Then I pressed the lock to the car door extra hard with my shaking hand and Decker got the hell out of there without saying a word.

I slouched in the front seat with my eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror, expecting a worn black car to follow us. Decker drove fast, and he was doing the same, casting furtive glances in the mirror. He slowed at our street.

“Keep going,” I said, my voice still wavering, my hands still trembling.

So he did. He drove to the other end of Falcon Lake and parked on the land between abandoned summer lake homes. He unbuckled his seat belt, but he left the car running. Then he spun in his seat. “What happened?”

I shut my eyes and lowered my head. I could feel tears forming under my eyelids. If I opened them, they’d come spilling out.

“Please, Delaney. You called me. Please tell me.”

I pressed my thumbs to my closed eyes, willing the tears back inside. “Just . . . stay away from Troy, okay? He’s not who he seems.” Funny how someone can change in an instant. From compassionate to vicious in a heartbeat. Except he didn’t change. He had always been that person. I just hadn’t seen it. Like Justin proved at the party. People are who they are.

I opened my eyes, and though my vision was kind of blurry, the tears stayed put. Decker’s balled-up fists came into focus first. Then his face, which was looking at me very carefully. “Did he,” and then he lowered his voice and couldn’t really look at me, “hurt you?”

I thought of the mark on my arm. But then I thought of Decker and his inclination toward heroism—stupid heroism—and pictured him, half the width, not nearly the muscle of Troy. And Troy, with half the morals, not nearly the restraint of Decker. And I said, “No. He just scared me is all.”

“You were hiding in the back of a funeral home. You were terrified.” Then he looked at my hands. “You still are.” He reached across the emergency cooler, took my hand, and leaned back in his own seat. And for a moment, we were the old Delaney and Decker, where holding hands didn’t mean any more or any less than just that. I stared ahead, through the scattering of trees, to the lake beyond. The solid, snow-covered lake. No hole in the surface.

The sun was creeping lower. Decker flicked on the headlights with his free hand. “I think you should call the police.”

“No.” I pulled my hand back and Decker looked over at me. “Nothing happened. I think maybe I overreacted. Please don’t tell. Promise, Decker.”

He sighed. “I wish you would talk to me.”

“I’m sorry I made you leave wherever you were.”

“I’m not. I’m glad I’m the one you called. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m going to be fine.” Which was the biggest lie of all.

He reversed the car back onto the road and drove toward home, and I saw us slipping away again. When I opened the car door, the old us would escape and dissolve into the evening air. So before it could, I unbuckled my seat belt in his driveway, slid across the emergency cooler, wrapped my arms around him, and buried my face in his neck.

Decker tensed in surprise, then smoothed his hands down my hair to my back. He breathed in deeply. I knew what he was doing. He was trying to remember everything about this moment. I knew he was doing it because I was doing the same thing. Then I opened the door without looking back at him. The cold air sliced in. I walked across the yard. Alone.

Mom was cooking, which was a good sign. Except she didn’t really look at me. And Dad was talking over the silence, like he didn’t notice anything was wrong. Except he obviously did, because he never stopped filling the silence.

After dinner I told my parents I was going to bed early, so Mom stood on a kitchen chair to retrieve my vials of medicine from the cabinet over the fridge. Because along with not being trusted to touch the stove or stay home alone or wander the streets, I was not to be trusted with medicine. And nothing says successful deterrent like storing something a foot out of my reach.

She handed me my pills, and I sipped my water and ran for the steps to dispose of my medicine.

“Wait, Delaney.”

I half-turned but kept one hand on the railing. “Hmm?” My heart beat quicker as I imagined the pills slowly disintegrating under my tongue, medicine absorbing into my bloodstream.

“Open your mouth.”

“Excuse me?” Mom walked closer and Dad shook the pages of the newspaper in front of his face, ignoring the scene.

“I said, open your mouth.”

“Why?” I tried not to move my tongue too much, but I also didn’t want to sound like I was trying not to move my tongue. So I stuck with minimal words.