“I … know why you wear sunglasses,” I rush out. “Like, even right now, with all this shade from the trees. It’s called ‘photophobia.’ Odette said she was the only cop who knew.” It seems like a weak shot when it hits the air. Meaningless. No longer much of a wound for my finger to poke around in.

Except his face pales. His hands tighten on the wheel in a way that makes me think what a thick rope they would be around someone’s neck.

“Odette can’t be alive!” he shouts at me. “Is Odette alive?”

He is rocking back and forth like he is about to explode from the car. I know two things in that instant.

Rusty half-believes that I am hearing things from the grave.

“You had a thing for Odette, too,” I breathe out.

53

I open the door and tumble into the gravel, desperate to escape him.

My fingers are groping for the handle of the Hyundai when I watch his door fly open and his scuffed-up boot hit the ground. I’m locking my car doors, punching the ignition. Why isn’t the car starting? How did Rusty get to my window so fast?

His fist is knocking on the glass.

The engine is failing to catch.

I keep pressing the ignition. Did Rusty’s partner crawl out of the woods and mess under the hood while I wasn’t paying attention?

Never forget your blind side.

Watch the shadows.

Peephole. Popeye. Cockroach.

Am I the last page of a book with a very bad ending? Or are there hundreds of pages left, hundreds of girls who will come looking for each other, who will search and die, search and die, search and die? Will it be Mary who comes looking for me? Bunny?

I can’t let that happen.

I whip my head around to the backseat.

Empty.

I keep punching the ignition. Come on, come on, come on.

Rusty is jiggling the door handle. I make out the word fucking or flooding. My only chance is to run into the trees and take a zigzag approach. Or climb.

I ram the door into Rusty’s stomach. Bad move. He’s a slab of muscle. Pain is shooting up my neck from the impact. In a single swift motion, he pulls me the rest of the way out of the car and holds me still against the door.

“Have you lost your mind?” he asks angrily. “It’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you. I have daughters, you know.” He steps back, arms up, in surrender. “Look, I’m letting go of you. Move over and let me try the car. You can walk away, over there, no problem.”

Walk. Run. I’m not even sure I can stand. Big hiccup-y sobs are shaking my body. Mary. That’s the last time I cried like this—when they said they were sending her to juvie lockup for punching the girl who ripped out every page in little Lucy’s Harry Potter book. Instead, Mary ran.

I’m vaguely aware of thick green leaves, swirling like the kaleidoscope that Bunny put in my Christmas stocking last year. Of a mockingbird above my head, mocking away. Of Rusty, all badass cop—one boot on the pedal, one flat on the asphalt, trying to tease the engine to life.

Except he’s not even getting a click out of my car. It’s completely dead.

“Battery,” he says. “The Texas sun beats the shit out of them.”

He strides back to the patrol car, popping the trunk. Jumper cables, which he drops onto the grass. Two cans of Coors, one of which he sets on the bumper.

He pops the top of the one in his hand and takes a deep drag. Now he’s holding the other can out like I’m a puppy who needs a treat. I have to stop this crying. I have to stop acting like a kid.

I glance back into the straggly forest. It’s stuffed with wild brush that might as well be wire. I never would have made it.

I sweep my eye up and down the road. Rusty’s partner nowhere in sight. Nothing but a squirrel doing a suicide run down a tree trunk.

That’s how I feel right now, like the only option is head fucking first.

Rusty is still holding out the can of Coors. He could have already tossed me in his trunk. Dragged me into the trees.

I walk over reluctantly. Take the beer even though I don’t want it.

“Let’s stop the bullshit,” he says. “Losing Odette nearly killed me. Not finding her killer is slowly doing the rest of the job. I was bluffing. I want whatever information you’ve got, and I don’t give a shit about who you are.”

He takes another swig. “But I can’t speak for my partner. He’s a pit bull when it comes to getting the upper hand on a girl.” He tosses the can on the ground and crushes it flat with his boot.

