“Do you worry about your father wanting to … kill you?”

“You’ve gotta know I’m the reason he was sent away.” It rushes out of me, angry. “You want to know why I don’t trust cops? The cops lied to me. They told me if I testified to a grand jury he would get twenty years to life. Then the prosecutor pled him down to three because they couldn’t find the gun or another witness. I try to keep track of him, using social media, calling his parole officer. He shows up on Facebook for a month and disappears for six. I only know where he is if he makes the mistake of standing by a historical landmark, and anonymous bar stools aren’t historical landmarks. He’s had nine parole officers. Most of them call me honey, as in you have nothing to worry about, honey. I just take it one day at a time. And I’m doing fine.”

Because of my magic eye.

And Odette’s words.

Resilient being one of them.

Resourceful being another.

“Let me help you, kiddo. I can get cops to watch him until he fucks up and is put back where he belongs. Do you know where he is right now?”

The kiddo is grating. It strikes a creepy old person note, like dear or honey or babe. I just spilled everything to a man I don’t trust. Maybe that’s a sign that somewhere inside me I know that all of this is almost over.

“My partner and I have a very good idea where he is,” Rusty announces. Is this true? I feel like Rusty is inching toward some goal and I’m a lot of inches behind.

“In return for us taking care of your dad, you go on home to Ms. Bonita Martinez on Cliffdale Avenue. Deal?”

And there it is.

“You know about Bunny?” I can’t hold the panic out of my voice. “You talked to her?”

She was so proud when I walked across the stage for graduation. She wore a yellow-flowered dress and red heels, and she never wears heels because she says they make her sound like a goat. I never lied to her before, except early on about my eye. Not for a second, not for a single second, did she think about returning me after she accidentally opened the bathroom door.

“I haven’t talked to Ms. Martinez … yet. Now would be the time to tell me the truth about your psychic abilities.”

The hate I feel for him right now is overwhelming.

“I go to sleep,” I say softly. “And Odette comes to me. We’re always at the lake, so green it’s like a big paint bucket. She sinks away at the end. Her lips. Her nose. Her eyes. The top of her head. She leaves a perfect ring of ripples. Like X marks the spot, only it’s a circle.”

Rusty is swerving into the library parking lot, pulling beside my parked rental. I was so preoccupied with our conversation, I barely noticed we’d entered town. With every mile, Rusty’s expression has grown scarier, more furious.

The doctor, she revved him up.

All it took was a little gold glitter.

I don’t think Rusty is racing to a soccer field. I think Rusty is going after Wyatt, maybe for the last time.

“I need you to get out of town if you won’t cooperate,” Rusty growls. “Will you do that?”

I nod. Lying.

60

A group of noisy kids are exiting the library. Normal. Rusty had shot off as soon as I slung my backpack over my shoulder and started walking toward my rental car. Now I’m inside, windows rolled up tight, wondering if Wyatt is going to die because of me.

I don’t think Wyatt killed Odette. Or Rusty or Finn, for that matter.

That’s a problem. Because I never thought my father was a killer, either.

A tear splashes on my arm. This must be my new thing, crying one tear at a time.

I saw a dried tear under a powerful microscope once. It looked like a black-and-white aerial view of an Oklahoma ranch, all water squiggles and sharp architecture lines. The teacher said our tears look different under microscopes, depending on whether they are happy or sad.

That’s what it feels like I’m trying to do right now—find Odette in the aerial view of a single sad tear. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe our whole world is somebody’s single tear.

Odette had written Wyatt’s phone number in her Betty Crocker diary like she knew I would need it. The thing is, I can’t remember the order of the last four digits, just that they were eights and zeros. I remind myself that numbers are my thing, that they calm me down, that my perfect math score on the SAT is part of why I have a full ride scholarship. All I need is for my fingers to stop trembling.

There are only sixteen possible combinations of those four numbers.

If it were ten digits, there would have been a thousand. Twenty digits, a million. Thirty digits, a billion.

Keep doubling and pretty soon you are in the realm of the number of subatomic particles in the Milky Way and military-grade encryption. I try to use this kind of logic to convince Bunny the Lotto is a racket. She tells me not to take the magic out of it.

But sixteen combinations, that’s perfectly reasonable.

I start dialing. I hang up on eight voicemails, two teenagers, one clothing store, one McDonald’s, and one old man.

On my fourteenth try, I get Wyatt’s voice, sort of surprised, like he doesn’t get many calls or has forgotten I exist.

“It’s Angel,” I say urgently. “We need to talk. I met with Odette’s old therapist today. Dr. Greco. She says you met her, too. She says …”

“Stop.”

“Wyatt, did you kill Trumanell?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“I do.”

Those two little syllables knock my breath away.

“And Odette?” I stutter out.

“I don’t.”

“What was buried in the ground where Odette disappeared?”

“A gun.”

“If you know who Trumanell’s killer is, why haven’t you turned him in?” It’s almost a whisper. “Why did you wait? Is the killer already dead?”

“Trumanell wants me to leave it alone.”

“Please tell me who it is,” I beg. “Please, Wyatt. Please tell Rusty.”

I hear him breathing.

Now I don’t.

“Don’t hang up, please, please don’t hang up!” I’m shouting into the phone. “I think Rusty and his partner are coming for you. I don’t know what they will do to get answers this time. Wyatt. Please. If you won’t talk, just get in your truck and go.” My desperation even surprises me.

Nothing.

“Wyatt, are you still there? I don’t care about Trumanell, Odette would want you to leave.” I pause.

My phone is pressed so tightly to my ear that I can hear my heartbeat. “Please say something.”

There’s a sound cut short on the other end, either the deepest of sobs or a harsh little laugh. In that brief second, I realize that knowing which could make all the difference.

And then he’s gone, reminding me that I’m not that good at saving people.

In less than an hour, I’m back in the park. I drive past the lake, past Rusty’s favorite spot, and turn down one of the unmarked roads. About a mile in, I find a good place.

I pop the trunk. It’s empty, except for a shovel and a saw.

Bunny told me once that all you can do is make an educated decision and let it follow its course. I’m not sure she would think this is an educated decision, sawing away at tree limbs to hide a car in a forest. But I’m guessing there’s at least one tracker on this car from the rental car company, and at least one from Rusty. And I’m not ready to leave this town. Not yet.

I step back and wipe sweat and dirt off my face with my T-shirt. I adjust a few limbs. It’s not a perfect job, but it will do. Before I set off down the road, I feel around in my backpack for the butt of the gun.

I don’t know why. It’s not loaded.

I had to draw a line somewhere. The line was that I would never, ever kill someone like my father did.

61

My father sent a hit man for me once.

The fall Potluck Picnic foster event was in full bloom at a big Dallas park. Everybody said Potluck Picnic referred to the food, but, you know, what a lie. Potential foster parents were out trolling for a kid who was still in decent enough shape to be molded into something or could be tolerated enough for the government paycheck. It was no different than being a dog in a pound. But how else are you going to do it?

After we stuffed in hot dogs and brownies, Mary, me, and six other girls had dispatched ourselves to a row of chain swings about two hundred yards from the main picnic.

We’d done this Potluck drill before. As older girls, we didn’t have a shot. We’d made little Lucia Alvarez stay close to the dessert table, even though she begged to sit on a swing and read her Harry Potter book. She was a cutie, still at least two years away from becoming less adorable. That day, she hooked up with a Mexican family who eventually bought her every J. K. Rowling book on the planet.