I lick my bloody lips. The light is getting closer, and there are more now—I count four, sweeping steadily toward us. If Coach sees them, hears the footsteps, he’ll kill me before they can stop him. I have to keep him talking, keep him distracted.

He looks me in the eye, big, cold pools of dark, and my stomach lurches at the smoothed lines of his face, at how relieved he looks.

He’s made up his mind.

“She was going to give it up,” I gasp out. “Did you know that? That she was talking to an adoption counselor? She was gonna do what you wanted.” It’s a gamble, but it’s the only card I’ve got left.

Coach’s grip on me falters for a split second. It’s just enough for my fingers to reach the loose piece of slate, and I swing it high, slamming it into his head as hard as I can.

He grunts and lets go of me, and I duck beneath his outstretched arm as he lunges forward, trying to catch me.

I manage only a few steps before my leg gives out and I collapse on the ground. I shout as loud as I can, even though it hurts so much I think my eyes will pop out of their sockets. I crawl forward, hoping they’ll reach me before he does. I can hear shouting now; it’s close, so close. Please just let them find me.…

Coach slams into me from behind, flattening me before roughly flipping me over. I yelp; my shoulders take the worst of it. My head slams against the ground as he pins me again with his body, grasping my hands with one of his, forcing them to the ground above my head. I want to shrink away from him, from the pain as his other hand clamps over my mouth, stealing my air.

I manage to open my mouth underneath his hold and bite down hard on his palm, shaking my head back and forth like a dog. The flesh between my teeth tears and he shouts, yanking his hand away as blood arcs from it.

“Stupid bitch!” He reaches forward with both hands, curls his fingers around my throat, and squeezes.

Kneeling on my stomach, he’s pressing whatever air’s left out of my lungs as he cuts off the rest at my throat. Gasping for air where there is none, I try to twist out of his grip, but he’s too heavy, and I’m still yanking uselessly at his arms as things go gray around the edges.

My lungs burn as I start to drift, my hands fall away, and the world fades.

The police are here. It’s over. I can be done now. And maybe…just maybe she was right all along about the heaven thing.

Bang.

Coach jerks, and as he slumps to the side and falls off of me, I suck in air in huge gulps, choking on it. Suddenly, the darkness of the forest is obliterated—everything’s too bright, like someone’s just turned on a spotlight. I blink dazedly up at the sky. There’s a whooshing sound above my head. I feel a sudden breeze on my face and see the pines bending and swaying from the chopper hovering above us.

“Sophie!” Someone’s grabbing me, dragging me across the dirt. I bat at the hands on my wrists, trying to fight again. “Sophie! It’s okay! You’re okay!”

“Where’s Adam?” I croak. “He has a gun.”

“It’s okay,” the guy says again. I’m having trouble focusing on the blurry person in front of me, I’m shaking so badly. “We got him. It’s okay,” he repeats, and then turns his head and yells out, “Can I get some EMTs down here?!”

“Where’s Coach?” I mumble. My throat hurts, like someone’s dragged a razor through it. Everything hurts. I push at the cop who’s holding on to me, trying to sit up. There’s a branch digging into my back. “Is he dead?”

“Sophie, you need to stay still. Wilson!” He spots somebody in the distance and calls him over. When the blurry figure trots up, he barks, “Where are my EMTs?”

My eyes drift shut. It feels so good to close them.

“No, no, Sophie, stay awake.” Fingers dig painfully into my jaw, yanking my head up. I struggle to open my eyes, blinking, finally focusing on the face in front of me.

It’s Detective James. He looks scared. It’s weird—cops shouldn’t look scared.

“’S’you,” I say. “Told you…told you I was clean.”

“Yeah, you did,” he says. “Stay awake, okay? Keep talking to me.”

“Don’t let them give me anything,” I tell him, my eyes shutting again.

“Sophie! Stay awake!”

But I can’t. It’s too hard. “No drugs,” I say. It’s important. I don’t want them. Not like last time. “Don’t let them.…”

I fall into blackness between one breath and the other, and nothing is painful and everything is fine and I can feel her, somewhere, somehow…and it doesn’t hurt. It just feels right.

Waking up in the hospital is familiar. The beeping of the machines, the scratch of the sheets, the smell of antiseptic and death.

“Mina,” I murmur, still half-caught in a dream. My hand’s being held, carefully, reverently. I know it’s not her, but for a moment I keep my eyes closed and pretend.

“Hey, you with me?”

I turn my head to the side. Trev’s sitting there. “Hey.” I swallow, and then immediately regret it. My throat’s on fire; it makes me splutter for air. Trev helps me sit up, rubbing my back.

“So I guess you got my text,” I say when I can breathe again. My voice is barely a husk of sound.

“I did,” he says. “Jesus, Soph, you scared the crap out of me.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. I lean my head against his shoulder. His T-shirt feels ridiculously soft against my bruised skin. “I’m really glad you got it, though.”

He chokes out a laugh, squeezing my hand. “Yeah, me too.”

“You okay?” I ask.

He looks at me, then down at my hand that he’s holding. “No,” he says. “I’m not okay.”

I want to pull back the blankets to let him crawl into bed with me, but I don’t. He’ll keep it together, because that’s who he is. That’s what he always does. But we take a minute, just one, of silence, where I hold his hand and hope that it’s all right, that it helps in some small way, because both of us have to be strong for her just a little longer.

“Where are my parents?” I ask finally, when his grip loosens. I pull back from him, leaning against the pillows, our fingers still entwined.

“They’re talking to the doctors. I snuck in.”

“How long has it been?”

“Day and a half. You should go back to sleep. Everything else can wait until tomorrow.”

