Page 80 of Broken Things

I barely have time to say hello before Brynn is talking in a rush.

“It was Ms. Gray,” she says. “Ms. Gray killed Summer. She must have been—I don’t know—obsessed with her or something. It makes sense she was helping her writeLovelorn. She was the one who said Summer needed a tutor, it would have been easy enough for her to volunteer....”

“I know,” I say, and Brynn inhales sharply. Abby’s driving like a maniac, bumping down Brickhouse Lane, raising galloping shapes of dust, as if we’re in a high-speed chase. Only when we’re back on Hillsborough Road, heading up to town, does she slow down. “I just saw her.”

“You saw Ms. Gray?” Brynn sounds like she’s speaking with a whistle stuck in her throat.

“Yeah. I went back to buryLovelorn.”

“You—what?”

“Look, we need to talk. In person.” The enormity of it hits me: Ms. Gray, a murderer. Will anyone believe us? What happens now? More police stations, more interviews, more cops looking at us in disbelief. More whispers and gossip. Even the idea of it is exhausting. “Where are you?”

“On my way back from Heath Moore’s house,” she says. “I hoofed it.”

Now it’s my turn to squeak. “You—what?”

“Like you said, we need to talk.” She makes a noise of disgust. “Can’t be at my house, though. My mom’s off work today.”

“Can’t be at mine,” I say. “My house is under siege.”

“Owen,” Brynn says firmly. And still the name makes little sparks light up in my chest. I stamp them down just as quickly. “Owen has to know too. It’s only right. We need to tell him.”

She’s right, of course—even if I have absolutely no desire to see him ever again, not after what he said. Maybe it’s unfair to resent a person for not loving you back. Then again, it’s unfair that feeling doesn’t always flow two ways.

But this is bigger than me. And it’s bigger than losing Owen.

“We’ll pick you up,” I say. I turn to Abby but she starts shaking her head frantically, mouthingno, no, no. She looks completely panicked—eyes rolling like a spooked horse’s, sweat standing out on her forehead—even more panicked than when I first hurtled into the car and told her tomove. But I ignore her. “Stay where you are.”

No one knew what happened to the children taken as sacrifices by the Shadow. There were many stories: rumors that the Shadow took them to an underground palace and lavished expensive presents on them; suspicions that the Shadow used them as slaves; hints that the Shadow was the only one of its kind, and that the children went afterward to a subterranean city vaster even than its counterpart on earth.

Only one thing was certain: none of the children was ever again seen alive.

—FromThe Way into Lovelornby Georgia C. Wells

Brynn

Now

There’s aFor Salesign staked to the grass in front of Owen’s house. The workers have made quick business of the sunroom. The tree has been removed and the glass repaired, although there’s still a roofing truck parked in the driveway.

Maybe our luck has finally changed: Owen, not his father, comes to the door. For a second he just stands there, looking like someone who got a mouthful of salt water instead of soda. Then he splutters, “Mia. Hi. Hey.” As if Abby and I aren’t even there.

“It’s Ms. Gray,” Mia says breathlessly. “She killed Summer.”

“What?”

Abby pushes her way inside first. She hasn’t looked at me once since I got in the car, hasn’t mentioned all the calls and texts she’s been ignoring, is still acting like I’m a giant wart and the best course of action is to pretend I don’t exist. But what am I supposed to say?Hey, Abby, I know we’re about to nail a teacher for the murderthat got pinned on me, but in the meantime can I just say I reallydidmean to kiss you?

The living room where we spent our sleepless night poring overReturn to Lovelornis all boxed up, furniture wrapped in plastic like it’s been swaddled in giant condoms. Instead we go to the kitchen, which is brighter and warmer and still shows signs of life—keys and mail scattered across the kitchen counter, crumpled receipts, a phone charging next to the toaster, still unpacked.

Mia tells Owen about the note and the bouquet of flowers, and I tell him what I found out from Heath Moore. Five minutes into the story the front door opens and closes with a bang and then Wade careens around the corner, panting, his shirt half-tucked into his pants as if he hauled them up while using the bathroom.

“What’d I miss?” he says between gulps of air. Then, grinning at me: “Hey, cuz.”

There’s a long beat of shocked silence. Abby shrugs. “I called him,” she says, by way of explanation.

So we have to start over again. All this time, Owen is frowning, hunched over his phone, like he’s only partly paying attention. And then I get this awful bunched-up feeling: he doesn’t buy it. And if he doesn’t buy it, the cops never will.

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