The monster never appeared. But Matt took no chances. He walked slowly, stealthily, one soft foot after the other, navigating through the thicket of trees. It went on like this for a long while until he saw another light. Not the flashlight, thankfully. Headlamps of a car winking through the trees. He wouldn’t be lost in the jungle all night, at least. It was a road, however desolate.

When he made it to the tree line, he had a difficult decision to make: risk walking along the roadside, or travel in the shadows until he reached civilization. The road had the obvious benefit that someone might take pity on him and give him a ride. But that someone could end up being the person who was hunting him. Also, who in their right mind would pick up a stranger at this hour? He decided to use caution. Stalk in the shadows and assess each vehicle as it approached.

So he walked. About an hour passed and only two vehicles appeared. The first, a dump truck that barreled by before Matt could even try to wave it down. The second, a motorcycle, its driver fueled by testosterone and Red Bull given the speed of it.

Fatigue was setting in. He was tempted to find some soft ground and cover and get some sleep. But he feared what might lurk in the jungle. Coyotes or dogs or who knew what else. And the bugs. His mind wandered as he kicked along. He actually thought about the movie The Road, inevitable given his predicament. A father and son traveling a postapocalyptic highway, exhausted and in search of shelter and food. Matt didn’t care much for the film, but his dad, in a clumsy effort to bond, had invited him to see it. Evan Pine wasn’t a movie guy, but he was a reader, and the film was based on one of his favorite novels. Matt remembered Dad trying to conceal the tear that rolled down his cheek at the pivotal scene, the dying father’s words to his son. You have my whole heart. You always did. Sitting in that dark theater, Matt knew that his father was thinking of Danny.

Headlights burned behind him. Matt turned, and down the long stretch of road he saw what looked like a pickup truck. He considered hiding in the brush, but he was so damn tired. The truck drew closer, the sound of its rattling muffler filling the air. He fast-walked to the side of the road, stretched out his arm, and stuck out his thumb. Is that how you hitchhiked in Mexico? As the truck puttered by, Matt met eyes with a kid, about ten or so, who watched him out the passenger window. Matt dropped his arm, defeated. But then red taillights lit up the night, and the truck pulled to a stop.

Matt jogged over. He peered inside the cabin. Next to the boy was an old man, the kid’s dad—no, grandfather probably. The gray-haired man looked warily at Matt.

Where should he have them take him? “Ah, hotel,” Matt said, too slowly and too loudly, as if that would break through the language barrier.

The old man looked to the kid, and the boy said something to the man in Spanish. The only words Matt could make out were zona hotelera. The old man replied to the kid in Spanish.

The kid then turned back to Matt, nodded, and gestured for Matt to get in the back.

“Gracias,” Matt said, and climbed into the bed of the pickup. It was empty except for a rucksack and piles of rakes with what looked like seaweed strung through their teeth.

Matt felt the cool metal on his back as he stared up at the sky. The truck accelerated and wind whooshed overhead. The white noise, staring at the incandescent stars and the treetops blurring by, was hypnotic.

Matt decided to close his eyes for just a moment. The next time they opened, the sky was purple, the boy standing at the back of the truck. Matt sat up quickly. They were parked at a beachside lot. The old man and kid removed the rakes and the rucksack.

Matt jumped out of the truck bed. “Thank you,” he said.

The boy examined Matt for a moment, then dug through the rucksack, retrieved a bottle of water, and handed it to Matt.

“Hotel,” the boy said, his arm extended, index finger pointed down the beach. There were torches burning and hut-like structures. The boy and the old man walked in the other direction, headed toward a group of figures forking rakes at small mountains of seaweed.

Matt walked toward the lights, his sneakers sinking and filling with sand. He passed a group of huts and a wooden platform that had a tiki bar on top of it. A sign read MI AMOR. He pushed along, passing fenced-in cottages and villas. He came upon a cluster of beach chairs and tables. A path led to a hotel, which was dark and quiet. No one would be there until sunrise.

