowed by the drawn curtains, sun light bled to the knob on the vanity drawer. A streak of pale gold inviting her in.