He had friends, guys mostly, who varied in degrees of never growing up—which was obnoxious but not harmful. Not haunting. Not defining. They’d tell stories of Everett doing keg stands, and that one time he swallowed a goldfish whole, which was repulsive but not the same as a missing best friend and a family of suspects. If Corinne had never disappeared, maybe we’d meet up for drinks when we were all back in town, share stories like this with our boyfriends, our husbands. And then Bailey puked on Josh Howell’s sneakers . . .

There was a difference, a chasm, between that type of story and a real past.

Did something like this exist beneath Everett, too?

Where were the stories that defined him, that broke him open, that laid him bare?

Who was this man I had agreed to marry?

“Tell me something about you,” I said. “Something no one else knows.”

I heard his chair squeak as he leaned back; I imagined him sliding his feet out of his shoes and placing them on the dark wood. Stretching his arms up over his head, the buttons of his shirt pulling, the outline of his bleach-white undershirt beneath.

“Is this a game?” he asked, and I could hear the yawn in his voice.

“Sure,” I said. “Or it doesn’t have to be.”

“Okay. Let’s see. Okay. Don’t laugh. I tried to use my dad’s credit card in middle school to buy porn online. It didn’t occur to me that his statements would have the purchased information.”

“That’s gross,” I said, laughing. “But it doesn’t count. Your dad knows.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. Still can’t look him in the eye when I think about it.”

“You’re cute. But that’s not what I meant. I meant something more, you know? That nobody else knows.”

His chair squeaked a few more times, and I didn’t think he’d answer. But then he did: “I watched a man die once,” he said. The air in the room changed. His voice dropped, and I felt his mouth coming closer to the phone. “I was in high school. There was a car accident on the highway, and I wasn’t supposed to be out. There was a crowd of people already around, helping. An ambulance on the way. I couldn’t look away.”

Yes, I thought. Here he is. Here’s Everett. Can he feel it? “More,” I said.

A deep breath. I heard footsteps, a door closing, the squeak of his chair again. I didn’t dare interrupt. “I don’t know if I have the stomach for my job,” he said. “I like dealing in the facts and the law, and I believe that everyone is entitled to the best representation. A fair trial. I do my job well, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes there’s a moment. A moment when you realize the person you’re defending is guilty. And you can never go back. And then justice is this double-edged sword. Like I’m upholding justice with my ‘unyielding drive,’ to quote my dad. But which is the real justice, Nicolette? Which is it?”

“The Parlito case?”

“Just anyone,” he said. He sighed. “I’m a better lawyer when I don’t know.”

“You can do something else,” I said.

“It’s not that easy,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “I don’t care what you do. You know that, right? I don’t give a shit if you’re a lawyer or not.”

He paused. “Right. If you say so. We don’t all have that luxury. I’m thirty. I’m a partner. This is my life.”

“What I’m saying is, it doesn’t have to be.” Change your hair, leave everyone behind. Go someplace new and never look back. You can do it. We can do it.

He laughed as if mocking himself. Putting distance between himself and the conversation. “So tell me, Nicolette, did you always want to be a counselor?”

“No way. I wanted to be a country singer.”

“Wait,” he said. “You can sing? I feel like this is something I should know.”

“Not even a little.”

His laugh was soft, like cotton.

Truth is, I was a terrible counselor in terms of actual counseling. Said the wrong things, never had the right advice to give. But I excelled at listening, so I learned not to speak much. I could direct students to the right resource or the resource to them, to find the help they needed. I saw what they were hiding and let them show it to me. They spilled their collective adolescent guts in my office. On paper, I was an excellent counselor.

Perhaps it was because they sensed a kindred spirit or saw something inside me, like what I saw in Hannah Pardot—the feeling that she knew more because she once was one of us.

Maybe they knew I had seen darker things. That I would understand.

Or perhaps they would sense that I am an excellent keeper of secrets.

I am.

* * *

I ENDED THE CALL when Everett’s dinner arrived, already feeling he was unreachable, in a world too far away. With Tyler, it had been the opposite. I’d had to delete his number from my phone to keep from calling him on impulse after a drink at the bar, after a bad date, and especially after a relatively good one.

But one second off the phone with Everett and all I could feel was the distance between us and him turning insubstantial, a figment I had conjured up out of hope that something so good could happen to me.

I slept fitfully, until I gave up. Too many thoughts swirling through my mind, too many names. I thought of anyone who’d have reason to break into this house, to look through Dad’s things or to rifle through Daniel’s old room. The list spanned ten years. I wasn’t sure I was solving what had happened then or what had happened now. Maybe Dad was right, that time wasn’t real. Just a thing we created to move on. Just a label to make sense of things.

* * *

“IF I WERE A monster,” Corinne had told us on the front porch with the lanterns swinging and the shadows dancing, “I’d pretend to be human.”

Bailey had laughed, and Daniel had smiled. She’d walked up to him, taking his chin in her hand, turning his head side to side, squinting as she stared into his eyes. “No,” she said to him, “human through and through.”

She looked at Bailey next, running her fingers through her long black hair as she did it, which was because Daniel was there and she always put on a show. Her nose touched Bailey’s, and Bailey didn’t flinch. We’d learned to let her have her way. Go along for the ride, and it turns out all right. There’s a plan that only Corinne knows, and we’re a part of it.

“Hmm,” she said. “No, no, not here, but he’s been here. He visits sometimes. What does he make you do, Bailey? Does he make you kiss other people’s boyfriends?” That was you, Corinne, I thought but didn’t say. Neither did Bailey. “Does he make you like it?” Her hand was on Bailey’s back, under her shirt, her body pressed to Corinne’s, and Daniel’s eyes had gone dark and hazy, under a spell. “Does he make you dream of him at night? Of boys who aren’t yours?”