He sat on the canvas chair, gazing out at the ocean. He suddenly felt the sting of the scrapes on his arms and face, the grime of his travels. Looking around at the deserted beach, he stood, stretched his back, then stripped down to his boxers. He ran toward the ocean and dove in, surprised that he didn’t feel the usual jolt from the cold. It was like a warm bath. And there he floated, lost in the sound of the waves, numb from the crushing grief, until a thin line of orange appeared at the horizon. Today, he hoped, would be a better day. And really, could it possibly get worse? He’d go to the police station, meet with Se?or Gutierrez, sign the papers, and be on his way. What a shit show. He thought of Hank, the fear in her pretty face. He felt hollowed out, his thoughts fuzzy, like the whole thing was just a bad dream.

A very bad dream.

CHAPTER 26

MAGGIE PINE

BEFORE

Maggie awoke to a feeling of dread and a loud thunk. She swung her legs out of her bed and went to investigate the noise. In the hallway she found two suitcases strewn haphazardly on the floor. Another fell from the hole in the ceiling.

Then her father’s feet appeared on the folding ladder attached to the attic door. Her dad’s eyes flashed when he saw her as he descended.

“Morning, Magpie,” he said. “Hope I didn’t wake you. I’m just getting the bags for our trip.”

“I can see that,” Maggie said. This was really happening. A good night’s sleep hadn’t made him think more clearly. Cooler heads hadn’t prevailed. Maggie should call her mom. She was the best at talking her father down.

“Dad, you’re not serious about Mexico? I don’t think—”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

“It’s just kind of, I don’t know, sudden.”

“It’s your senior year, you’re leaving us soon, and you deserve a trip. Besides, my doctor said a vacation would be good for me. While we’re there, we’ll check things out from the call.”

He said it so casually that it all almost started to make sense. But Maggie knew better.

“I think you need to consider that it was a prank. I mean, putting aside that, like, Charlotte is, um, dead, why would her cell phone have the name of the nightclub? It’s weird, and it’s super easy to spoof a caller ID.”

“Well, that’s why I have you, sweetie.”

Maggie furrowed her brow.

“You’re gonna trace the call, see if it really came from the club.”

Maggie let out a cough of a laugh. “I am, am I? And how will I be doing that?”

Her father clutched the handle of one of the suitcases.

“You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

With that, he grabbed the other suitcase and directed his chin to the third that had skittered down the hall to the landing of the stairwell.

“Pack beach clothes,” he said. “And I’ll need your help packing stuff for Mom.” His eyes flared again and he disappeared into his bedroom.

Maggie lugged the suitcase to her room, then plopped down on the bed. She was definitely calling Mom. At the same time, she liked the idea of sitting on a beach in Mexico. Away from her computer and her phone and her problems. Time to clear her head. And if she was honest, she liked the confidence her father had in her. He really believed she could track an anonymous call made from Mexico. Not a doubt in his mind. Still, she needed to get Mom involved. She tapped out a text:

You might want to call Dad and ask him about Mexico.…

She considered telling her mom to call her, that they needed to talk about something important, but she tossed her phone on the bed. She reached for the laptop on the nightstand. She didn’t want to look, but she needed to. She pulled up the Danny Pine site. More cruel comments. She read a few of them, then slammed the laptop shut. She felt the tears coming again.

No, she decided, screw them. She had nothing to be ashamed of. She’d done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t be intimidated. Eric was a piece of garbage, and she wouldn’t let last night define her. She opened the laptop and started tapping out responses to the vitriol. But she stopped suddenly—trolls fed on hate and drama and engagement. Instead she’d simply take away their platform. She clicked on the keys until the Danny Pine sites were all deactivated, temporarily anyway. Her brother had enough problems without her drama. She’d give things time to calm down. Her classmates’ attention span was limited. Things blew over quickly.