“Why do you want an asshole like that for a partner?”

“You know, keep your enemies close.”

“Was Odette your enemy?”

He’s not meeting my eyes. “We can try to jump your car or call your rental company. But I could also get a pal out here with a new battery in a few hours, no questions asked. It’ll be on me. You going to be smart enough to take that generous offer?”

“Yes.” I’m still barely above a whisper.

“Can I get your first name in return?”

“Angel.” It comes out cracked.

“Angel. Really.”

“Really.” I wipe the back of my hand across my nose. Feel mascara stinging. I keep my eyes down, on the dirt.

“What’s the real reason for this obsession with Odette? Your connection?”

“Metaphysical.” Not a lie. It has been, from the very beginning, since I first ran my finger on her metal leg. I hope she does hear when I talk to her in the dark.

“You going to tell me how you really know all this shit?”

“Not until I trust you.” My voice, stronger.

“That needs to be soon. Where am I dropping you off?”

I decide what the hell, and lift my head.

“On Normal Street.” It slips out so easily.

“And I thought Odette was my match. Get in the car.”

I slide in again. Rusty yanks the wheel, making a tight U-turn. In less than a minute, the lake sweeps into view. Four teenagers are swinging their legs on the dock, dumping their red Solo cups of beer in the water as the cruiser passes. I remember doing that. A hundred yards to their right, little kids are practicing football on the grass, all helmet and feet. I take another shaky breath. Normal.

“I made Odette listen to the Turnpike Troubadours until she loved them as much as I did,” Rusty is saying. “I take it you know this, but Goodbye Normal Street was our anthem. Lust and desperation in a small town. Whenever we’d hit a bad domestic, one of us would say it under our breath, ‘Goodbye Normal Street.’” He swerves onto the highway. “Music makes life bearable to me. She made life bearable.”

“Odette isn’t alive,” I say.

“I know,” he replies.

54

When I reach the cemetery gates, I’m sucking at humid air, a sharp ping on my right side. The sun has about three minutes left.

Go ahead, dark. Come. Everything bad that ever happened to me has happened while the sun was out. Here in the dark with a couple of acres of dead people, I can be just another stone angel kneeling. I can clap my hands in prayer and be still, while someone walks right past me. I’ve done it before, by my mother’s grave.

It was a 3.8-mile run out here in 95-degree heat, a lot of it on dirt road. The GPS on my phone didn’t map the ruts. One of my knees is bleeding from a little tumble. The scratch on my arm from the barbed wire has opened up.

I think my heels are bloody, too, because sweat doesn’t feel that thick. I drop down on the nearest flat grave marker—sorry, Dexter Daniel Hughes—and yank off my cheap new running shoes. I examine my feet. They’re a complete mess—a perfectly disgusting Facebook post if I did that sort of thing and if I weren’t afraid my father would recognize even the torn-up skin on my toes.

Yes, Rusty, I’m a girl always running. And something made me decide to run back here.

An hour and a half ago, Rusty did exactly what I wanted—he dropped me off at the Dairy Queen. He didn’t act like he cared where I was going to sleep. He said I could come get my car tomorrow morning by eight in the parking lot of the library in the center of town. I’m certain that he or his partner will be waiting when I do. So now I have to decide if I can get by without one.

Until I was sure Rusty had taken off, I got lost in the Walmart next door to the Dairy Queen. I bought a bottle of water, more sour gummies, a little flashlight, running shoes, socks, shorts, and a $7 T-shirt that says Be Kind across the chest in gold sequins. I wonder what Odette would think if she knew people have had to be reminded of that for the last five years.

In the bathroom, I changed from my dress and flip-flops, stuffing them into the Walmart bag along with the hamburger and onion rings Rusty bought me as part of his pretend little truce.

Now my toes are playing in the cool grass, but my heels are still on fire. Not a thing out here is moving but the lights of two distant planes that look like they’re on a path to collide.