I can’t rest or wait, even though every muscle in my body aches and my head is killing me.

Trev’s thumb rubs my fingers gently.

“They won’t let them out on bail, right?” I blurt out. It’s silly, but last time I woke up in the hospital, I woke up to people not believing a word I said. I can’t help but be scared of that happening all over again. “Detective James shot Coach—is he still alive?”

“Got him in the shoulder. He’ll live to be charged. Adam’s already confessed,” Trev says, his jaw rigid. “He cracked the second they started questioning him. You were right: he killed Mina and planted the drugs so everyone would think it was your fault. Coach Rob says he didn’t know Adam was doing any of it. He’s lawyered up. Won’t say a thing about Jackie. But it doesn’t matter. There are enough charges to lay on him…on both of them. They’re gonna be in prison for a long time.” The satisfaction in his voice is so thick, I can almost taste it.

“Adam saw her,” I say. “When he was fourteen. He saw Jackie get into Coach’s truck that day. And he never told anyone. Oh, God—Kyle.” I look up at Trev. “Adam is—was—his best friend. How is he?”

Trev shakes his head. “Kyle’s in shock. The whole town’s in shock. I think every girl who ever played soccer is getting grilled by her parents about Coach and if he messed with any of them. He’s lucky he’s in custody; he wouldn’t last a day loose in town.”

I shudder, wondering if there are any more girls Coach had “loved.” Ones who were lucky enough not to get pregnant.

“My mom keeps asking me how this could be,” Trev says. “How no one could know what was going on between him and Jackie, and I don’t know what to tell her.” He looks up at me with so much pain in his eyes, I need to look away. “He sent us a fucking fruit basket after Mina died, Sophie. I remember writing the thank-you note for it, signing Mom’s name.”

I swallow, hoping I’ll feel less sick. All it does is make my throat hurt more.

“Bastard,” I say. I see the same rage simmering back at me in Trev’s eyes. But the word doesn’t begin to encompass what we feel toward them. I’m not sure I want to examine it too closely, how clear everything was in those moments when the zip tie had gouged into Adam’s neck, cutting off his breath.

Prison is enough. They can both rot there.

I have to repeat it to myself, like it’ll convince me that it’s a fair trade.

It’s not.

It never will be.

But we have to live with the loss. Shape our lives around it.

Trev’s hand tightens over mine, and I squeeze back, trying to be reassuring. But there isn’t enough reassurance in the world for the two of us. There’s no more hiding. Mina is gone, and it’s just him and me, who we are and what we did and what lies ahead.

That’s the most terrifying thought of all.

“And Matt?” I ask. I feel horrible for confronting him at the church the way I did. If it were me, finding out I came from a family of killers, that they took the love of my life away, I’d be halfway to an OD by now.

“I tried calling. The phone’s disconnected. They probably unplugged it because of the reporters. We did the same thing when Mina—” He stops, because there’s a tap on my hospital room door and then my mom comes in.

“Sweetheart,” she says when she sees I’m awake. Trev lets go of my hand and gets up. “No, it’s all right, Trev,” she says. “You can stay if you’d like.”

“It’s okay. I’ve gotta tell Rachel and Kyle that Sophie’s awake,” he says. “Check in with my mom. I’ll be back later.”

My mom sits on the bed next to me, watching me with red eyes. “I’m so glad you’re awake. Your dad ran home for a few minutes,” she says. “He said you’d want your yoga pants when you woke up. How are you feeling?”

“Tired. Hurt.”

“I didn’t let them give you any opiates,” she says. “I’m sorry, honey, I wish I could—”

“No,” I interrupt. “Thank you. I don’t want any of that stuff.”

She holds my hand between both of hers. “I wish I could make you hurt less,” she says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s over now.”

I need to hear that out loud. I need it to sink in, but it hasn’t yet.

In a little while the nurse shoos my mom out and turns the lights off, ordering me to rest. I’ve got three broken ribs, a bruised throat, and enough stitches holding my stomach and face together to feel like Frankenstein’s monster; fortunately, most of the injuries are superficial. But even those hurt like hell when you can’t have anything stronger than an aspirin.

I don’t sleep yet. It hurts too much and I’m afraid of what I’m going to dream about. Afraid that the second I close my eyes, I’ll be back in that car, back in Coach’s grip, back at Booker’s Point.

I can’t stop pressing my fingers against the raw skin of my wrists where the zip tie had dug in.

All I can think about is Mina and how I wish I were like her, because then I could believe she’s looking down at me right now, happy that we figured it out, brought her and Jackie some justice.

But I can’t believe that. All I can do is feel what I feel: a vague sense of relief, dulled by shock and the spacey haze that’s stolen over me.

Now it’s only me keeping the monsters at bay: I have no mission, no crusade, nothing else. Mina’s memory will sustain me for only so long. It scares me, how easy it could be to fall back down that hole I’ve worked so hard to climb out of.

Ten months. One week.

I want Aunt Macy. I grab the cell phone my parents left for me and punch in her number with shaking hands.

“I’m on my way right now,” she says when she picks up. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

I let out a shuddery breath. “It’s over,” I say into the phone.

“Yes it is. Remind me to kick your ass later for putting yourself in so much danger,” Macy says, the relief in her voice robbing the threat of all of its power. “This almost-dying thing is getting to be a habit with you. Not good.”

“I guess I just take after you,” I say.

Macy laughs shakily. “Hell, I hope not.”

I’m quiet for a long time, listening to the buzz of Macy’s radio, the occasional honk of an eighteen-wheeler as it passes her car. She’s on the highway, driving to me. Just the sound of it soothes me in a way nothing else could.